Between Ghent And Bruges
AH yes, exactly so; but when a man
Has trundled out of England into France
And half through Belgium, always in this prance
Of steam, and still has stuck to his first plan—
Blank verse or sonnets; and as he began
Would end;—why, even the blankest verse may chance
To falter in default of circumstance,
And even the sonnet miss its mystic span.
Trees will be trees, grass grass, pools merely pools,
Unto the end of time and Belgium—points
Of fact which Poets (very abject fools)
Get scent of—once their epithets grown tame
And scarce. Even to these foreign rails—my joints
Begin to find their jolting much the same.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Related quotes
Bedlam In Belgium
The blood in my veins
Was running right through my brain
There was a cop with a gun
Who was running around insane
Three fifty arrests
No bullet proof vests
Now aint that a shame
We wanted to play
Play for the crowd
no, said the wankers
youre on your way out
Bedlam in belgium
The place was a jumpin
And the booze was going down
Theres a cop doing time
Whos been working overtime
We dont play just for pay
So we left the stage
Stayed just the same
He gave me a crack
In the back with his gun
That aint so bad
But to feel the blood run
Bedlam in belgium
It was bedlam in belgium
Bedlam in belgium
Cant have a good time unless you dont run
Bedlam in belgium
Whos to blame, its a shame
Bedlam in belgium
It was bedlam
You gonna run out
Stage was saged
Cops enraged
Crying for more
It was a world war war
It was bedlam in belgium
Cant have a good time unless you dont run
Bedlam in belgium
And the law got the drop on me
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet- Sonnet Needs Rhymes
Can you a Sonnet write without its rhyme?
Now people want the modern verse that's free;
As ideas get stuck and cramped with time,
A Sonnet's like leafless branches of tree!
A Sonnet's great for men who rhyme too well;
Its beauty lives in metre, rhythm, rhyme;
Yet, it can never run into 'pel-mel';
The sonneteer can write in any clime.
Why abhor rhymes and not a Sonnet write?
Each genre has its rules to comply with;
Why sleep all day and stay awake all night?
Rhyme-play is done by Kindergarden kith!
Why ridicule something you can't do well,
Much things are done by practice, Sonnets tell.
poem by John Celes
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Eighteenth-Nineteenth Century Verse
France is the country of poems and prose
the lovely French language tells us so.
Romantic love in classical verse
dates back to Voltaire from days long ago.
The 18th century brought poets from Paris
writing about France and the Seine,
and so many other Parisian wonders
that lie in that fertile plain.
Yes France was a country of talent
In England, Wordsworth stole the scene
whilst Coleridge, another fine English poet
wrote lyrical verse about Pastures Green.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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A Wish
I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
with similes that span the universe,
that sparkle, crackle, dazzle, woo the mind;
and touch the heart with tender, swoony verse...
I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
in literature that's all the better for
those soaring, parabolic parables
and paradigms, and rhymes, and metaphor...
I'd like to write - like no-one else has done:
forget the rules and precedents; let fly
to heights undreamt of yet, new mindscape won..
And yet, perhaps, the world's served better by
small lamps of words amidst the cold night winds
of chance and change; cupped in a poet's hands.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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It Is A Lovely Day
The parks and paddocks lush and green wildflowers bloom by the roadway
And birds are singing in the wood it is a lovely day
A forecast low of nineteen and a high of twenty three
And pink flowers in large clusters on the rhododendron tree,
Were I a poet I'd write a sonnet for today that would live on in time
But good poets are few or so 'twould seem in blank verse or in rhyme
For to be able to pen a sonnet to this day joy to others would bring
When Mother Nature is in bloom in the prime of the Spring,
The wattle birds are calling on the sunlit banksia trees
And there is a cool freshness in the freshening coastal breeze
And dark winged welcome swallows chirping as above the park they fly
All through the day they circle to and fro across the sky
And willy wagtail with his wagging tail is chasing flies and bees
And the sunlit park sounds happy with the songs of the pee wees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Shapes Of Things
(keith relf - jim mccarty - paul samwell-smith)
Verse 1:
Shapes
Of things before my eyes
Just teach me to despise
Will time make man more wise
Verse 2:
Here
Within my lonely frame
My eyes just hurt my brain
But will they seem the same
Chorus:
Come tomorrow
Will I be older
Come tomorrow
May be a soldier
Come tomorrow
Will I be bolder
Than today?
Verse 3:
Now
The trees are almost green
But will they still be seen
Where time and tide have been
Verse 4:
Fallen
Into your passing hands
Please dont destroy these lands
Dont make them desert sands
[repeat chorus]
Guitar solo:
Verse 5:
Soon
I hope that I will find
Loves deep within my mind
That wont disgrace my kind
song performed by by Allman Brothers Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poets
What on earth do you call a collection of poets?
A verse a rhyme a stanza or sonnets?
Perhaps it is best not to seek out this noun
And just to be grateful there are poets around.
poem by David Keig
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Pleadings From a Dead Poet
Oh Muse, release the locks that dam the flow
Of verse and song from my distended heart.
Find passion for my soul that I have lost poetic speech.
Let flow the streams of ardency to seek their source
Within the infinite, harmonious, consistency of words.
Embrace me Muse,
Allow the fountains of my mind to fill the empty pools
Of solitude with thoughts and sounds of dreamy visions
Worthily expressed.
Awaken to my reverence,
Breathe forth that harmony to which my soul was filled.
I stand in this anhydrous waste, in dread
My ever-present being shall be made invisble to life.
And she replied:
'Be silent fool, and listen
For the still, soft whispers of your inner Self.
Harken to the Counsel of your bosom,
Through which Creation passes.
Then, you write.'
(Blank Verse)
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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I can EMIT TIME
'I Can! ' EMIT TIME
Kindly Refer to Notes
.
.
This retourne shows how Time bright glows,
Inspiring plan Life offers man,
Maintains red rose, sustains verse, prose,
Egg, chicken, span, - ensure ‘I can! ’
TIME’s sum’s not dumb, repeating drum
Inspiring plan Life offers man,
May link ‘become’ through rule of thumb
EMIT true scan light once began.
The heart that sows is star that glows
In tune reel ran fed through rhyme’s fan,
Maintains red rose, sustains verse, prose,
Ends in well ran, begins “I can! ”
Time’s reel ebbs, flows, all comes and goes,
In caravan reversing scan
Much magic flows, touch insight knows,
Egg, chicken, span, - ensure ‘I can! ’
.
Egg, chicken, span, - ensure ‘I can! ’
Much magic flows, touch insight knows,
In caravan reversing scan, -
Time’s reel ebbs, flows, all comes and goes.
Ends in well ran, begins “I can! ”
Maintains red rose, sustains verse, prose,
In tune reel ran fed through rhyme’s fan, -
The heart that sows is star that glows.
EMIT true scan: light, once began,
May link, ‘become’ through rule of thumb,
Inspiring plan Life offers man.
TIME’s sum’s not dumb, repeating drum.
Egg, chicken, span, - ensure ‘I can! ’
Maintains red rose, sustains verse, prose,
Inspiring plan Life offers man.
This retourne shows how Time bright glows.
_________________________________
How Time bright glows This retourne shows.
Life offers man Inspiring plan,
sustains verse, prose, Maintains red rose.
Ensure ‘I can! ’ Egg, chicken, span.
Repeating drum, TIME’s sum’s not dumb,
Life offers man Inspiring plan
through rule of thumb, May link ‘become’,
light once began, EMIT true scan.
Is star that glows The heart that sows?
Fed through rhyme’s fan, In tune reel ran
sustains verse, prose, Maintains red rose,
begins “I can! ” Ends in well ran,
all comes and goes, Time’s reel ebbs, flows.
reversing scan In caravan, -
touch insight knows Much magic flows
Ensure ‘I can! ’ Egg, chicken, span.
Ensure ‘I can! ’ Egg, chicken, span,
touch insight knows. Much magic flows
reversing scan In caravan, -
all comes and goes, Time’s reel ebbs, flows.
Begins “I can! ” Ends in well ran,
sustains verse, prose, Maintains red rose
fed through rhyme’s fan, In tune reel ran -
is star that glows The heart that sows?
Light, once began, EMIT true scan
through rule of thumb. May link, ‘become’!
Life offers man Inspiring plan.
Repeating drum, TIME’s sum’s not dumb
Ensure ‘I can! ’ Egg, chicken, span
sustains verse, prose, Maintains red rose,
Life offers man Inspiring plan.
How Time bright glows This retourne shows.
© Jonathan Robin acrostic mirror retourne 3 February 2007
_______________
Author notes
Although this is shown as a double mirrored retourne the poem has been framed so as to alternate each and every line within any given stanza... although only in four cases can the acrostic palindrome EMIT TIME run throughout.
The Mirror effect enables the poem to be read top down TIME or bottom up EMIT - The Retourne is of course only mirrored in the mirror if one reads bottom up.
This offers a possibility of 4 x 4 x 12 x 64 combinations
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Song Of A Rhyming Man
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
This modern verse too much for me it's way above my head
Though modern poets are now the rage and Rhyme is with the dead.
I love the sound of rhyming words, I love the verse that rhyme
To blank or free or non rhyme verse prefer it every time
And there's many who will disagree and most will say I'm wrong
But give me ballad or rhyme verse or good old rhyming song.
You may say I am limited and with you most will agree
That I'm not into modern verse of twenty first century
But I've been an old style rhyming man since nineteen seventy three
And I am in my sixties now and there's no changing me.
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
And I am guilty of no sin and I can't see no crime
In liking sound of rhyming verse and loving words that rhyme
poem by Francis Duggan
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Remember September's Embers 1564 Current Version
Another autumn afternoon's rune link
Nods breeze goodbye to Virgo. Libran van
Offers solace seeing sunlight shrink
Towards millenia lost millenia scan.
Hope's rising generation watches sink,
Ending, one strong before its seed began,
Re-editing: 'I am because I think'.
September boughs bow to October's plan
Extending Indian summer interlink,
Perpetuate spin cycle's song to fan
The amber umber fires Fate's inks imprint.
EMBers glow. Time's treadmill's subtle span
Ends here, weaves gilt edged leaves for Winter's tale,
Rime Jack Frost cool spool pools through sonnet's tail.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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I'm half-Irish, half-Dutch, and I was born in Belgium. If I was a dog, I'd be in a hell of a mess!
quote by Audrey Hepburn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem (‘In The Stump of The Old Tree...’)
In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice of the rotten wood grow weasel’s eyes like molluscs, their lids open and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the trapped leaves and the beak and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible written in the language of rooks. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are trapped and the letters of the rook language are laced on the sodden leaves, and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with it again.
Contemporary Poetry and Prose, 7 (Nov. 1936), 129.
poem by Hugh Sykes Davies
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Poem about Poetry - what is not poetry
writing lines
not like a child
writing lines
robotlike
hitting at keys
rather than own heart
writing lines
throwing words
which are yet
our friends
words picked
from thesaurus
dictionaries
for word's sake
an alley of prostitutes
we treat as our wives
godless
writing as if
the world
possesses
no soul and
god, the real poet
who spares symbols
for his creation
trees, lightning,
thunder
for poets
to colour their world
to see the other side
of the world
how the trees, lightning
thunder
are a part of men
themselves
described,
the trees - spring of youth
lightning - rage
thunder - warning
the warming effect
god's verse to men's uncaring verse
misinterpretation of his symbols
god the leading poet
the world a repository of symbols
for his masterpiece
a masterpiece
we could only admire
the real poet leaves us
something to ponder about
and to add a verse or two
to his work
like the almighty poet
who when he likes
answers us back
in riddles
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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At Sea
Three are emerald pools in the sea,
And wing-like flashes of light;
The sea is bound with the heavens
In a large delight.
Night comes out of the east
And rushes down on the sun;
The emerald pools and the light pools
Are darkened and done.
Our boat dips and cleaves onward,
Careless of night or of light,
Following the line of her compass
By her engines' might.
Through the desert of air and of water;
Like the lonely soul of man,
Following her fate to the ending,
Unaware of the hidden plan.
Sure only of battle and longing,
Of the pain and the quest,
And beyond in the darkness somewhere
Sure of her rest.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Simply grass....! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Grass is very pretty;
But it’s not simply grass,
Or just stuff of lawns.
If you go up and close,
You see a world
Of flowers, waiting
To be discovered.
Grass flowers keep a low profile;
Their colour, height not loud
To scream from far off…
But as I sit on grass
On a humid day, As Sun goes down
West in May,
Or at mid-noon in December
On an icy cold day;
Somehow they remind me
Of a six month old,
Who first learns to crawl
And raises his neck and turns
To make eye contact
With his mom.
The innocence writ large
On their face
Is their unique scent.
Although not effervescent;
Yet timid… by no means.
What if they grow under trees?
Or wherever they get
To assert themselves.
They deserve applause for
Holding their own
On frail stems.
They arrest my gaze,
And I feel more than certain
God is in small details.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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At The Beach On A Sunday Morning
this is an isolated place
the coconut trees are growing uninterrupted
by the talisay trees long ago cut by papa
fenced by barbed wires and planted with carabao grass
this is one thing that sometimes i miss in my life
the molave gate is left open
for the caretaker knows that i am coming
to spend my sunday here...
i told them that i prefer being alone this time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Biography
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud, a French poet, was born Oct.20,1854, in Charleville. His childhood was marred by a 'cantankerous and vindictive' mother and by the discipline of the local school, but his poetic virtuosity was extraordinary. By the age of fifteen he had written verse in imitation of the Romanticists (Vers de College,1932) , and one of his teachers, Izambard, introduced him to contemporary poetry. He was fiercely revolutionary, and wrote the words 'Down with God' on the public benches of Charleville. He ran away from his native town, twice to Paris and once into Belgium, and once he spent 10 days in prison for travelling by train without a ticket. During these escapades, he wrote such poems as Ma Boheme and Le Cabaret vert.
In 1871, in Charleville, he wrote his first prose poems and the Lettres du voyant, and sent to Verlaine a copy of his poem Le Bateau ivre. Verlaine was enthusiastic with the work and encouraged Rimbaud to come to Paris. At this time he had already started the composition of his Illuminations, which was not published until 1886. Verlaine and Rimbaud drifted into an affair. He served in the army of the Commune, and after its fall he went abroad with Verlaine, travelling in England and Belgium. In 1873, in Brussels, he was shot in the wrist by Verlaine, who was condemned to 2 years' imprisonment in the city of Mons for the act. After the incident, Rimbaud wrote a new Illuminations and Une Saison en Enfer.
In november 1893, Rimbaud gave up the writing of poetry and started traveling through Europe on foot. He returned once more to Paris and then disappeared for 16 years. Part of this time he spent in the East, but the greater part was in Ethiopia, where he dealt in contraband firearms, in ivory and gold, and perhaps in slaves. In 1891 he became ill, returned to France to have one leg amputated, and died on November 10 in a Marseille hospital.
poem by Arthur Rimbaud
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Everytime
In a little while Verse One
I'll be on my way
Got no words to express
What I need to say
Every time I think about the first time Chorus
We said hello
You know when you know
You never let go
It's just not my style Verse Two
Something I can't do
After all this time
I'm scared of losing you
(Repeat chorus)
Is there anything Verse Three
You could let me know
Surely you could find me
A reason not to go
(Repeat chorus)
After everything Verse Four
We've been going through
I'm so up and down
So dizzy and blue
(Repeat chorus)
Let me one more time Verse Five
Look into your eyes
I remember when
There were no goodbyes
(Repeat chorus)
song performed by by UB40 from Cover Up
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Make yourself at home for Friend Thad
I keep stored in my library
a treasury of poetry.
These riches I’m prepared to share
with anyone who visits there.
They’re sure to find something to please
somewhere in my anthologies.
They’ll find great poets from the past.
Whose golden words were writ to last.
Philosophy and high romance
or choose at a random take a chance.
They’ll find more formal verse than free
but I think I can guarantee.
Theres something there to suit your taste
just take your time no need for haste.
If your inspired and wish to write
the desk is placed to catch the light.
The only rule you must obey
is do not take my books away.
Through hard experience I have learned
that borrowed books are not returned.
If you should choose to visit me
you’ll find me in my library.
That’s where I spend most of my time
composing metred verse in rhyme.
22-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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