POEMS. KEATSSSS.
I thought it'd be a cool idea for a post, partly as a means to deal with my John Keats problem short of hunting down Ben Whishaw and locking him in a room where he will recite poetry for me whenever I ask. KEAAAATS.
No, I kid. I just watched Bright Star- loved it on all levels! It was so subtle, so accurate... but I have to admit, this whole "obsession" thing and how much background info I know probably played a role in my love for it. But really, I recommend it. The story of John and Fanny is so ridiculously romantic, and tragic... except it's better than all other romantic, tragic stories because IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. Keats, in short, is the sole reason I have any faith in the overly-romantic love I used to thrive on. He makes me okay with being Aristotelean over Platonist. He gives me faith in aesthetics, and the life of sensations. He saved some small but vital part of that aspect of me, and I am eternally in his service for it. His life and work did things no boy I've met, nor celluloid, nor music, nor anything else you could imagine have.
Really, a lot of you have seen me occasionally since I got back from India, and generally ask things like "what's up?" when I see you. Keats is what's up. When I'm enjoying time by myself, when I'm enjoying school, when I'm ever really completely satisfied with my current lot in life... Keats has something to do with it. I can't remember the last time I was this into anything, and it's awesome that he (and three other writers) are what my entire criticism class is based on.
So, here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to post my favorite my poems EVER from earliest conscious memory of a "favorite poem" to most recent. I think I've only had like five, so whatever. Anyway, read if you want to kill some time and stuff :]
"Invitation" By Shel Silverstein
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
"Annabel Lee" By Edgar Allen Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
"I used to be Straight" By Michelle Tea
i'm lighting votive candles
for the straight girls of america
lying on mattresses in their boyfriends'
loft apartments, posing naked for
their brilliant artist boyfriends, or otherwise
inspiring them to new levels of straight boy
genius, smoking cigarettes with each other
as they bitch about their sadly
tortured boyfriends, so proud
they've got a boy to bitch about.
i'm lighting votive candles
for the straight girls of america
because they'll never get the oscars
they deserve. and every now and then
i catch my ghost aside a cock that wasn't
even paying, hearing him ask
do you ever think of being with a woman?
and i'd seen enough pornography to
know the proper answer to send him
sifting through his brain like a little
black book, landing on the one
who used to watch her roommate
masturbate in boarding school.
she said i reminded her of
the mother she never met,
and i fell in love with her on
railroad tracks wishing he'd go away,
fell in love with her in his bedroom
wishing i was any place else
and she apologized for her body
when she saw my cunt as bare
as a brand, apologized like she hadn't
been paying attention and let some
important lesson pass her by.
and give me insults, give me
economic discrimination, give me
the darkened parking lot of a
windowless queer bar, give me
fleets of bigots and books banned
in libraries across america, feed the world
with lies about my life and plop a second
helping of oppression on my plate
and thank you for not making me straight.
straight girls of america, i am lighting
votive candles for your ignored and
misused clitorises, burning my draft card
for the war between the sexes,
but will be your soldier still.
i will escort you to abortionists
till the end of time, my bible-bruised
body braced against the door, i will
be joan of arc for you, madonna
and janet jackson, the voices in my head
pushing me ever into battle.
straight girls of america, i am
lighting votive candles in the church
of self-righteous condescension.
but sisters,
i've been there.
"Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
"In Paris With You" By James Fenton
Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.
Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel
walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.
"Ode on a Grecian Urn" By John Keats
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'-that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
No, I kid. I just watched Bright Star- loved it on all levels! It was so subtle, so accurate... but I have to admit, this whole "obsession" thing and how much background info I know probably played a role in my love for it. But really, I recommend it. The story of John and Fanny is so ridiculously romantic, and tragic... except it's better than all other romantic, tragic stories because IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. Keats, in short, is the sole reason I have any faith in the overly-romantic love I used to thrive on. He makes me okay with being Aristotelean over Platonist. He gives me faith in aesthetics, and the life of sensations. He saved some small but vital part of that aspect of me, and I am eternally in his service for it. His life and work did things no boy I've met, nor celluloid, nor music, nor anything else you could imagine have.
Really, a lot of you have seen me occasionally since I got back from India, and generally ask things like "what's up?" when I see you. Keats is what's up. When I'm enjoying time by myself, when I'm enjoying school, when I'm ever really completely satisfied with my current lot in life... Keats has something to do with it. I can't remember the last time I was this into anything, and it's awesome that he (and three other writers) are what my entire criticism class is based on.
So, here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to post my favorite my poems EVER from earliest conscious memory of a "favorite poem" to most recent. I think I've only had like five, so whatever. Anyway, read if you want to kill some time and stuff :]
"Invitation" By Shel Silverstein
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
"Annabel Lee" By Edgar Allen Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
"I used to be Straight" By Michelle Tea
i'm lighting votive candles
for the straight girls of america
lying on mattresses in their boyfriends'
loft apartments, posing naked for
their brilliant artist boyfriends, or otherwise
inspiring them to new levels of straight boy
genius, smoking cigarettes with each other
as they bitch about their sadly
tortured boyfriends, so proud
they've got a boy to bitch about.
i'm lighting votive candles
for the straight girls of america
because they'll never get the oscars
they deserve. and every now and then
i catch my ghost aside a cock that wasn't
even paying, hearing him ask
do you ever think of being with a woman?
and i'd seen enough pornography to
know the proper answer to send him
sifting through his brain like a little
black book, landing on the one
who used to watch her roommate
masturbate in boarding school.
she said i reminded her of
the mother she never met,
and i fell in love with her on
railroad tracks wishing he'd go away,
fell in love with her in his bedroom
wishing i was any place else
and she apologized for her body
when she saw my cunt as bare
as a brand, apologized like she hadn't
been paying attention and let some
important lesson pass her by.
and give me insults, give me
economic discrimination, give me
the darkened parking lot of a
windowless queer bar, give me
fleets of bigots and books banned
in libraries across america, feed the world
with lies about my life and plop a second
helping of oppression on my plate
and thank you for not making me straight.
straight girls of america, i am lighting
votive candles for your ignored and
misused clitorises, burning my draft card
for the war between the sexes,
but will be your soldier still.
i will escort you to abortionists
till the end of time, my bible-bruised
body braced against the door, i will
be joan of arc for you, madonna
and janet jackson, the voices in my head
pushing me ever into battle.
straight girls of america, i am
lighting votive candles in the church
of self-righteous condescension.
but sisters,
i've been there.
"Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
"In Paris With You" By James Fenton
Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.
Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel
walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.
"Ode on a Grecian Urn" By John Keats
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'-that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.