The Poetry Thread

[Mr.Obvious]

In honor of the one year anniversary of this thread. Thanks for starting it Solomon.

P.S. I do hope it's the 15th in America already. It is where I live and I don't have much time for the rest of the day.

The Oddysey

A battered boat in the eye of a great storm,
with wailing winds and waves without wholesome form
fighting our craft through forceful insanity,
providing clouds on our course for clarity.

Plagued by plagues of creatures from the dark deep sea,
both mythological, in our odyssey,
and their real sirens; desiring reaction
who are to us foe, victim and distraction.

Among the crew heated arguments do rise
when the ominous ocean offers no lies.
Swiftly disbands the bond of community
replaced by weary whispers of mutiny.

For us present pirates who seek precious truth
atop our known cargo of forbidden fruit
need the Cyclops, even the circe and more
to keep us longing for those logical shores.

Yet a careful glance thrown at those on our ark,
tells me that this quest on which we did embark
can reach Ithaka's Penelope waiting,
through our modest love for honest debating.

Yes, my days upon this vessel are well spent,
for in this hull of free minds I feel content
to sit and talk with you as for truth we roam
to find out what lies in this most epic poem.

Brave friends, Troy's walls of ignorance are no more.
After a long fight, we waltzed right through the door.
And though our voyage home may truly be odd,
we won the war and can travel free of god.

[Solomon Zorn]

I posted this poem I wrote, recently on a site for deconverts...

All This Time

All this time
I spent chasing You
When I could've spent it
Chasing my dreams

All this time
I spent trusting in Your Word
When I could've spent it
Trusting my intuition

All this time
I spent in church
Waiting, praying, hoping
For You to show up

All this time
I spent on my knees
When I could've spent it
Dancing or swimming or something else

All this time
I spent feeling guilty
When I could've spent it
Planting a garden

All this time
I spent loving You
When I could've spent it
Loving myself

Great Poem, Deidre! Really evokes a strong emotion. Thanks for sharing it.

[Solomon Zorn]

In honor of the one year anniversary of this thread. Thanks for starting it Solomon.

P.S. I do hope it's the 15th in America already. It is where I live and I don't have much time for the rest of the day.

The Oddysey

A battered boat in the eye of a great storm,
with wailing winds and waves without wholesome form
fighting our craft through forceful insanity,
providing clouds on our course for clarity.

Plagued by plagues of creatures from the dark deep sea,
both mythological, in our odyssey,
and their real sirens; desiring reaction
who are to us foe, victim and distraction.

Among the crew heated arguments do rise
when the ominous ocean offers no lies.
Swiftly disbands the bond of community
replaced by weary whispers of mutiny.

For us present pirates who seek precious truth
atop our known cargo of forbidden fruit
need the Cyclops, even the circe and more
to keep us longing for those logical shores.

Yet a careful glance thrown at those on our ark,
tells me that this quest on which we did embark
can reach Ithaka's Penelope waiting,
through our modest love for honest debating.

Yes, my days upon this vessel are well spent,
for in this hull of free minds I feel content
to sit and talk with you as for truth we roam
to find out what lies in this most epic poem.

Brave friends, Troy's walls of ignorance are no more.
After a long fight, we waltzed right through the door.
And though our voyage home may truly be odd,
we won the war and can travel free of god.

I like it better on the second reading. Very good. Thanks for meeting the challenge!

[Solomon Zorn]

In celebration of the Poetry thread first anniversary, here's one I just finished. It's a little off-topic, but it's the best I can do at the moment.

“Waiting for the Sequel”
Solomon Zorn


Heartache pang,
Our Yin and Yang
Were action and reaction.
Heavy sigh,
For you and I
Are lacking interaction.

So why is it,
We don't visit?
Seems it's been forever.
Sun goes down,
Your golden crown
Is turning into silver.

Still, to me,
You'll always be
My perfect life companion.
Age and grace
Will shape your face,
Until our next reunion.

One more year,
I still don't hear
Your voice's simple magic.
Not to try,
Before we die,
Would certainly be tragic.

It's no sin,
Our Yang and Yin
Are opposite and equal.
If we dare,
Our love affair
Could one day write a sequel.

[Deidre32]

Great Poem, Deidre! Really evokes a strong emotion. Thanks for sharing it.

Thank you so much! :)

I really like ''Waiting for the Sequel'' ... you are talented!

[PickelledEggs]

This is one of my favorite poems. It always gives me a good chuckle.

I'm not grass
Why do you step on my heart
I'm so not grass
You treat me like grass
Do I look green
no
Only on roast beef day
Do I look "grassy"
no
Only when I go out side aka
Never
So I'm not grass go away don't mess with my feelings

http://allpoetry.com/poem/10970961-Im-not-grass-by-arianabootytiara

Also another one of this author's is

Pizza
Rough when you touch
Soft when you bite
maybe it's the way it's made
yum
ooh
ah
pizza
[[cue snaps]]

http://allpoetry.com/poem/10971005-Pizza-by-arianabootytiara

[Solitary]

All young debaters over the belief   
Of the soul’s immortality delusion,   
I who lie here was the village idiot,   
Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments conclusion.   
Of the atheists no Gods relief.
But after a long sickness of superstitious not    
of unbearable pain I welcomed para nirvana.    
I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Christ.   
And they lighted a torch of hope and wisdom's savanna,   
And desire within the Shadow of death's heist,    
Leading me swiftly through the abyss of darkness,   
Could not be extinguished for evermore.   
Listen to me, you who live in realities starkness,   
And think of realities only door:   
Immortality is not a gift of magical business ,   
Immortality is an achievement from living;   
And only those who strive to live life to the fullest    
Shall possess it's giving.

[AllPurposeAtheist]

I must be the only person I know who when I read poetry I just shrug which isn't a knock on poetry, just that it doesn't often do anything for me..  Take no offence.. I've always been this way.  I'm a prose kinda guy I guess.

[Brian37]

All young debaters over the belief   
Of the soul’s immortality delusion,   
I who lie here was the village idiot,   
Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments conclusion.   
Of the atheists no Gods relief.
But after a long sickness of superstitious not    
of unbearable pain I welcomed para nirvana.    
I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Christ.   
And they lighted a torch of hope and wisdom's savanna,   
And desire within the Shadow of death's heist,    
Leading me swiftly through the abyss of darkness,   
Could not be extinguished for evermore.   
Listen to me, you who live in realities starkness,   
And think of realities only door:   
Immortality is not a gift of magical business ,   
Immortality is an achievement from living;   
And only those who strive to live life to the fullest    
Shall possess it's giving.

One caveat "Living life to the fullest", to me does not mean being a workoholic, or outdoor sports nut or travel nut. It simply means to me, be yourself.

Other than that it was a great poem.

[AllPurposeAtheist]

There once was a girl from Leads who swallowed two packets of seeds....... I don't remember the rest..

[Brian37]

Dictator, By Brian37(AKA Brian James Rational Poet)



Never elected

Needs no consent

Laws unchangeable

Crushes dissent,



A manifestation

Of human desires

Their dear leader

Fights all outsiders



The call to loyalty

Thus he demands

A scorched earth

Is where it all ends



He set it up

Forced your existence

All to obey

To do his bidding



Maladroitness

Albatross strangles

Invisible chains

All enslave



Bring the bolt cutters

Of question and querry

Bring all reason

Ridicule and blasphemy



He has no chance

Under scrutiny

Employ freethought

Set your mind free

.......END..........

Also posted at my home poetry thread last page of the thread link location listed in the following link.
http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771

[aitm]

after Lucretius I can't read atheist poetry. If the point can't be made in four lines succinctly and decisively no one other than atheists will bother with it and why preach to the choir?

[Brian37]

after Lucretius I can't read atheist poetry. If the point can't be made in four lines succinctly and decisively no one other than atheists will bother with it and why preach to the choir?

Really? Um please do not decide for others what they should do and why they write it or how they write it. It is written for everyone to read and people have different motivations and styles and the readers always respond to different poems for different reasons.

Everyone here is an individual and every poem is individual. If you want to write your own stuff do so, other than that, food critics, movie critics and book critics are a dime a dozen and poetry is no different.

[Solitary]

ATM, you are going to love this one:

        An Essay on Criticism
        Alexander Pope

        'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
        Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
        But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' Offence,
        To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
        Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
        Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
        A Fool might once himself alone expose,
        Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.

        'Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
        Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
        In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
        True Taste as seldom is the Critick's Share;
        Both must alike from Heav'n derive their Light,
        These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
        Let such teach others who themselves excell,
        And censure freely who have written well.
        Authors are partial to their Wit, 'tis true,
        But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?

        Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
        Most have the Seeds of Judgment in their Mind;
        Nature affords at least a glimm'ring Light;
        The Lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
        But as the slightest Sketch, if justly trac'd,
        Is by ill Colouring but the more disgrac'd,
        So by false Learning is good Sense defac'd.
        Some are bewilder'd in the Maze of Schools,
        And some made Coxcombs Nature meant but Fools.
        In search of Wit these lose their common Sense,
        And then turn Criticks in their own Defence.
        Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
        Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's spite.
        All Fools have still an Itching to deride,
        And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side;
        If Maevius Scribble in Apollo's spight,
        There are, who judge still worse than he can write

       
        When first young Maro in his boundless Mind
        A Work t' outlast Immortal Rome design'd,
        Perhaps he seem'd above the Critick's Law,
        And but from Nature's Fountains scorn'd to draw:
        But when t'examine ev'ry Part he came,
        Nature and Homer were, he found, the same:
        Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold Design,
        And Rules as strict his labour'd Work confine,
        As if the Stagyrite o'er looked each Line.
        Learn hence for Ancient Rules a just Esteem;
        To copy Nature is to copy Them.

        Some Beauties yet, no Precepts can declare,
        For there's a Happiness as well as Care.
        Musick resembles Poetry, in each
        Are nameless Graces which no Methods teach,
        And which a Master-Hand alone can reach.
        If, where the Rules not far enough extend,
        (Since Rules were made but to promote their End)
        Some Lucky LICENCE answers to the full
        Th' Intent propos'd, that Licence is a Rule.
        Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
        May boldly deviate from the common Track.
        Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
        And rise to Faults true Criticks dare not mend;
        From vulgar Bounds with brave Disorder part,
        And snatch a Grace beyond the Reach of Art,
        Which, without passing thro' the Judgment, gains
        The Heart, and all its End at once attains.
        In Prospects, thus, some Objects please our Eyes,
        Which out of Nature's common Order rise,
        The shapeless Rock, or hanging Precipice.
        But tho' the Ancients thus their Rules invade,
        (As Kings dispense with Laws Themselves have made)
        Moderns, beware! Or if you must offend
        Against the Precept, ne'er transgress its End,
        Let it be seldom, and compell'd by Need,
        And have, at least, Their Precedent to plead.
        The Critick else proceeds without Remorse,
        Seizes your Fame, and puts his Laws in force.

        I know there are, to whose presumptuous Thoughts
        Those Freer Beauties, ev'n in Them, seem Faults:
        Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,
        Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,
        Which, but proportion'd to their Light, or Place,
        Due Distance reconciles to Form and Grace.
        A prudent Chief not always must display
        His Pow'rs in equal Ranks, and fair Array,
        But with th' Occasion and the Place comply,
        Conceal his Force, nay seem sometimes to Fly.
        Those oft are Stratagems which Errors seem,
        Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream.

        Still green with Bays each ancient Altar stands,
        Above the reach of Sacrilegious Hands,
        Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer Rage,
        Destructive War, and all-involving Age.
        See, from each Clime the Learn'd their Incense bring;
        Hear, in all Tongues consenting Paeans ring!
        In Praise so just, let ev'ry Voice be join'd,
        And fill the Gen'ral Chorus of Mankind!
        Hail Bards Triumphant! born in happier Days;
        Immortal Heirs of Universal Praise!
        Whose Honours with Increase of Ages grow,
        As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!
        Nations unborn your mighty Names shall sound,
        And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
        Oh may some Spark of your Coelestial Fire
        The last, the meanest of your Sons inspire,
        (That on weak Wings, from far, pursues your Flights;
        Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
        To teach vain Wits a Science little known,
        T' admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own!

        Of all the Causes which conspire to blind
        Man's erring Judgment, and misguide the Mind,
        What the weak Head with strongest Byass rules,
        Is Pride, the never-failing Vice of Fools.
        Whatever Nature has in Worth deny'd,
        She gives in large Recruits of needful Pride;
        For as in Bodies, thus in Souls, we find
        What wants in Blood and Spirits, swell'd with Wind;
        Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our Defence,
        And fills up all the mighty Void of Sense!
        If once right Reason drives that Cloud away,
        Truth breaks upon us with resistless Day;
        Trust not your self; but your Defects to know,
        Make use of ev'ry Friend--and ev'ry Foe.

        A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing;
        Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
        There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,
        And drinking largely sobers us again.
        Fir'd at first Sight with what the Muse imparts,
        In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Arts,
        While from the bounded Level of our Mind,
        Short Views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
        But more advanc'd, behold with strange Surprize
        New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise!
        So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try,
        Mount o'er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky;
        Th' Eternal Snows appear already past,
        And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last:
        But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
        The growing Labours of the lengthen'd Way,
        Th' increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes,
        Hills peep o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

        A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit
        With the same Spirit that its Author writ,
        Survey the Whole, nor seek slight Faults to find,
        Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind;
        Nor lose, for that malignant dull Delight,
        The gen'rous Pleasure to be charm'd with Wit.
        But in such Lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
        Correctly cold, and regularly low,
        That shunning Faults, one quiet Tenour keep;
        We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.
        In Wit, as Nature, what affects our Hearts
        Is nor th' Exactness of peculiar Parts;
        'Tis not a Lip, or Eye, we Beauty call,
        But the joint Force and full Result of all.
        Thus when we view some well-proportion'd Dome,
        The World's just Wonder, and ev'n thine O Rome!)
        No single Parts unequally surprize;
        All comes united to th' admiring Eyes;
        No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or Length appear;
        The Whole at once is Bold, and Regular.

        Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see,
        Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
        In ev'ry Work regard the Writer's End,
        Since none can compass more than they Intend;
        And if the Means be just, the Conduct true,
        Applause, in spite of trivial Faults, is due.
        As Men of Breeding, sometimes Men of Wit,
        T' avoid great Errors, must the less commit,
        Neglect the Rules each Verbal Critick lays,
        For not to know some Trifles, is a Praise.
        Most Criticks, fond of some subservient Art,
        Still make the Whole depend upon a Part,
        They talk of Principles, but Notions prize,
        And All to one lov'd Folly Sacrifice.

        Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say,
        A certain Bard encountring on the Way,
        Discours'd in Terms as just, with Looks as Sage,
        As e'er cou'd Dennis, of the Grecian Stage;
        Concluding all were desp'rate Sots and Fools,
        Who durst depart from Aristotle's Rules.
        Our Author, happy in a Judge so nice,
        Produc'd his Play, and beg'd the Knight's Advice,
        Made him observe the Subject and the Plot,
        The Manners, Passions, Unities, what not?
        All which, exact to Rule were brought about,
        Were but a Combate in the Lists left out.
        What! Leave the Combate out? Exclaims the Knight;
        Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.
        Not so by Heav'n (he answers in a Rage)
        Knights, Squires, and Steeds, must enter on the Stage.
        So vast a Throng the Stage can ne'er contain.
        Then build a New, or act it in a Plain.

        Thus Criticks, of less Judgment than Caprice,
        Curious, not Knowing, not exact, but nice,
        Form short Ideas; and offend in Arts
        (As most in Manners) by a Love to Parts.

        Some to Conceit alone their Taste confine,
        And glitt'ring Thoughts struck out at ev'ry Line;
        Pleas'd with a Work where nothing's just or fit;
        One glaring Chaos and wild Heap of Wit;
        Poets like Painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
        The naked Nature and the living Grace,
        With Gold and Jewels cover ev'ry Part,
        And hide with Ornaments their Want of Art.
        True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest,
        What oft was Thought, but ne'er so well Exprest,
        Something, whose Truth convinc'd at Sight we find,
        That gives us back the Image of our Mind:
        As Shades more sweetly recommend the Light,
        So modest Plainness sets off sprightly Wit:
        For Works may have more Wit than does 'em good,
        As Bodies perish through Excess of Blood.

        Others for Language all their Care express,
        And value Books, as Women Men, for Dress:
        Their Praise is still--The Stile is excellent:
        The Sense, they humbly take upon Content.
        Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound,
        Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
        False Eloquence, like the Prismatic Glass,
        Its gawdy Colours spreads on ev'ry place;
        The Face of Nature was no more Survey,
        All glares alike, without Distinction gay:
        But true Expression, like th' unchanging Sun,
        Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon,
        It gilds all Objects, but it alters none.
        Expression is the Dress of Thought, and still
        Appears more decent as more suitable;
        A vile Conceit in pompous Words exprest,
        Is like a Clown in regal Purple drest;
        For diff'rent Styles with diff'rent Subjects sort,
        As several Garbs with Country, Town, and Court.
        Some by Old Words to Fame have made Pretence;
        Ancients in Phrase, meer Moderns in their Sense!
        Such labour'd Nothings, in so strange a Style,
        Amaze th'unlearn'd, and make the Learned Smile.
        Unlucky, as Fungoso in the Play,
        These Sparks with aukward Vanity display
        What the Fine Gentleman wore Yesterday!
        And but so mimick ancient Wits at best,
        As Apes our Grandsires in their Doublets treat.
        In Words, as Fashions, the same Rule will hold;
        Alike Fantastick, if too New, or Old;
        Be not the first by whom the New are try'd,
        Nor yet the last to lay the Old aside.


        Some praise at Morning what they blame at Night;
        But always think the last Opinion right.
        A Muse by these is like a Mistress us'd,
        This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd,
        While their weak Heads, like Towns unfortify'd,
        'Twixt Sense and Nonsense daily change their Side.
        Ask them the Cause; They're wiser still, they say;
        And still to Morrow's wiser than to Day.
        We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow;
        Our wiser Sons, no doubt, will think us so.
        Once School-Divines this zealous Isle o'erspread;
        Who knew most Sentences was deepest read;
        Faith, Gospel, All, seem'd made to be disputed,
        And none had Sense enough to be Confuted.
        Scotists and Thomists, now, in Peace remain,
        Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck-Lane.
        If Faith it self has diff'rent Dresses worn,
        What wonder Modes in Wit shou'd take their Turn?
        Oft, leaving what is Natural and fit,
        The current Folly proves the ready Wit,
        And Authors think their Reputation safe,
        Which lives as long as Fools are pleas'd to Laugh.


        Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things,
        Attones not for that Envy which it brings.
        In Youth alone its empty Praise we boast,
        But soon the Short-liv'd Vanity is lost!
        Like some fair Flow'r the early Spring supplies,
        That gaily Blooms, but ev'n in blooming Dies.
        What is this Wit which must our Cares employ?
        The Owner's Wife, that other Men enjoy,
        Then most our Trouble still when most admir'd,
        And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
        Whose Fame with Pains we guard, but lose with Ease,
        Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
        'Tis what the Vicious fear, the Virtuous shun;
        By Fools 'tis hated, and by Knaves undone!

        If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo,
        Ah let not Learning too commence its Foe!
        Of old, those met Rewards who cou'd excel,
        And such were Prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
        Tho' Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due,
        Crowns were reserv'd to grace the Soldiers too.
        Now, they who reached Parnassus' lofty Crown,
        Employ their Pains to spurn some others down;
        And while Self-Love each jealous Writer rules,
        Contending Wits becomes the Sport of Fools:
        But still the Worst with most Regret commend,
        For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend.
        To what base Ends, and by what abject Ways,
        Are Mortals urg'd thro' Sacred Lust of praise!
        Ah ne'er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast,
        Nor in the Critick let the Man be lost!
        Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join;
        To err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine.


       

This is edited and cut from a much larger one. 

[Solitary]

There once was a girl from Leads who swallowed two packets of seeds....... I don't remember the rest..

There once was a MAN from Nantucket
Whose d*ck was so long, he could suck it.
He said with a grin
As he rubbed on his chin
"If my ear were a c**t, I could f**k it.