English The Art Of English Poetry
Re: The Art Of English Poesie
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Dear yoli - I appreciate that you find the way to this thread and I am very happy that you like english poesie as well 
Of course it would be nice if you add some personal words to the poem, even if there are just about a few lines or words about the writer
I am less strict and instructive than others here.
There is one poem od Lord Byron I like a lot - he wrote it for one of his dogs. Byron's constant companions were poetry and dogs and during his life he had a few.Like the Newfoundland Lyon, who was at his side during his escapade in Missolonghi and also during an expedition to the Turkish-held fortress of Lepanto.
And there was another Newfoundland dog in his life called Boatswain, who he acquired when he was 15 years old. Byron burying his beloved Boatwain 1808 at Newstead Abbey where he lived between 1808 and 1814. People still can visit the dog's grave at the centre of the park. There is an epigraph paying tribute to the dog, carved into the monument -- Byron’s poem paying tribute to this dog.
15 years later when Byron went off to Greece in 1823, he was presented with a young Newfoundland. Byron was delighted and wrote that he ‘never to part with him for any consideration’. And so it happen - Lyon, the dog, was at his side throughout his ill-fated Greek adventure, returning to London with the poet’s coffin.
Now this is Botswain's monument at Newstead Abbey
and here the poem
Epitaph to a Dog
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a Dog
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808
Of course it would be nice if you add some personal words to the poem, even if there are just about a few lines or words about the writer
I am less strict and instructive than others here.
There is one poem od Lord Byron I like a lot - he wrote it for one of his dogs. Byron's constant companions were poetry and dogs and during his life he had a few.Like the Newfoundland Lyon, who was at his side during his escapade in Missolonghi and also during an expedition to the Turkish-held fortress of Lepanto.
And there was another Newfoundland dog in his life called Boatswain, who he acquired when he was 15 years old. Byron burying his beloved Boatwain 1808 at Newstead Abbey where he lived between 1808 and 1814. People still can visit the dog's grave at the centre of the park. There is an epigraph paying tribute to the dog, carved into the monument -- Byron’s poem paying tribute to this dog.
15 years later when Byron went off to Greece in 1823, he was presented with a young Newfoundland. Byron was delighted and wrote that he ‘never to part with him for any consideration’. And so it happen - Lyon, the dog, was at his side throughout his ill-fated Greek adventure, returning to London with the poet’s coffin.
Now this is Botswain's monument at Newstead Abbey
and here the poem
Epitaph to a Dog
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a Dog
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808
So dear that Story and the beautiful words in the Poem. Thank you. What a lovely Story for a dog lover like I am.
I will have a look in my bookcase in a mo. There are some Poems I like a lot and it does one good to put this liking into words. I will try dear Wolkenschieber.
I am not too keen on flowers in a vase. I prefer them out in the nature. But…….
DAFFODILS
The only flowers, when they come into the shops I love to have a big bunch of them in a vase. It makes me very happy to wait for spring and the daffodils (as well) and of course I always read this Poem..each year
Daffodils by William Wordsworth Poet(1770–1850)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
I will have a look in my bookcase in a mo. There are some Poems I like a lot and it does one good to put this liking into words. I will try dear Wolkenschieber.
I am not too keen on flowers in a vase. I prefer them out in the nature. But…….
DAFFODILS
The only flowers, when they come into the shops I love to have a big bunch of them in a vase. It makes me very happy to wait for spring and the daffodils (as well) and of course I always read this Poem..each year
Daffodils by William Wordsworth Poet(1770–1850)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
RE: The Art Of English Poesie
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a great poem by the Nicaraguan Poet and Nobel laureate . This is the english translation. This poem To Roosevelt may not be in iambic pentameter, but the poems use of allegory to people and moments in history to create stereotypes in the mind of its reader was effective in foreshadowing the would be relationship between the United States and Latin America. Background of this poem is the war between Colombia and Panama ... The war between Colombia and Panama. Panama won thanks to the enormous military aid of the USA and became "independent". The price that panama paid to the usa was immense - the Canal Zone and the Panama Canal. only for this the USA had helped.
The creation of the Panama Canal Zone in 1903 created tense relations with the rest of Latin America, the threat of war from the Anglo north was at its zenith. If the United States could push around one of the biggest powers of South America with is bullets and technology, how was this to be seen by smaller countries like Nicaragua? Ruben Dario, assuming the task of poetic spokesman for the Hispanic world, wrote the poem just months after the creation of the canal zone as an answer to this question.
To Roosevelt
by Rubén Darío, 1867 - 1916
It is with the voice of the Bible, or verse of Walt Whitman,
that we should reach you, Hunter!
Primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
with a bit of Washington and a bit of Nimrod.
You are the United States,
You are the future invader the naive America
who has Indian blood,
that still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks Spanish.
You are a proud and strong exemplar of your race;
you are cultured, you are clever,
you oppose Tolstoy.
And breaking horses, or murdering tigers,
you are an Alejandro Nebuchadnezzar. (You’re a professor of energy, as today’s madmen say.)
You think life is fire, that progress is eruption;
where you put your bullet you put the future.
No. The United States is strong and big.
When it shakes there is a deep tremor
through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes.
If you clamor, you hear the roar of the lion.
Hugo said to Grant: “The stars are yours.”
(Just shining, rising, Argentine sun and the Chilean star rises ...)
You’re rich.
Join Hercules’ cult to Mammon’s;
and lighting the path to easy conquest,
Liberty raises her torch in New York.
But our America, which had poets
from the old days of Netzahualcoyotl,
you have saved in the footsteps of the great feet of Bacchus
panic in the alphabet learned a while;
who consulted the stars, that knew Atlantis,
whose name comes to resonate in Plato
Since the ancient times of your life living light,
fire, perfume, love,
America’s great Montezuma, from the Inca,
redolent of America by Christopher Columbus
Catholic American, Spanish American,
The America where noble Cuahtemoc said:
“I’m not a bed of roses”
that America trembles in hurricanes and lives in Love,
men of Saxon eyes and barbarous soul lives.
And dreams.
And loves, and vibrates,
and is the daughter of the Sun
Be careful. Live the American Spanish!
There are thousand of puppies loose Leon Spanish.
Be required, Roosevelt,
being God himself, Rifleman the terrible and strong Hunter,
order to keep us in your tight grip.
And, You may count it all,
missing one thing: God!
that we should reach you, Hunter!
Primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
with a bit of Washington and a bit of Nimrod.
You are the United States,
You are the future invader the naive America
who has Indian blood,
that still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks Spanish.
You are a proud and strong exemplar of your race;
you are cultured, you are clever,
you oppose Tolstoy.
And breaking horses, or murdering tigers,
you are an Alejandro Nebuchadnezzar. (You’re a professor of energy, as today’s madmen say.)
You think life is fire, that progress is eruption;
where you put your bullet you put the future.
No. The United States is strong and big.
When it shakes there is a deep tremor
through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes.
If you clamor, you hear the roar of the lion.
Hugo said to Grant: “The stars are yours.”
(Just shining, rising, Argentine sun and the Chilean star rises ...)
You’re rich.
Join Hercules’ cult to Mammon’s;
and lighting the path to easy conquest,
Liberty raises her torch in New York.
But our America, which had poets
from the old days of Netzahualcoyotl,
you have saved in the footsteps of the great feet of Bacchus
panic in the alphabet learned a while;
who consulted the stars, that knew Atlantis,
whose name comes to resonate in Plato
Since the ancient times of your life living light,
fire, perfume, love,
America’s great Montezuma, from the Inca,
redolent of America by Christopher Columbus
Catholic American, Spanish American,
The America where noble Cuahtemoc said:
“I’m not a bed of roses”
that America trembles in hurricanes and lives in Love,
men of Saxon eyes and barbarous soul lives.
And dreams.
And loves, and vibrates,
and is the daughter of the Sun
Be careful. Live the American Spanish!
There are thousand of puppies loose Leon Spanish.
Be required, Roosevelt,
being God himself, Rifleman the terrible and strong Hunter,
order to keep us in your tight grip.
And, You may count it all,
missing one thing: God!
OH OH OH hard readingI have had a few tries and read it through to the end. It has not left a great impression with me it has touched me but it is not my kind of poetry.
Thanks for putting it in Wolkenschieber. I will try and find some poems I like and wonder what you think about them. Just got home from 2 weeks boating in the Bretagne on the La Vilaine... it was wonderful
Greetings Yo
RE: The Art Of English Poesie
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Hello Yoli - it's losing alot in the translation from spanish to english ..
Hello Wolkenschieber. I am sure you are right
I looked up that Poem below of him and the translation is as you say..different.
Thank you for being here
The Wolf's Motives
RE: The Art Of English Poesie
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O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
I am not a great fan of old English poetry. This one though I remember from the film with Robin Williams “Dead Poets Society” Did anyone see this film?
I do know that Walt Whitman was an Us-American Poet..I sort of meant the Classic English Poetry above.
I do like this short vers
sort of carpe diem
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
from Robert Herrick
RE: The Art Of English Poesie
geschrieben von ehemaliges Mitglied
I am not a great fan of old English poetry. This one though I remember from the film with Robin Williams “Dead Poets Society” Did anyone see this film?
dear Yoli,
this metaphor poem written by Walt Withman , written after the assassination in 1865 of Abraham Lincoln, The fallen captain in the poem refers to Abraham Lincoln, captain of the ship that is the United States of America.
"O Captain! My Captain!" became one of Whitman's most famous poems, and he became so identified with the poem that late in life he remarked, "Damn My Captain...I'm almost sorry I ever wrote the poem.
I woul'n call this poem an "old English poetry" :-) Whitman was US-American (1819 – 1892), a poet, essayist, and journalist. He is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was very controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sexuality. (Most of all he was gay ...)
I thing evey High School studet knows this poem - most of them hate it because Whitman uses a variety of figurative language, including internal rhyme, apostrophes, anaphora, alliteration, and repetition and it is packed in English lessons over and over again :-)
and yes - I also know that movie and Whitman was quotet there several times also with others of his poems..
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' Answer. That you are here--that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?" Tom Schulman
from "Dead Poets Society"