A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature
The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn't impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
quote by George Byron
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Us Potes
Swift was sweet on Stella;
Poe had his Lenore;
Burns' fancy turned to Nancy
And a dozen more.
Poe was quite a trifler;
Goldsmith was a case;
Byron'd flirt with any skirt
From Liverpool to Thrace.
Sheridan philandered;
Shelley, Keats, and Moore
All were there with some affair
Far from lit'rachoor.
Fickle is the heart of
Each immortal bard.
Mine alone is made of stone-
Gotta work too hard.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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An Educated Crocodile Is Still A Crocodile
Rabbit
with a habit
lived in a hole
next to Vole.
And his habit was his link with the beginning of it all
and kept him looking different
from his neighbour, Vole.
So they laid a proper treat on,
washed his face and brushed his hair;
and they took him off to Eton
to be educated there.
There, they dressed him in a boater,
smart black jacket, white bow-tie;
and then they took his photo,
just to please his Auntie Vye.
And they fed him on cucumbers,
Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats.
And they taught him compound numbers
and such intellectual treats.
He learned to say, 'What rot! '
And would ask 'How do you do? '
So they popped him in a pot,
part of a rabbit and rhubarb stew!
(MORAL: AN EDUCATED HABIT IS STILL A RABBIT!)
poem by Brian Taylor
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John Keats
Who killed John Keats?
'I,' says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
''Twas one of my feats.'
Who shot the arrow?
'The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
Or Southey or Barrow.
You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
quote by John Keats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Self Myth
Flamingo flames as dangerous as doubt
I doubt your sincere whispers
Concave of fear
The little elves are tattle tales
You bookmark the ages of sanity
Lean on the cathedral of choice
Others have made your choice
Your brave identity is fabricated
Noble Shelley rests by Keats
Adjectives in earth's karmic venue
Blight of the forlorn swords
Knowledge is the sorrow of time
Remember the witch of Macbeth?
Byron dies in Greece
Paris cafe with dim light
Mistress of the ravens talon
You know all the poets
Recite the kindest soliloquies
I believed you now I see
Self myth conjures Shakespeare
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Nature’s philosophy (Novelinee)
(after Percy Bysshe Shelley)
No things in nature acts only single
as all things are set to love each other;
why can we not also such like mingle
to be more than like sister and brother?
In a loving, caring kind of emotion,
embracing the wind touches the flowers
and to each other there is devotion,
the sun shines with its secret powers
while the earth is kissed by rain showers.
[Reference: “Love’s philosophy” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sorley’s Weather
When outside the icy rain
Comes leaping helter-skelter,
Shall I tie my restive brain
Snugly under shelter?
Shall I make a gentle song
Here in my firelit study,
When outside the winds blow strong
And the lanes are muddy?
With old wine and drowsy meats
Am I to fill my belly?
Shall I glutton here with Keats?
Shall I drink with Shelley?
Tobacco’s pleasant, firelight’s good:
Poetry makes both better.
Clay is wet and so is mud,
Winter rains are wetter.
Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill,
For though the winds come frorely,
I’m away to the rain-blown hill
And the ghost of Sorley.
poem by Robert Graves
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To her who once loved me
(after Percy Bysshe Shelley)
Princess, why did you call me
with longing in your voice,
but when you wanted to be free,
did not leave me another choice?
In some of your writings that to me you address
you speak of passed bliss
there are tears and sheer unhappiness
and it’s as if you are yearning for another kiss?
It is now running to years
that I have to live with emptiness
and I am brave beyond any fears
but I am viewing any friendship with a kind of aloofness.
Keep from sending love and promises that have to be made,
if your love like the stars at break of day is soon to fade.
[Reference: “To Emilia Viviani” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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I dreamt of walking in a lovely garden
(after Percy Bysshe Shelley)
I dreamt of walking in a lovely garden
and it was in the time of spring
where sprouts appeared where the ground did harden
and everywhere I could hear birds sing.
Around me there were flowers everywhere,
irises in colours of yellow, purple and blue,
scented roses in white, orange and red that made me stare
at their particular lovely hue.
Everything was fresh and new after the rain showers
and in that garden I was somewhat cosy,
I wanted to pick a bunch of flowers,
tie them into a scented posy
and I wondered for who,
as no one to me was true.
[Reference: “The Question” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Romantic - Yeah, Right!
Romantic - yeah, right!
3 November 2004
Sitting 'round the table,
hands are in the air;
Asking professor Evans
how and when and where.
The English Romantic Movement
is the stuff we're learning about -
the romance and the counter
to the conflicts round about.
Shelley, Keats and Byron -
they wrote, they were well-read;
it was dangerous to think then,
so easy to lose your head.
And all the way through history
while wars are going on,
there were folks who kept on fighting
for peace with verse and song.
I was an innocent flower child -
sixties, peace and love for sure.
Time of the Vietnam conflict,
protesting that bloody war.
Couldn't understand the killings,
what was it all about?
All we could do was retreat
to a fantasy world - but could shout
against the establishment, who
believed their right to destroy
all those with other convictions.
Might is right - remember that, boy!
So there we have the story!
Romantic Movement is just
a protest agains the rulers
and their overpowering lust.
Power corrupts the group in power
and poets can only write
that they hate the corrupt
and greedy ones -
sword cuts deep
but pen is might!
poem by Dafyd Smith
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The waning moon
(after Percy Bysshe Shelley)
Shapelessly white it spread its light
ailing like a old withered man
in the darkness of that night
its half a thumb’s span
rising very slow
taking half steps before pausing for breath
it had a whimpering kind of glow
as if it was very near to death
wandering in the elemental space half-insane
trying to find its way through a myriad of bright stars
as if feebleness, atrophy had rotten its fading brain
as if it wore a crisscross of scars
while its colour was a kind of pale
thinly covered by a cloud’s veil.
[Reference: “The waning moon” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sketch of Lord Byron's Life
"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
Was poorly received.
Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault
And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
Ah, strange was his lot.
The character of "Lord Byron"
Was of a low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
By his own misdeeds.
Generous and tender hearted,
Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah, he was a handsome fellow
With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
He could use at his will.
He was a sad child of nature,
Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
Throughout his native land.
Thus the "poet of the passions,"
Lived, unappreciated, man.
Yet at the age of 24,
"Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest, pinacle
Of literary fame.
Ah, he had such violent passions
They was beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice,
Sometimes would him extol.
Sometimes again "Lord Byron"
Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
This great unhappy man;
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
He might die, sword in hand.
He had joined the Grecian Army;
This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
Of the nineteenth century.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is no real wealth but the labor of man.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Apollo's Quill
Writing is tough but made easy
When I'm not lazy
When I'm not crazy
But choosy
About this brand of pen
Its ink a brand won..
Writing
In a style written golden
People rating it to number one
And calling it their way..
Blake and Byron one day
Yeats and Keats another day
Milton and Middleton any day
And words worth this pen
Naming it after an Indian
Kabir or Tagore or Amir
Kannadhasan or Bharathidhasan or Bharathiar..
This pen of poets
Be it aptly named in due deference
After the Lord as 'Apollo's quill'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Wen Gott betrügt, ist wohl betrogen
Is it true, ye gods, who treat us
As the gambling fool is treated;
O ye, who ever cheat us,
And let us feel we’re cheated!
Is it true that poetical power,
The gift of heaven, the dower
Of Apollo and the Nine,
The inborn sense, ‘the vision and the faculty divine,’
All we glorify and bless
In our rapturous exaltation,
All invention, and creation,
Exuberance of fancy, and sublime imagination,
All a poet’s fame is built on,
The fame of Shakespeare, Milton,
Of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley,
Is in reason’s grave precision,
Nothing more, nothing less,
Than a peculiar conformation,
Constitution, and condition
Of the brain and of the belly?
Is it true, ye gods who cheat us?
And that ’s the way ye treat us?
Oh say it, all who think it,
Look straight, and never blink it!
If it is so, let it be so,
And we will all agree so;
But the plot has counterplot,
It may be, and yet be not.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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