Books and Literature
The Poetry Topic
| Posted on July 9, 2012, 1:18 p.m.
I just started reading T.S. Elliot, and am enjoying what I got my hands on. If anyone else has any good recs, let me know. Here is my favorite verse, I have read it about 20 times so far:
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I'm in charge now. I speak for this family.
I mean, I could if you wanted me to. I'd rather not, obviously.
| Posted on July 9, 2012, 1:26 p.m.
Big fan of Whitman. After that, John Donne is probably my next favorite. Yeats is cool as well.
"doubla123 worked so hard to get the 300 post just to get owned by me" ~Bronx88
| Posted on July 9, 2012, 1:50 p.m.
You should definitely read The Waste Land. It's such a fun poem if you like finding patterns, making sense of intertext, and all that sort of lit student fun.
I'm in a Bronte mood from that other thread, so here's an excerpt from poem number 42, by Emily Bronte:
The blue bell cannot charm me now
The heath has lost its bloom
The violets in the glen below
They yeild no sweet perfume [sic]
But though I mourn the heather-bell
'Tis better far, away
I know how fast my tears would swell
To see it smile to day
And that wood flower that hides so shy
Beneath the mossy stone
Its balmy scent and dewy eye
'Tis not for them I moan
It is the slight and stately stem
The blossem's silvery blue
The buds hid like a sapphire gem
In sheathes of emerald hue
'Tis these that breathe upon my heart
A calm and softening spell
That if it makes the tear-drop start
Has power to soothe as well
I probably enjoy poetry about flowers more than a modern man should.
If only I could relieve my hunger by vigorously rubbing my belly...
| Posted on July 9, 2012, 3:47 p.m.
This is my favourite part from an Eliot poem:
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau-de-Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
"The only measure of a man on the internet is whether or not he has been sig'd" - adifferentcity