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  • Rookie Angel bella (12/5/2005 7:35:00 AM) Post reply
    0 person liked.
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    I think it strange, when i recieve E-mail from Poemhunter it is sent as bulk mail, does this happen to anyone else

  • Rookie Angel bella (12/5/2005 7:25:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Hi everyone, I am new to this site. I've posted 4 poems, and have only recieved about 4 hits. What can I do to get more established?

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Richard George (12/6/2005 1:48:00 PM) Post reply

      Like everything with poetry, it takes time - the opposite of fast food. I began writing 10 years ago and am just starting to get established... but don't let that put you off. Poetry's for a lifetime.

    • Rookie Michael Shepherd (12/5/2005 7:38:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Writing good poetry, using Spellcheck, and patience, might do the trick. It's been tried before.

  • Rookie Joseph Daly (12/5/2005 5:50:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I recently came across this site that contains poetry for younger poets from Singapore: http: //www.thecore.nus.edu/landow/post/singapore/literature/poetry/gallery.html

    I would particularly recommend a work by Grace Chia, called 'Apple' which works on both a visual and poetical level. Because of the restrictions on font and structure use on PoHo I can't reproduce it. But here is a sample from a poet called Felix Cheong Seng Fei:

    Art, for Christ's Sake

    Must I be a handmaiden,
    the way your Mother was
    a page blank as obedience,
    on whom you will enact,
    with my every breath,
    your word to be kept?

    Or must I take on
    your crown of thorns,
    your wounds in my side,
    bearing the world in lines
    that shiver like arms
    racked across the sky?

    Published in I Watch the Stars Go Out (1999)

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    • Rookie Max Reif (12/5/2005 7:48:00 AM) Post reply

      'Art, for Christ's Sake' is quite lovely. I didn't 'get' the visuals of the last few lines as immediately as the others, but I think I understand them. Much of the poem is so well done in thought an ... more

  • Rookie Declan McHenry (12/5/2005 5:09:00 AM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    There have been a few comments on war and poetry in the forum recently. I found an odd work by Sir John Suckling (1609-1641) , one of the English Cavalier poets. I find the piece unusal in that it uses the contemporary technical jargon of a siege to underpin a love poem. Do such poems lose some of their impact if we do not understand the language of the metaphors used? Sorry it's a long one.

    Love's Siege

    'Tis now since I sat down before
    That foolish fort, a heart,
    (Time strangely spent) a year, and more,
    And still i did my part.

    Made my approaches, from her hand
    Unto her lip did rise,
    And did already understand
    The language of her eyes;

    Proceeded on with no less art,
    My tongue was engineer:
    I though to undermine the heart
    By whispering in the ear.

    When this did nothing, I brought down
    Great canon-oaths, and shot
    A thousand thousand to the town
    And still it yielded not.

    I then resolved to starve the place
    by cutting off all kises,
    Praising and gazing on her face,
    And all such little blisses.

    To draw her out, and from her strength,
    I drew all batteries in,
    And brought myself to lie at length
    As if no siege had been.

    When I had done what man could do,
    And thought the place mine own,
    The enemy lay quiet, too,
    And smiled at all was done.

    I sent to know from whence, and where,
    These hopes, and this relief?
    A spy informed, Honour was there,
    And did command in chief.

    'March, march', quoth I, 'the word straight give,
    Let's lose no time, but leave her:
    That Giant upon air will live,
    And hold it out for ever.

    'To such a place out camp remove
    As will no siege abide;
    I hate a fool that starves her love
    Only to feed her pride.'

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Max Reif (12/5/2005 7:54:00 AM) Post reply

      I think the extended metaphor of seige in this poem is delightful. (Except I had trouble understanding the last two stanzas.) To answer your question, certainly if an ancient, or culturally foreign, ... more

    • Rookie Joseph Daly (12/5/2005 5:39:00 AM) Post reply

      Thanks for posting this Declan. There is a mine of gems to be found by looking through the past. This particular piece is superb in it's use of metaphor, to the extent that one is not competely sure ... more

    • Rookie Michael Shepherd (12/5/2005 5:31:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      My senior Eng Lit tutor was an ex-ferocious, moustachioed veteran of at least one major war, who was however the world expert on Richard Lovelace the Cavalier poet, and a poet in his own right. There' ... more

  • Rookie Herbert Nehrlich1 (12/5/2005 4:59:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    This is one of my favourite poems in German, although one of my least favourite (the only one I am aware of) translation. Over the holidays I shall endeavour to produce a better translation.

    The Hostage by
    Friedrich Schiller

    The tyrant Dionys to seek,
    Stern Moerus with his poniard crept;
    The watchful guard upon him swept;
    The grim king marked his changeless cheek:
    'What wouldst thou with thy poinard? Speak! '
    'The city from the tyrant free! '
    'The death-cross shall thy guerdon be.'

    'I am prepared for death, nor pray, '
    Replied that haughty man, 'to live;
    Enough, if thou one grace wilt give
    For three brief suns the death delay
    To wed my sister - leagues away;
    I boast one friend whose life for mine,
    If I should fail the cross, is thine.'

    The tyrant mused, - and smiled, - and said
    With gloomy craft, 'So let it be;
    Three days I will vouchsafe to thee.
    But mark - if, when the time be sped,
    Thou fail'st - thy surety dies instead.
    His life shall buy shine own release;
    Thy guilt atoned, my wrath shall cease.'

    He sought his friend - 'The king's decree
    Ordains my life the cross upon
    Shall pay the deed I would have done;
    Yet grants three days' delay to me,
    My sister's marriage-rites to see;
    If thou, the hostage, wilt remain
    Till I - set free - return again! '

    His friend embraced - No word he said.,
    But silent to the tyrant strode -
    The other went upon his road.
    Ere the third sun in heaven was red,
    The rite was o'er, the sister wed;
    And back, with anxious heart unquailing,
    He hastes to hold the pledge unfailing.

    Down the great rains unending bore,
    Down from the hills the torrents rushed,
    In one broad stream the brooklets gushed
    The wanderer halts beside the shore,
    The bridge was swept the tides before -
    The shattered arches o'er and under
    Went the tumultuous waves in thunder.

    Dismayed he takes his idle stand -
    Dismayed, he strays and shouts around,
    His voice awakes no answering sound.
    No boat will leave the sheltering strand,
    To bear him to the wished-for land;
    No boatman will Death's pilot be,
    The wild stream gathers to a sea!

    Sunk by the banks, awhile he weeps,
    Then raised his arms to Jove, and cried,
    'Stay thou, oh stay the maddening tide,
    Midway behold the swift sun sweeps,
    And, ere he sinks adown the deeps,
    If I should fail, his beams will see
    My friend's last anguish - slain for me!

    More fierce it runs, more broad it flows,
    And wave on wave succeeds and dies
    And hour on hour remorseless tries,
    Despair at last to daring grows -
    Amidst the flood his form he throws,
    With vigorous arms the roaring waves
    Cleaves - and a God that pities, saves.

    He wins the bank - he scours the strand?
    He thanks the God in breathless prayer;
    When from the forest's gloomy lair,
    With ragged club in ruthless hand,
    And breathing murder - rushed the band
    That find, in woods, their savage den,
    And savage prey in wandering men.

    'What, ' cried he, pale with generous fear;
    'What think to gain ye by the strife?
    All I bear with me is my life -
    I take it to the king! ' - and here
    He snatched the club from him most near:
    And thrice he smote, and thrice his blows
    Dealt death - before him fly the foes!

    The sun is glowing as a brand;
    And faint before the parching heat,
    The strength forsakes the feeble feet:
    'Thou hast saved me from the robbers' hand,
    Through wild floods given the blessed land;
    And shall the weak limbs fail me now?
    And he! - Divine one, nerve me, thou!

    Hark! like some gracious murmur by,
    Babbles low music, silver-clear -
    The wanderer holds his breath to hear;
    And from the rock, before his eye,
    Laughs forth the spring delightedly;
    Now the sweet waves he bends him o'er,
    And the sweet waves his strength restore.

    Through the green boughs the sun gleams dying,
    O'er fields that drink the rosy beam,
    The trees' huge shadows giant seem.
    Two strangers on the road are hieing;
    And as they fleet beside him are flying
    These muttered words his ear dismay:
    'Now - now the cross has claimed its prey! '

    Despair his winged path pursues,
    The anxious terrors hound him on -
    There, reddening in the evening sun,
    From far, the domes of Syracuse! -
    When towards him comes Philostratus
    (His leaf and trusty herdsman he) ,
    And to the master bends his knee.

    'Back - thou canst aid thy friend no more.
    The niggard time already down -
    His life is forfeit - save shine own!
    Hour after hour in hope he bore,
    Nor might his soul its faith give o'er;
    Nor could the tyrant's scorn deriding,
    Steal from that faith one thought confiding! '

    'Too late! what horror hast thou spoken!
    Vain life, since it cannot requite him!
    But death with me can yet unite him;
    No boast the tyrant's scorn shall make -
    How friend to friend can faith forsake.
    But from the double death shall know,
    That truth and love yet live below! '

    The sun sinks down - the gate's in view,
    The cross looms dismal on the ground -
    The eager crowd gape murmuring round.
    His friend is bound the cross unto....
    Crowd - guards - all bursts he breathless through:
    'Me! Doomsman, me! ' he shouts, 'alone!
    His life is rescued - lo, mine own! '

    Amazement seized the circling ring!
    Linked in each other's arms the pair -
    Weeping for joy - yet anguish there!
    Moist every eye that gazed; - they bring
    The wondrous tidings to the king -
    His breast man's heart at last hath known,
    And the friends stand before his throne.

    Long silent, he, and wondering long,
    Gazed on the pair - 'In peace depart,
    Victors, ye have subdued my heart!
    Truth is no dream! - its power is strong.
    Give grace to him who owns his wrong!
    'Tis mine your suppliant now to be,
    Ah, let the band of love - be three! '

    1797, translation anonymous,1902

    19th-Century German Stories
    VCU Department of Foreign Languages

    © 1994-1999 Robert Godwin-Jones
    Virginia Commonwealth University

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Max Reif (12/5/2005 7:57:00 AM) Post reply

      I also am happy to see a poem by Schiller, Herbert. But, after reading the first few stanzas, I think I'm going to wait for your translation.

    • Rookie Joseph Daly (12/5/2005 5:46:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Herbert, It is great to see that this Titan, this man who was such an inspiration to other artists, especially Beethoven and Verdi, should be included. I wish I could understand German enough to read ... more

  • Rookie allan james saywell (12/5/2005 3:27:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    hello how are you, i am good are you good i will post my poem soon thank you

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    • Rookie Poetry Hound (12/5/2005 4:33:00 AM) Post reply

      Allan, can't you please stop cluttering up the forum with this kind of nonsense?

  • Rookie Herbert Nehrlich1 (12/4/2005 9:48:00 PM) Post reply | Read 7 replies

    I am posting something that was sent to me by regular e-mail.
    I find it fascinating reading but am afraid that poor Sharon will be in hot soup soon in her immediate environment.
    Any comments?

    Here is an open letter from the poet Sharon Olds to Laura Bush
    declining the invitation to read and speak at the National Book
    Critics Circle Award in Washington, DC. Feel free to forward it along
    if you feel more people may want to read it. Sharon Olds is one of
    most widely read and critically acclaimed poets living in America
    today. Read to the end of the letter to experience her restrained,
    chilling eloquence.

    Laura Bush
    First Lady, The White House

    Dear Mrs. Bush,

    I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind
    invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival
    on September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress
    or the breakfast at the White House.

    In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of
    speaking at a festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The
    possibility of finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal
    terms, and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its
    constituents-all of us who need the pleasure, and the inner and
    outer news, it delivers.

    And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been
    dear to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate
    school of a major university, I have had the chance to be a part of
    some magnificent outreach writing workshops in which our students
    have become teachers. Over the years, they have taught in a variety
    of settings: a women's prison, several New York City public high
    schools, an oncology ward for children.

    Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely
    physically challenged, has been running now for twenty years,
    creating along the way lasting friendships between young MFA
    candidates and their students-long-term residents at the hospital
    who, in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our teachers. When
    you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell
    out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter,
    his new poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and
    essentialness of writing.

    When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a
    writer who is completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the
    eyes) , and pointed first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until
    you get to the first letter of the first word of the first line of
    the poem she has been composing in her head all week, and she lifts
    her eyes when that letter is touched to say yes, you feel with a
    fresh immediacy the human drive for creation, self-_expression,
    accuracy, honesty and wit-and the importance of writing, which
    celebrates the value of each person's unique story and song.

    So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I
    thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach
    program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books
    and meet some of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I
    could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak
    about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to
    declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture and another
    country-with the resultant loss of life and limb for our brave
    soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home terrain-did not
    come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made 'at the
    top' and forced on the people by distorted language, and by untruths.
    I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows
    of tyranny and religious chauvinism-the opposites of the liberty,
    tolerance and diversity our nation aspires to.

    I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear
    witness-as an American who loves her country and its principles and
    its writing-against this undeclared and devastating war.

    But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that
    if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were
    condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush
    Administration. What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I
    would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents
    the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its
    continuation, even to the extent of permitting 'extraordinary
    rendition': flying people to other countries where they will be
    tortured for us.

    So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish
    and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I
    thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the
    flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.


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  • Rookie - 7 Points Max Reif (12/4/2005 9:25:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    I never checked the MEMBERS ONLINE link before in my MEMBER CLUB settings here, till a moment ago. There were 18 named members online; 6 unseen members online; and-get this-4753 VISITORS online! Whew!

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 7 Points Declan McHenry (12/5/2005 5:23:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      At peak times I've sen visitor numbers double that. It's is almost one visitor for every poet listed on the site.

    • Rookie - 7 Points Max Reif (12/5/2005 4:30:00 AM) Post reply

      Well, I also checked my personal stats, and either there are new ones or I never accessed the ones for hits on individual poems, day by day, before. Somewhere betw 40 and I forget,60,90, poems of mine ... more

    • Rookie - 7 Points Poetry Hound (12/4/2005 10:11:00 PM) Post reply

      Max, the vast majority of those 4,753 visitors - I would guess 99% of them - are checking out established poets on the site. Regards.

  • Rookie allan james saywell (12/4/2005 4:55:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    hope you like robert burns now this is how they used to speak all those years ago some people still speak like it i think he was welsh i'm not sure perhaps someone could enlighten me

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Joseph Daly (12/5/2005 9:02:00 AM) Post reply

      Really, this is too much. Allan, have you never heard of Mahognamy? Why do you think that they sing Auld Lang Syne?

    • Rookie Ben Cassel (12/5/2005 12:10:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

      Oh, Mr. Asm - You can expect to be descended upon by angry Scots at any moment. Burns is the original National Bard of Scotland.

  • Rookie Allan James Saywell (12/4/2005 4:47:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    PoemHunter.com 12/4/2005 4: 43: 48 PM

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    [! ! ] You've got 1 unread message!

    Robert Burns
    • Biography • Poems • Comments • More Info • Books • Stats

    [[ prev. poem Poems by Robert Burns: 14 / 132 next poem ]]

    Address To The Tooth-Ache

    My curse upon your venom'd stang,
    That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
    And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
    Wi' gnawing vengeance;
    Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
    Like racking engines!

    When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
    Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
    Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us,
    Wi' pitying moan;
    But thee - thou hell o' a' diseases -
    They mock our groan!

    Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
    I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
    As round the fire the giglets keckle,
    To see me loup;
    While raving mad, I wish a heckle
    Were in their doup.

    O' a' the num'rous human dools,
    Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
    Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,
    Sad sight to see!
    The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
    Thou bear'st the gree.

    Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
    Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
    And rankd plagues their numbers tell,
    In dreadfu' raw,
    Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell
    Amang them a'!

    O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
    That gars the notes of discord squeel,
    Till daft mankiud aft dance a reel
    In gore a shoe-thick; -
    Gie a' the foes o' Scotland's weal
    A towmond's Tooth-ache!

    Robert Burns

    Read poems about / on: sympathy, dance, sad, fire, friend

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    Your Full Name: Allan James Saywell Gender: Male
    City / Country: tweed heads, Australia Age: 59


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    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Jerry Hughes (12/4/2005 5:17:00 PM) Post reply

      A J S, I fully empathise with Rabbi Burns' address to a tooth ache. I've had one all weekend, and just made an appointment to have the mother out on Wednesday, the earliest my dentist can see me. That ... more

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