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Subject: Breathes there a man . . . rss

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True Blue Jon
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I give it a flaccid 7.
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Philip Thomas
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I vow to thee, my superstate, all earthly things above
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love
The love that asks no questions, the love that stands the test
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best.
The love that ...... the love that pays the price
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

But there's another superstate, I've heard of long ago
Most dear to them that love her, most true to them that know
We may not count her armies, we may not see her king,
Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering
But soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase
And her ways are ways of gentleness and all her paths are peace.

zombie

(I've forgotten the dotted part).
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William Boykin
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For BJ.....
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There once was a man from Nantucket
Who used to drink beer from a bucket.
It dripped down his chin,
As he said with a grin,
"I can't make this end right- awww, fuck it."
-Darilian, Stupid things he does in Coffee Shops, pg. #23

Darilian
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Clinton Smith
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Drew1365 wrote:

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,



"From whence" is redundant.

It's like saying "from from where".
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Clay
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Artaxerxes wrote:

Drew1365 wrote:

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,



"From whence" is redundant.

It's like saying "from from where".


Have you never read shakespeare? Poetic writers do some nonsensical things just to cram their ideas into a certain amount of space and rhythm.
 
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John So-And-So
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You and the Cap'n make it hap'n
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The movement you need is on your shoulder.
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Clinton Smith
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The Message wrote:
Artaxerxes wrote:

Drew1365 wrote:

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,



"From whence" is redundant.

It's like saying "from from where".


Have you never read shakespeare? Poetic writers do some nonsensical things just to cram their ideas into a certain amount of space and rhythm.


If the line read "To the vile dust from where he sprung" the space would be virtually identical (a difference of one letter), and the rhythm would be unchanged.
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Chief Slovenly
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From the "oh no he di'int, he just compared somebody's mistress to the dessicated flesh of executed criminals" file of Ultimate Putdowns:

ELEGY VIII.

THE COMPARISON.


As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,
As that which from chafed musk cat's pores doth trill,
As the almighty balm of th' early east,
Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast;
And on her neck her skin such lustre sets,
They seem no sweat drops, but pearl carcanets.
Rank sweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles,
Like spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils,
Or like the scum, which, by need's lawless law
Enforced, Sanserra's starvèd men did draw
From parboil'd shoes and boots, and all the rest
Which were with any sovereign fatness blest;
And like vile lying stones in saffron'd tin,
Or warts, or wheals, it hangs upon her skin.
Round as the world's her head, on every side,
Like to the fatal ball which fell on Ide;
Or that whereof God had such jealousy,
As for the ravishing thereof we die.
Thy head is like a rough-hewn statue of jet,
Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set;
Like the first chaos, or flat seeming face
Of Cynthia, when th' earth's shadows her embrace.
Like Proserpine's white beauty-keeping chest,
Or Jove's best fortune's urn, is her fair breast.
Thine's like worm-eaten trunks, clothed in seal's skin,
Or grave, that's dust without, and stink within.
And like that slender stalk, at whose end stands
The woodbine quivering, are her arms and hands.
Like rough-bark'd elm-boughs, or the russet skin
Of men late scourged for madness, or for sin,
Like sun-parch'd quarters on the city gate,
Such is thy tann'd skin's lamentable state;
And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand
The short swollen fingers of thy gouty hand.
Then like the chemic's masculine equal fire,
Which in the limbec's warm womb doth inspire
Into th' earth's worthless dirt a soul of gold,
Such cherishing heat her best loved part doth hold.
Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gun,
Or like hot liquid metals newly run
Into clay moulds, or like to that Ætna,
Where round about the grass is burnt away.
Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more,
As a worm sucking an envenom'd sore?
Doth not thy fearful hand in feeling quake,
As one which gathering flowers still fears a snake?
Is not your last act harsh and violent,
As when a plough a stony ground doth rent?
So kiss good turtles, so devoutly nice
Are priests in handling reverent sacrifice,
And such in searching wounds the surgeon is,
As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss.
Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus,
She and comparisons are odious.

-- John Donne

Damn, that man's good.
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Clinton Smith
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Quote:
Why do you hate Scotland?



The kilts.
 
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Darilian wrote:
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who used to drink beer from a bucket.
It dripped down his chin,
As he said with a grin,
"I can't make this end right- awww, fuck it."
-Darilian, Stupid things he does in Coffee Shops, pg. #23

Darilian


I'm exceedingly jealous at your ability to craft a limerick!angry Well, half a limerick -- whatever. That's half a limerick more than I've ever written, and I have an undergrad concentration in CRW from like one of the top 10 creative writing programs in the country or something like that -- ha ha. I know, I know. I totally doesn't show. I have no clue why they let me into those seminars. ha ha. I mean I can't even write a limerick for Pete's sake.

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The Message wrote:
Artaxerxes wrote:

Drew1365 wrote:

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,



"From whence" is redundant.

It's like saying "from from where".


Have you never read shakespeare? Poetic writers do some nonsensical things just to cram their ideas into a certain amount of space and rhythm.


This particular poem is written in iambic tetrameter, meaning that each line contains four (tetra-) "feet," each of which has a specific meter. In this case, the meter is iambic (the most common in English poetry because it most closely resembles the natural cadence of our casual speech, so setting things down in iambic meters, most closely captures the natural music of our language. Each iambic foot is two syllables, and the second one is stressed. It is a rising foot.

The other rising foot is called an "anapest"; the most familiar anapestic tetrameter poem to you is probably "twas the night before christmas." The three syllable foot is constructed "unstressed, unstressed, stressed" So you get "twas the NIGHT before CHRISTmas, and ALL through the HOUSE / not a CREAture was STIRring, not EVen a MOUSE..." neat huh?

Well, in this case, the "whence" and the alternative you suggest "where" both carry the same weight as syllables, and wouldn't alter the rhyme scheme. I think it's probably just a function of the dialect, the tone, the time. I think this poem was written in the early 1800s or so, so the word choice would make sense. It has sixteen lines, so it's not formally a sonnet. It's a lay or something. I'm all tempted to google it now.

Most sonnets are 14 lines of imabic pentameter (lines of five feet or 10 syllables), but not always. Here's a great sonnet in iambic tetrameter, by our pal Willie Shakespeare himself:

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’
To me that languish’d for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
‘I hate’ she alter’d with an end,
That follow’d it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
‘I hate’ from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying ‘not you.’

WOW! That's one freakin' sweet poem! Anyway, poets don't usually do nonsensical things to support a rhyme scheme as much as they use meter and rhyme to create a scaffolding for their ideas.

For example, in the balcony speech from Romeo and Juliet (written in blank verse) we find Romeo saying this (stressed syllables in caps):

But SOFT what LIGHT, through YONder WINdow BREAKS. (five iambic feet)
It IS the EAST, and JUliET, is the SUN (four iambic feet and an anapestic substitution for the iamb in the final foot of the line)
ArISE fair SUN and KILL the ENvious MOON (four iambic feet and an anapestic substitution for the imab in the final foot of the line).
Who IS alREADy SICK and PALE with GRIEF (five iambic feet)
That THOU her MAID art FAR more FAIR than SHE (five iambic feet).

Okay, so why did I show you this, and why do I think it's soo cool. I'll tell ya my friends. :)

The imabic foot is like the heartbeat of the language in play (and most of Willie S.'s work), and Shakespeare is a master with the meter! An iamb really is like a heartbeat taTUM taTUM taTUM. Here we have a steady iambic rhythm working throughout the scene until Romeo sees Juliet, when we get an anapestic substitution -- as she (the light breaking through window) comes into view, his heart (and the rhythm of the line) skips a beat! taTUM taTUM taTUM taTUM tataTUM. In the very next line, he repeats the pattern, while Romeo is still focusing in Juliet. This second substitution balances out the rhythm of the line above it. The preceding and following lines are all regular, so these substitutions stand out even more. That is the craft of poetry. It's pretty damn amazing when done well, and no, we aren't supposed to dwell on or really notice those things. They move in us -- below the surface of the words, and if they call attention to themselves they aren't doing their jobs as well as they could.

Yeats says it soooo well in Adam's Curse, that I just gotta quote it -- I just gotta. If you're still with me in this silly post, you're in for a treat:

We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'

Okay, this is only the opening stanza of this poem. It's just about my favorite poem ever. It gets better and better as it goes along. LOVE IT!




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Chief Slovenly
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Hee. English majors and CRW dorks unite, motherfucker!
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Clinton Smith
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bat girl wrote:

We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'



Well, if poets would spend less time whining about how tough their job is maybe it wouldn't take hours to compose one line.

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Artaxerxes wrote:
bat girl wrote:

We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'



Well, if poets would spend less time whining about how tough their job is maybe it wouldn't take hours to compose one line.



You mean like this:
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午餐先生
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Drew1365 wrote:

The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.


is it bad that I recognize this as being quoted in Groundhog Day?
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The Steak Fairy
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There once was a woman named bat girl,
Whose orgasms caused her to burble,
"My pal Joey's so skilled,
And my clit now so thrilled
That my nerve endings can't seem to uncurl."
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Snowball
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I don't know what's it all about,
I just saw Cranky's standout
And felt the need to respond
Even though my rhymes are abscond
Even though my english is mundane
No way never I could refrain
From writings a few words
For the glory of squirrels
Who might live in brambles
But certainly know better
Than losing time on iddle chatter!
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