How do people enjoy poetry?

[Nostromo]

Didn't know you were a poetry buff, Japher.

[Japher]

It's my grandpa's influence (mom's dad)... he was a naturalist... here's one he use to quote us as a bedtime story. We were young enough not to know what it really meant:

The Cremation of Sam McGhee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
that he'd "sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked";. . .
then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
and he said: "Please close the door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

- Robert Service

I really like Service. I have a second edition of this book, and cherish it.

[Japher]

Poetry isn't always about "enjoying". Poems are like montras to me. When I need that direction I reflect on the one that will take me there.

IF

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 imposters 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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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

"If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,"

I have that inscribed on the inside of a pocket watch

[b etor]

"Song of the Powers

By David Mason

Mine, said the stone,
mine is the hour.
I crush the scissors,
such is my power.
Stronger than wishes,
my power, alone.

Mine, said the paper,
mine are the words
that smother the stone
with imagined birds,
reams of them, flown
from the mind of the shaper.

Mine, said the scissors,
mine all the knives
gashing through paper’s
ethereal lives;
nothing’s so proper
as tattering wishes.

As stone crushes scissors,
as paper snuffs stone
and scissors cut paper,
all end alone.
So heap up your paper
and scissor your wishes
and uproot the stone
from the top of the hill.
They all end alone
as you will, you will."

LOL. i had to recite that for english class. i got a 48/50

i'm not a huge fan of poetry at all, but some stuff is really good. [[not that one, i just wanted a short one]]

[Straybow]

I look to Thee in every need,
And never look in vain.
I feel thy strong and tender love
And all is well again.
The thought of thee is mightier far
Than sin and pain and sorrow are,
Than sin and pain and sorrow are, my Lord.

Discouraged in the work of life,
Disheartened by its load.
Shamed by its failures and its fears
I sink beside the road.
But let me only think of Thee
And then new heart springs up in me,
And then new heart springs up in me, my Lord.

There is an eye that never sleeps
Beneath the wing of night,
There is an ear that never shuts
When sink the beams of light.
There is an arm that never tires
When human strength gives way,
There is a love that never fails
When earthly loves decay.
But there's a power which man can wield
When mortal aid is vain.

That eye, that arm, that loves to reach
The listening ear to gain.
That power is prayer which soars on high,
Through Jesus to the throne,
Which moves the Hand which moves the world
To bring salvation down, bring salvation down.

In Every Need by Samuel Longfellow (first two verses)
Anonymous (third and fourth verses)
Put to music by Phil Keaggy

[Rufus T. Firefly]

How can you not love a 17th century work whose basic theme is, "we'll all be dead soon enough, so have sex with me already":

To his Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

[Bkeela]

Poetry is interesting if someone is there to break it open and explain the significance of its meanings and its rhythms, but I'm not clever enough to figure all that out for myself so it bores me to tears.

[Saras]

Poetry is an acquired taste.

Btw, I've written my share of metal lyrics in my day. I'm NOT sharing those

[Aeson]

I like reading poetry more than listening to lyrical music, because the music force feeds a rhythm and tone, whereas with poetry there's a lot left up to your imagination. A lot like the difference between reading a novel or watching a movie.

Reading poetry out loud can be fun... and challenging too... Poe's "Bells" can be hillarious. Some of the greatest stories of all time are epic poems. You're really missing out if you just discard all poetry.

Ramayana

[aneeshm]

I like poetry. A lot of it can be very moving when done right.

"The Light of Asia" is a good example - it's a long poem on the life of the Buddha.

[aneeshm]

Originally posted by Aeson

I like reading poetry more than listening to lyrical music, because the music force feeds a rhythm and tone, whereas with poetry there's a lot left up to your imagination. A lot like the difference between reading a novel or watching a movie.

Yep.

If you have a good imagination, poetry can be far more powerful than other forms.

Originally posted by Aeson

Ramayana

Which translation?

[Fake Boris]

Originally posted by nostromo
Don't dis music

I'm not dissing music per se, I'm dissing its 'pettification'.

[Blake]

See I try to appreciate poetry but then I run into a line like this:

My vegetable love should grow

And burst out laughing.

[Fake Boris]

Who said that poetry can't be funny ? Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine are plenty ironic...