Poets Corner

I thought it would be nice if we could share some of our favorite poetry with one another and also perhaps discuss what they may mean or maybe even how they may relate to us as Jedi. Let me start off with one of my very very favorites. I have posted it before in another area but I thought it may be more prudent to to share it in a more meaningful way here. It is entitledIf

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: \"Hold on!\"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


--Rudyard Kipling

Another of my favorites is by Robert Frost and is entitled Lodged

Lodged

The rain to the wind said,
'You push and I'll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.

A final poem for the evening I might add is very short and yet full of so much meaning. It was written by Jack Kerouac and does not have a title that I am aware of. The poem goes as follows:

\"I am God\"

Here you go, here's something I wrote a while ago, in Iraq. Its kind of dark, but hey, so am I. It is titled \"Who are you?\"

From the depths of Hell you came,
Just sitting, staring at the Sun.
The brightness and flames,
Enticing hatred and rage,
You do nothing, but sit and stare.
My eyes are bleeding now,
Is this something you have done?
I hear screams drowning out all sound,
Like a million people burning alive.
It makes me want to kill everything.
From the smallest child, to the eldest man.
Plants and creatures across the world.
I will show them the true meaning of pain,
No mercy will be shown, not even to you.
You’ll be the first in this bloodlust genocide,
Taste the hilt of my sword, warm it for use.
Scream for help, feed my hunger,
Life will cease to exist.
What is this, no desperation, no scream?
Just pain, a sharp, undeniably real pain.
As my blood puddles around my body,
Your laugh echoes through my head,
You’re gone, but your laugh lingers on,
I know now who you are, you are me.


As you can see I came a long way from where I was, I do still like this poem alot though.

Dhagon Krayt

this is a poem by Charles Bukowski, who was a beat poet right up until his death in 1994.

\"question and answer\"
he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
that--
it had kept them going when
all seemed
truly
hopeless.

putting the blade on the table, he
flicked it with a finger
and it whirled
in a flashing circle
under the light.

who the hell is going to save
me? he
thought.

as the knife stopped spinning
the answer came:
you're going to have to
save yourself.

still smiling,
a: he lit a
cigarette
b: he poured
another
drink
c: gave the blade
another
spin.

--from The Last Night of the Earth Poems

I'll have to dig for some of my favorite poetry but for now you can suffer my own creations;-P These are all on Deviant by the way..



Celophane

The thin divide that separates
My darkened life of magistrates,
Judging harshly, always watching
Callus disregarded taunting.

Where does life continue on,
From this cliff I now am perched?
Choices led me to this place
Of empty grand expanse.

And yet, despite, the shell still lingers,
Thin transparent, ever present,
Sealing out the outside world,
Encompassing my all encompassed.

Dancing lights and forms without,
Vision blurs when passed throughout,
Yet through the haze I see about
What dancing, everyone enjoys.

Materialist, money, sadistic,
Image, appearance, gas efficient
Stronger, louder, quicker, cooler,
Ever working, ever better.

I can see, and yet I’m separate,
Clearly there and yet transparent
To all the world, oh so apparent,
My prison, plastic cellophane.

When the World Ends

All is naught but fire and brimstone,
rancid scents among the tomb stones.
Cold and musk, the heavy air,
to breathe is not but suffocation.

Walking through a haze of nothing,
Nothingness and callous feelings.
In a world of grand design,
Nature’s beauty unrevealing.

Where are all the tender hearted?
Hiding from the hardened hearts.
Greater evils lurk within,
Without is reaped with damage.

You can see it, lurking darkly,
In the shadows of humanity
Creature not, and hardly living,
Undead evil, unforgiving.

Where are all the righteous ones?
Have they left, home disregarded?
Throughout time, strength is waning,
When shall the mighty fall?

But despite, and in good timing,
Hope is growing, redefining,
Strength of love, soon prevailing,
Human hearts are soon conjoining.

So here I wait, deft hands combining,
Simple things to keep me climbing,
Toward a radiance; inner strength,
World ends, without a trace,

And patiently I sit and wait.

this is actually supposed to be a Celtic tune, sung rather.

Soldier's Lament


Home is just a memory that I cannot recall,
For I have tried before, yet I get fragments of it all.
I've been off to war for nay on seven years today,
And I cannot recall the simple pleasures of that day.

Maidens singing cross the golden fields while children play
Gentle mannered men living lives of peace I pray.
These are not the things I see anew throughout the day
For war brings only pain and suffering
I've got my sword and my true love, my shield of oaken wood
And with my bow I'll smite them down wherever they hath stood.
But if I ever return home I'll be right out lost,
for of a maidens charms I have not but what I've got
And what I've got is strength and force, and I dare not use that,
And so I'd be defenseless to the ways of maidens charm,
for Home is just a memory that I cannot recall,
I've tried a thousand times and yet its not my memory,
Its gone away with whom I was, upon those summer days,
I've changed and now I'm different though if better I'm not sure,
But I know one thing true and it is what I'm fighting for,
Home is just a memory that I cannot recall,
But I will keep on fighting in the memory of all,
For I am naught but simple soldier fighting for my land,
and that is how I'll be when I am dead and gone again.

For I'll be just a memory that no one can recall.
Try and try again they get but fragments of my all
And I'll be much at peace wherever next I venture true,
with memories of peace and war ever at my call.

And last one for now. Sorry for the dark theme, I write poetry when I am down to clear the emotions.. odd, yes?


Death's Spade

If only I could make things work,
kill the pain and stop the hurt
Change the ever killing blade
which evil caries, to a spade
that it may be of better worth
to cleans the land and promote birth
but killing is what evil does
and death is part of all of us
so is the pain not thus a piece?
Is hardship not a requisite
For life; to live a world apart
From pure white bliss, tranquility?
One world parted in its own
And owning nothing in the end
Walk the line and take the hit
To validate the end’s release
And at death’s blade, or spade,
All shal fall in darkened glades
Of lilies black, and not much more
Bodies piled up, and still
More bodies dropped to pack and fill.
Death works alone,
With pain it kills.

not at all, this is a very common practice among poets

Here is one from Allen Ginsburg. It is probably his most famous poem and is far too long to post here. I will post the first portion. It is entitled Howl

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull...
As I said it is very very lengthy. You can read the whole poem here:
http://www.wussu.com/poems/agh.htm
Enjoy and MTFBWY

Brother In Blue

It was another quiet night
In that sleepy little town
8 hours of boredom
Broken by 30 seconds of hell

Shots rang out
Breaking that silent night
A brother in Blue
Fell in the night

Just a guardian angel
Tryin to protect and serve
Guarding his flock
Like a shepherd and his herd

He wore that Badge with honor
He wore the badge with pride
A brother in Blue
Fallen in the night

They laid him to rest
Under the color of flag
Those pipes rang out
Playin that Taps

His bothers salute
As they mourn is fall
Another Brother in blue
They signal his last call

To this day
They speak of him with pride
They honor his badge
And his sacrifice

They laugh when they tell his stories
They cry when they talk of that night
Their brother in blue
Their brother for all time

\"Dedicated to Chris Sampson, my brother, my friend\"

Clockwork Demise


Kissing the roses and throwing them down
eating the tar and fruit of the people
for eternity on the snowy grounds.
Someone is hanging from the church steeple.

Smeling the bitter and tasting demise
feeling all black sin and painful red thorns
The black cloaked one will some to reap his prize
Ramming them all with a great golden horn

And everyone's blood will floe forth tonight
Through all of time and space and the whole world
no one can scream because you're in the right
You will let the markings in blodd be swirled

For only people can sicken time.
A blackened place.
A plauge in it's prime.

Internal Epiphany

Sometimes I feel like
a storm-chaser, following
an anger long resigned.
Having issues without reason,
Causing stirs
To Justify my mind.
I change - I change,
I stay the same...
Crashing thunder where I go.

Let go your righteous indignations,
Try for once to just be free.
Remove your expectations -
Let yourself simply be.

The Path Less Traveled

The heart drew me here when all had been lost
Those words burned my soul - faith failed my life's cause.
Self-concept now gone - rage came at what cost?
Broken, I wept 'til my tears gave me pause -
Not dark, nor light, I won't live in a cast.
Searching and scouring through all that was naught
Was \"I\" who was then now part of the past?
The shadow will beckon to what it has wrought...
What can I say? My soul found a new life -
All had been vague - it is now what I know.
Out of the ash, I've emerged from the strife.
I am who I am - who I was, she did go.
You may not know why I feel I must stay,
But then again, that's the way of the grey.

Believe This

Believe this.
Believe that every second spent following this code is a second not spent leading your own life.
Believe that every second spent contemplating this code is a minute not spent acting.
Believe that you cannot dismiss every conceivable situation with a convenient quotation from this code.
Believe that every situation deserves individual calculation and contemplation, and
Believe that this code cannot help you.
Believe that that this code is indecipherable.
Believe that living by this code is conforming with this code.
Believe that every dogmatic word of this code is a chain around your neck.
Believe that this code says you should do what I think is right, not what you think is right.
Believe that to challenge this code will mark you out as a dissident and your prospects for advancement will be automatically reassessed.
Believe that once you accept this code, you will be just like all the other people who accept this code.
Believe that learning this by heart means that you can recite it without thinking of its damaging implications.
Believe that there is nothing to believe here.
Believe that there is nothing to see here.
Move along.

Another one of my favorite poets but I didn't discover this poem until Yesterday while I was sifting through his books looking for a quote to use in an article.

so you want to be a writer?
by Charles Bukowski


if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

this is one of my personal poems I have more the I will post at a latter time.


Nothing, No One


Soon I will have nothing, no one.
Soon I leave,
And come back to nothing, no one.
No home,
No family,
No friends.
Everything I hold dear,
Soon will be nothing, no one.
When I go they all leave.
The reason I Fight.
The reason I Die.
Is now all for nothing, no one.
All gone forever,
Everything, everyone.
So I go on in my life,
Now meaningless because I have nothing, no one.
My family forsakes me.
My friends all leave.
My love, to her I no longer exist.
So I go away and leave it all,
To Fight and Die for nothing, no one.

here is another one of my orriginals. I know they are all dark and what not but it is how I let out my heartbreak.

Falling

Why do I always fall so far?
Every time I run to her.
I swear everything to her,
And I always fall,
I fall so far,
It always hurts.
I lose my love,
She no longer cares.
But I can’t help but love her.
So now I have nothing,
Nothing but War and Death to live for.
Pain, Suffering, Death.
That is now my future,
The one good thing I had, gone.
So to War I go.
And probably to die.
But all of this I will hide,
Hide it and drive on.
Drive on to Suffering and Death,
So I can fall one last time.

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day - John Henry Dryden


FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
'Arise, ye more than dead!'
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangour
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.

But O, what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;
But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the Blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky!

this one is by the great Gen George S Patton Jr. it is by far one one of my favotie poems.

THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
by Gen. George S. Patton, Jr.

Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
Have I fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I've called His name in blessing
When after times I died.

In the dimness of the shadows
Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.

While in later clearer vision
I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

Hear the rattle of the harness
Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
See their chariots wheel in panic
From the Hoplite's leveled spear.

See the goal grow monthly longer,
Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

Still more clearly as a Roman,
Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.

Once again I feel the anguish
Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline was in vain.

I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.

Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my Flemish plate gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on Crecy's field I lay.

In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.

Midst the spume of half a tempest
I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
Sent destruction to our foe.

I have fought with gun and cutlass
On the red and slippery deck
With all Hell aflame within me
And a rope around my neck.

And still later as a General
Have I galloped with Murat
When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor's Star.

Till at last our star faded,
And we shouted to our doom
Where the sunken road of Ohein
Closed us in it's quivering gloom.

So but now with Tanks a'clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
By the star shell's ghastly glow.

So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.

This is a poem I just wrote today about my recent trip into depression and why I think I feel this way.


I’m afraid
I’m afraid of what’s to come
I’m afraid of what I’m leaving
I’m afraid of my loss of control
I’m just not me any more
I want it to end
The pain I feel
I know what I want
But I don’t want it
I want to move on
To become better than I am
But I’m just too afraid
I’m afraid to lose my friends
Afraid to leave my home
I don’t know how to deal with it
I no longer control my emotions
I want to be happy
I should be happy, but I’m not
I’m just too afraid to be happy
I’m afraid