03-25-2012, 04:12 PM
Nice whatever you call it Roy, I enjoyed reading it. For some reason it reminded me of Joseph Andrews. Fanny that!
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"it is my mission (self-imposed) to keep Willy humble"
I really do have the utmost respect for you Leanne, as I think you know, but if I were to take that statement at face value I would have to assign you the characteristic of either extreme pomposity or a fool. Humbling is needed, but it is needed for the Baird Whitlocks of the world (a former English chair, and "supposed Shakespearean expert - after all he had written many long winded papers on the subject, "full of sound and fury signifying nothing"), who tout the Bard without any personal understanding why he should be touted, just more or less as an affectation to appear urbane. Such dullards should be punctured with the sharpest of points. These fellows are generally easy to spot as they praise the dramas and ignore the comedies. The true dilettantes will tell you that Hamlet is the greatest play ever written, when in fact it is one of his worst.
Any true feminist should put the Bard on a pedestal as he most often gave women intellect superior to the lumbering foils who carried their dull wit between their legs.
Or maybe you refer to his..."sonnets". These would more aptly dig a hole than raise a pedestal, although just as there are parts of Hamlet that are genius (as an organic whole it is a wash) so too are there gems here and there in his sonnets, but they hold not an ounce to a pound when compared to the language of Coleridge, or the depth of thought in Blake. So by all means, any fool who would put him on a pedestal for his poems needs it swiftly kicked from under him, and then swiftly kicked. Yet in terms of the plays, there is not a poet who can go up against him one to one in terms of poem to play. Granted, as any true poet knows, these things of truth and beauty that now and then appear are the product of no human's conscious mind, and in that respect Shakespeare the man, was a man as any other, but Shakespeare the body of plays is an example that stands in the company of only a few. So you may joust the pedestal all you wish, a giant has no need for one.
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As this is a for um that allows it, I shall answer the question "What's a poem for?" in rhyme (as it could hardly be called a poem)! If this for um does not allow it, I guess the mods can up my warning level to 100% and consign me to the outer darkness, after all, it is where I am most comfortable!
Dale
PS Read at your own hazard. If parts of it get stuck in your head like a bad TV commercial song, it is your own fault!
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What for Art Thou Poem?
They learn the style but not the voice,
and so they abrogate their choice,
and wallow in sophomoric pith,
that looks like nothing so much as shit.
But what the judge besides contempt,
must we this baseness not exempt?
Cry to a higher ordered thing,
is this the hand and that the ring?
For gold is one and flesh the other,
a child of one the other mother,
but not each child that sucks the tit,
resembles gold a little bit.
So where’s the judge, the test of time?
Blank verse once, before was rhyme,
vers libre the moderns wrote,
did any god above take note?
Can a god now be the judge,
while in litany humans trudge?
Or is there yet a greater source,
and can we safely ply this course,
and see the reason why some thrive,
while those of less still do contrive,
to value all, as if all were one,
and end the thing before begun?
Most the weeds and less the thyme,
when casting pearls before the swine.
You expected gold when where you dug,
was nothing more than pigs and mud?
For pigs they are who love their mud,
much more so than the sun above,
for light that bright it strips away,
lets truth in thus spoils the day.
So some are better left alone,
we all must for our sins atone.
Yet rely not on the dilettante’s wit,
mistaking gold for worthless shit.
Worthless shit they see as gold,
for it is warm, not hard and cold,
for sentiment is now the king:
circle of shit worn as a ring.
But now to end this diatribe,
the safer course to not decide,
to not offend the cultured swine,
I will not hear the piggies’ whine.
But like a thief I will away,
to come and cut another day,
with flashing monofilament edge,
to trim the nose and shape the hedge.
For subtlety it is the blade,
not to cut the arm or leg,
but take the heart—I’ll be content—
of those who’ve lost their wonderment.
© –Erthona
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"it is my mission (self-imposed) to keep Willy humble"
I really do have the utmost respect for you Leanne, as I think you know, but if I were to take that statement at face value I would have to assign you the characteristic of either extreme pomposity or a fool. Humbling is needed, but it is needed for the Baird Whitlocks of the world (a former English chair, and "supposed Shakespearean expert - after all he had written many long winded papers on the subject, "full of sound and fury signifying nothing"), who tout the Bard without any personal understanding why he should be touted, just more or less as an affectation to appear urbane. Such dullards should be punctured with the sharpest of points. These fellows are generally easy to spot as they praise the dramas and ignore the comedies. The true dilettantes will tell you that Hamlet is the greatest play ever written, when in fact it is one of his worst.
Any true feminist should put the Bard on a pedestal as he most often gave women intellect superior to the lumbering foils who carried their dull wit between their legs.
Or maybe you refer to his..."sonnets". These would more aptly dig a hole than raise a pedestal, although just as there are parts of Hamlet that are genius (as an organic whole it is a wash) so too are there gems here and there in his sonnets, but they hold not an ounce to a pound when compared to the language of Coleridge, or the depth of thought in Blake. So by all means, any fool who would put him on a pedestal for his poems needs it swiftly kicked from under him, and then swiftly kicked. Yet in terms of the plays, there is not a poet who can go up against him one to one in terms of poem to play. Granted, as any true poet knows, these things of truth and beauty that now and then appear are the product of no human's conscious mind, and in that respect Shakespeare the man, was a man as any other, but Shakespeare the body of plays is an example that stands in the company of only a few. So you may joust the pedestal all you wish, a giant has no need for one.
------------------------------------------------------------------
As this is a for um that allows it, I shall answer the question "What's a poem for?" in rhyme (as it could hardly be called a poem)! If this for um does not allow it, I guess the mods can up my warning level to 100% and consign me to the outer darkness, after all, it is where I am most comfortable!
Dale
PS Read at your own hazard. If parts of it get stuck in your head like a bad TV commercial song, it is your own fault!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What for Art Thou Poem?
They learn the style but not the voice,
and so they abrogate their choice,
and wallow in sophomoric pith,
that looks like nothing so much as shit.
But what the judge besides contempt,
must we this baseness not exempt?
Cry to a higher ordered thing,
is this the hand and that the ring?
For gold is one and flesh the other,
a child of one the other mother,
but not each child that sucks the tit,
resembles gold a little bit.
So where’s the judge, the test of time?
Blank verse once, before was rhyme,
vers libre the moderns wrote,
did any god above take note?
Can a god now be the judge,
while in litany humans trudge?
Or is there yet a greater source,
and can we safely ply this course,
and see the reason why some thrive,
while those of less still do contrive,
to value all, as if all were one,
and end the thing before begun?
Most the weeds and less the thyme,
when casting pearls before the swine.
You expected gold when where you dug,
was nothing more than pigs and mud?
For pigs they are who love their mud,
much more so than the sun above,
for light that bright it strips away,
lets truth in thus spoils the day.
So some are better left alone,
we all must for our sins atone.
Yet rely not on the dilettante’s wit,
mistaking gold for worthless shit.
Worthless shit they see as gold,
for it is warm, not hard and cold,
for sentiment is now the king:
circle of shit worn as a ring.
But now to end this diatribe,
the safer course to not decide,
to not offend the cultured swine,
I will not hear the piggies’ whine.
But like a thief I will away,
to come and cut another day,
with flashing monofilament edge,
to trim the nose and shape the hedge.
For subtlety it is the blade,
not to cut the arm or leg,
but take the heart—I’ll be content—
of those who’ve lost their wonderment.
© –Erthona
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.