Poetry thread - Page 2
Forum Index > General Forum |
Kamille
Monaco1035 Posts
| ||
jinorazi
Korea (South)4948 Posts
i had to post this XD | ||
micromegas
Denmark171 Posts
by Dylan Thomas | ||
MasterFischer
Denmark836 Posts
A fitting tantrum of memorabilia Caught up again, still pushing the greyer shades of the rainbow Putting brainwaves to sleep In my perfect universe Tell me what I already know So we pretend to help you, help me Have you seen me? I lost track again Aimless fear, the carefree angry simpletons When worlds come crashing down We always failed to escape ourselves Entertained and resting on broken illusions It rings true.. | ||
mister.bubbles
Canada171 Posts
Epics: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Coleridge -As far as epic poems go this one is fantastic. It has great imagery, it's concise and it's gripping. The Iliad by Homer -This one is a touch harder to swallow than some others simply because it is so huge and the story is very decadent. It is theorized that other authors added chapters at later dates which makes sense because there can be huge breaks from the plot. Reading it feels like reading the movie 300 though. Paradise Lost by Milton -I think it's hilarious that people gave Milton flak for liking the Devil too much and making him a relatable character since this book is in no way pro-satan. It's a good read though simply due to Milton's command of the language. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by someone whose identity we are unsure of -Considering the fact that this was written in the Middle Ages I find it impressive that this piece of literature was so gripping since it took quite a few centuries for writers to work the rambling out of their system. Reading Sir Gawain will take you right into a new world. The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer -Don't read the whole thing because it is immense and not all the Tales are Fantastic. A selection of the best Tales makes for a great read though. Chaucer had a knack for creating realistic characters the likes of which I have yet to encounter. I recommend The Wife's Tale in particular as it is hilarious. Poets: Sylvia Plath -I like Plath entirely too much. She just has this way to write the most brutal things and not seem like she is overdoing it. The Bell Jar, her novel, is my favorite book as well. Robert Lowell -I liked the book Life Studies in particular although this guy has a tenancy to just write really everyday images into his poems and make them boring and depressing (much in the way of indy musicians). John Keats -I'm not sure about what I like so much about Keats; he is just so cool. | ||
mister.bubbles
Canada171 Posts
I couldn't get into Alfred J. Prufrock, it felt too heavy handed. I thin Eliot wrote much stronger poems later on. | ||
Voltaire
United States1485 Posts
THAT is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. Pretty good poem. I have written a few essays on it. Plus the book No Country for Old Men is based on it | ||
AMaidensWrath
Belgium206 Posts
You got so much to prove Hoping they approve The only thing that's true is all you ever do is do You're movin shoe to shoe But you're not going You stop growing The moment that you stay at the top The only way is to drop Free falling down the stairs that you climbed up, lined up to freely mount the air But you dare not air drop Tied up like a hair knot Hiking down without a chance of steppin on a fair rock And so you stand still in a standstill Hands still building castles on a sand hill Man chill is what your friends say But you're not hearing what little men say anyway Keep on going and taste the stars Keep on growing and raise the bar You're living life for the A's down to the Z's After the hill you gotta mountain to seize You are an overachiever Do what it takes till it takes everything you are You are an overachiever Do what it takes till it takes everything you are Who can tell Your living is an organized hell The mansion of your mind just an oversized cell The pressure Everything is done to a measure In the sea of competition sunk like a treasure Like a feather falling slow Spiraling to the floor Strung up like a broken violin to your course Opportunity is knocking at your door But you never left a welcome mat (it doesn't matter anymore) Or anyhow but you're too late to turn back Fate pushing you into the wall like a thumbtack Ain't no comebacks in this game of life Roll the dice again Roll it once, never twice Keep on going and taste the stars Keep on growing and raise the bar You're living life for the A's down to the Z's After one drop you gotta fountain to seize You are an overachiever Do what it takes till it takes everything you are You are an overachiever Do what it takes till it takes everything you are You are an overachiever Do what it takes till it takes everything you are You are an overachiever Do what it takes till it takes everything you are Want a break from the world but the world wanna break you The weight makes your back bone curl up and ache you You are an overachiever Do what it takes till it takes everything you are Want a break from the world but the world wanna break you The weight makes your back bone curl up and ache you Wait, what? Hip-hop? In this thread? But why the hell not? It's modern literature at its best. And since it's Tablo, a guy studying English Literature and Creative Writing, you know that it should be sophisticated enough for this thread. :3 On April 16 2011 08:03 Nevuk wrote: Yes. It's not really a poem, unless you're counting the Odyssey or the Iliad and such works as poems. It's a very long story with no real conflict or plot to it. Paradisio is more interesting than the inferno but no one reads past it (more creative take on things than... "OH NO PEOPLE ARE BEING TORTURED. IN DIFFERENT WAYS. FOR 300 PAGES."). edit but I'm an atheist. So that might be why i was literally bored out of my mind with each line of it. It seems to me that being an atheist is a rather odd reason for being bored of Dante's Divine Comedy. The plot may take place in places such as hell and purgatory. But that's not to be taken literally. Even back then, no one did so. Even the Roman poet Lucretius stated once: Atque ea ni mirum quae cumque Acherunte profundo prodita sunt esse, in vita sunt omnia nobis. Roughly translated it means: Whatever they say about the souls in the depths of hell, that is happening right here in our live. But that's a common misconception. People tend to think that modern literature needs a reader that is able to read between the lines, while every opus before the 20th century is dull, dead an to be taken literally. Pick the Divine Comedy up once again and maybe read some postfaces with it. Learn to read between the lines! It's not important where these people are tortured and that they are tortured. It's extremely interesting to know who these people are! And the way that they are tortured often tells you what they have done wrong in their lives. Just think about it: It wouldn't be deemed as a masterpiece if it's just about people being tortured in different ways for 300 pages, would it? | ||
procyonlotor
Italy473 Posts
We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn. A red wing rose in the darkness. And suddenly a hare ran across the road. One of us pointed to it with his hand. That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive, Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture. O my love, where are they, where are they going The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder. Encounter, by Czeslaw Milosz Also, if anybody's going to be reading The Iliad let me point you toward Alexander Pope's translation of it. See Robert Fagles for an awesome translation of The Odyssey. | ||
benjammin
United States2728 Posts
BY ROBERT HASS All the new thinking is about loss. In this it resembles all the old thinking. The idea, for example, that each particular erases the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown- faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk of that black birch is, by his presence, some tragic falling off from a first world of undivided light. Or the other notion that, because there is in this world no one thing to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds, a word is elegy to what it signifies. We talked about it late last night and in the voice of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone almost querulous. After a while I understood that, talking this way, everything dissolves: justice, pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman I made love to and I remembered how, holding her small shoulders in my hands sometimes, I felt a violent wonder at her presence like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat, muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her. Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances. I must have been the same to her. But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread, the thing her father said that hurt her, what she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous as words, days that are the good flesh continuing. Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry. | ||
benjammin
United States2728 Posts
| ||
BabyKnight
Denmark112 Posts
Dammit I’m mad. Evil is a deed as I live. God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt. To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss. Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help? Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell. I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”. Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp, In my halo of a mired rum tin. I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin. Is evil in a clam? In a trap? No. It is open. On it I was stuck. Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web. Be still if I fill its ebb. Ew, a spider… eh? We sleep. Oh no! Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position. Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name. Both, one… my names are in it. Murder? I’m a fool. A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash, A Goddam level I lived at. On mail let it in. I’m it. Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet! A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name. Name not one bottle minus an ode by me: “Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog” Evil is a deed as I live. Dammit I’m mad. Palindrome poem ftw :D | ||
EdaPoe
Netherlands82 Posts
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow – You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand – How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep – while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? By Edgar Allan Poe. | ||
TehPwntif
United States25 Posts
Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy. `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. | ||
bellhop
United States165 Posts
It seems to me that being an atheist is a rather odd reason for being bored of Dante's Divine Comedy. The plot may take place in places such as hell and purgatory. But that's not to be taken literally. Even back then, no one did so. Even the Roman poet Lucretius stated once: Atque ea ni mirum quae cumque Acherunte profundo prodita sunt esse, in vita sunt omnia nobis. Roughly translated it means: Whatever they say about the souls in the depths of hell, that is happening right here in our live. But that's a common misconception. People tend to think that modern literature needs a reader that is able to read between the lines, while every opus before the 20th century is dull, dead an to be taken literally. Pick the Divine Comedy up once again and maybe read some postfaces with it. Learn to read between the lines! It's not important where these people are tortured and that they are tortured. It's extremely interesting to know who these people are! And the way that they are tortured often tells you what they have done wrong in their lives. Just think about it: It wouldn't be deemed as a masterpiece if it's just about people being tortured in different ways for 300 pages, would it? Very true! The Divine Comedy was written as a political piece attacking Italian politicians, not as a primer for Christianity or as a fear pamphlet. As an atheist myself, I found The Divine Comedy to be an awesome, frightening and relevant text that continues to be referred to in all literature. In terms of more modern poetry, check out the poet Charles Bukowski. I'll post a great poem by him below. I'm currently a 3rd year undergraduate poetry major, so it's great to see a thread like this! Lovin' the community here. + Show Spoiler + I Made A Mistake by Charles Bukowski I reached up into the top of the closet and took out a pair of blue panties and showed them to her and asked "are these yours?" and she looked and said, "no, those belong to a dog." she left after that and I haven't seen her since. she's not at her place. I keep going there, leaving notes stuck into the door. I go back and the notes are still there. I take the Maltese cross cut it down from my car mirror, tie it to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave a book of poems. when I go back the next night everything is still there. I keep searching the streets for that blood-wine battleship she drives with a weak battery, and the doors hanging from broken hinges. I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love. a confused old man driving in the rain wondering where the good luck went. | ||
Jailino
France1 Post
by: Charles Baudelaire HEY pass before me, these Eyes full of light, Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise; The holy brothers pass before my sight, And cast their diamond fires in my dim eyes. They keep me from all sin and error grave, They set me in the path whence Beauty came; They are my servants, and I am their slave, And all my soul obeys the living flame. Beautiful Eyes that gleam with mystic light As candles lighted at full noon; the sun Dims not your flame phantastical and bright. You sing the dawn; they celebrate life done; Marching you chaunt my soul's awakening hymn, Stars that no sun has ever made grow dim! | ||
Sajimo
United States95 Posts
On April 14 2011 22:53 LeafHouse wrote: I'm glad we're having another one of these threads. Thanks sqrt. This isn't exactly classic poetry, but a good beat poem is something worth listening to. "Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars" - Buddy Wakefield Here's another good one called "Aaron" + Show Spoiler + and a couple of fun poems by Taylor Mali + Show Spoiler + http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU Cheers Buddy Wakefield is amazing | ||
SafeWord
United States522 Posts
On April 14 2011 23:25 Kontemptuous wrote: [/spoiler]Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came - Robert Browning [+ Show Spoiler + spoiler=I.] My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. + Show Spoiler [II.] + What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, + Show Spoiler [III.] + If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. + Show Spoiler [IV.] + For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. + Show Spoiler [V.] + As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith, ``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'') + Show Spoiler [VI.] + While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. + Show Spoiler [VII.] + Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among ``The Band''---to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps---that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now---should I be fit? + Show Spoiler [VIII.] + So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. + Show Spoiler [IX.] + For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; nought else remained to do. + Show Spoiler [X.] + So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers---as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove. + Show Spoiler [XI.] + No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See "Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly, "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: "'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place, "Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.'' + Show Spoiler [XII.] + If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. + Show Spoiler [XIII.] + As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! + Show Spoiler [XIV.] + Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. + Show Spoiler [XV.] + I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards---the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. + Show Spoiler [XVI.] + Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. + Show Spoiler [XVII.] + Giles then, the soul of honour---there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good---but the scene shifts---faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! + Show Spoiler [XVIII.] + Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. + Show Spoiler [XIX.] + A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof---to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. + Show Spoiler [XX.] + So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of route despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. + Show Spoiler [XXI.] + Which, while I forded,---good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! ---It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. + Show Spoiler [XXII.] + Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--- + Show Spoiler [XXIII.] + The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. + Show Spoiler [XXIV.] + And more than that---a furlong on---why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel---that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. + Show Spoiler [XXV.] + Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood--- Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. + Show Spoiler [XXVI.] + Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. + Show Spoiler [XXVII.] + And just as far as ever from the end! Nought in the distance but the evening, nought To point my footstep further! At the thought, great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap---perchance the guide I sought. + Show Spoiler [XXVIII.] + For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains---with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,---solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. + Show Spoiler [XXIX.] + Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--- In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts---you're inside the den! + Show Spoiler [XXX.] + Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! + Show Spoiler [XXXI.] + What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counter-part In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. + Show Spoiler [XXXII.] + Not see? because of night perhaps?---why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--- ``Now stab and end the creature---to the heft!'' + Show Spoiler [XXXIII.] + Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--- How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet, each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. + Show Spoiler [XXXIV.] + There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'' <3 Big Dark Tower fan <3 That poem is soooo amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!! Also the Divine Comedy just blows my mind ^_^ Here is one I wrote a awhile back that I love. Poetic State of Mind Poetry. sigh The fine link of mind to pen. As words form onto the page, Spilling from every corners of your brain. The moment pen touches paper, You enter a twisted dimension. Sometimes; Dark, Heavenly, and Cheerful dimensions. Words that collect themselves on pages, Sometimes sending bone chilling messages to readers. Even nice warm fussing feelings. It moves people to great lengths. To achieve things that are far from their minds. It tears down walls of hatred, And sends out waves of joy. This art; Poetry. Has withstood the test of time. And will not hinder the slightest. It is my Bible. My Juliet. My comfort on those dog days. My second life line. Poetry. Is a state of mind, That overwhelms even the strongest of wills. You are the conductor of this orchestra of words. Let your poetic symphony be heard. Let it ripple through the hearts and minds. Let it be the moon that sways the waters and the ill willed. I will run through that grass filled dimension, As the sun shines on to my face. I will become the forger of sentences. I will conduct the greatest classical score of words. I will be eternally bound to this state of mind. smiles Poetry. | ||
Kamille
Monaco1035 Posts
On April 17 2011 03:58 mister.bubbles wrote: I couldn't get into Alfred J. Prufrock, it felt too heavy handed. I thin Eliot wrote much stronger poems later on. I prefer young Eliot over old Eliot. If you think Prufrock is heavy handed, I'm not sure how you can enjoy The Wasteland. | ||
benjammin
United States2728 Posts
| ||
| ||