Author Topic: poetry  (Read 2125 times)

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LBSS

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poetry
« on: May 16, 2014, 03:50:21 pm »
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It's amazing. Hard to read in a language other than your native one but some of y'all nonnative speakers on here are pretty fluent in English. And shit, I read poetry in Spanish. Plus there's surely a wealth of poetry in your own languages. Read the Iliad, read Shakespeare, read Mitchell's translations of Job and the Bhagavad Gita, read Paradise Lost, read Beowulf, read Auden, Eliot, Milosz, Szymborska, Anne Sexton, Wendell Berry, Pablo Neruda. Read poetry in your own language.

Here are a couple of short personal favorites because why not, maybe you'll like them. I love both and re-read them all the damn time, like at least once a month each. Actually "Gift" at this point I've just memorized.

Musee des Beaux Arts
W. H. Auden

Quote
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

Gift
Czeslaw Milosz

Quote
A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew of no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that I was once the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.

Anybody else on here much for poems? Who do you like? Am I shouting into the wilderness on here? Joe doesn't come around anymore.

With seifullaah's posts, every once in a while he does that funny dissociative, rhythmic, songlike thing and the other day it just struck me that he's writing poetry by accident. It's kind of cool.
Muscles are nonsensical they have nothing to do with this bullshit.

- Avishek

sunday: long very easy run 80+ mins @ 5:40+ (14+ km)
monday: strength/cross training
tuesday: easy run 60+ mins @ 5:20-5:30 (11+ km)
wednesday: fartlek (mostly easy pace with mix of strides, hills, long tempo) 45 mins (8+ km)
thursday: easy run 60+ mins @ 5:20-5:30 (11+ km), strength/cross-training
friday: rest
saturday: short tempo 6-8x500 @ sub-4:00 (7 km)

strength would be:
- hops 2x10
- box jumps or ME SVJ 2x5
- squats 3x6-8 or weighted BSS/lunges 3x10/leg
- RDL/hypers 2x10-12 or SLRDL 2x10-12/leg
- upper push myo-reps or sets to technical failure
- upper pull myo-reps or sets to technical failure
- leg raises, holds, pallof presses

seifullaah73

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Re: poetry
« Reply #1 on: May 16, 2014, 04:21:07 pm »
+1
Lol

I like the flow of poetry, one I can think of from the back of my head is the listener by Walter dela made

Quote
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   
   Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses   
   Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,   
   Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;   
   ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;   
   No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,   
   Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners   
   That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   
   To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,   
   That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken   
   By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,   
   Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,   
   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even   
   Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   
   That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,   
   Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house   
   From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,   
   And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,   
   When the plunging hoofs were gone.

I studied this in engish

----------------------------------------------------------------
So, verily, with every difficulty, there is relief.
Holy Quran 94:5
-------------------------------------------------------------
Measuring reminder:
5 toe to heel steps = 148cm
------------------------------------------------------------------------

�Strength comes from the legs, Power comes from the torso and Speed comes from the arm.� � Al Vermeil

My Progress Log
A Journey to Running fast and Jumping High

LBSS

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Re: poetry
« Reply #2 on: July 30, 2014, 10:23:29 am »
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http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/247390

If in America
BY ED BOK LEE
Hmong Hunter Charged with 6 Murders
Is Said to Be a Shaman —new york times


If a tree falls in a forest,
does it make a sound?

If a rifle fires a shot in the woods,
whose body first hits the ground?

If a group of angry hunters
surrounds, curses at, and accosts you
for wandering onto their land

If you apologize for being lost,
inform you saw no posted signs, swallow
their chinks this and gooks taking over that;
are walking away over mud and fallen leaves when a loud
crack far behind you kicks up black earth

If your father was conscripted to fight
on the side of the United States
for the cia during the war in Vietnam

If he, your mother, you—the oldest son—
and all your younger siblings were later abandoned
in the hills of Laos as targets for genocide by the Viet Cong

If after five years in a Thai refugee camp,
you come to this land as a teen, a casualty
of history and time, then receive three years
of training to become a sharpshooter
in the u.s. military

If you spent your adolescence watching blacks,
Asians, Latinos, and whites watching one
another watch each other for weakness and flaws

If, after this first blast, you wheel
around in a bright orange vest; glimpse
in that split second an angry, possibly
inebriated man lowering or resighting his rifle

If, in that icy moment, you recall
the Native friend you used to collect cans with;
once watched his three-hundred-pound father
unload himself from a Chevy Impala and chase
the boy down University with a ball-peen hammer

If, of your own children, your quietest
son lately lacks the wherewithal at school
to defend himself; and your oldest daughter
has always been for some inexplicable reason
ashamed of you

If hunting for you is not just a sport;
never a time to drink beers
with friends in a cabin, but rather
is a factor in considering your family's winter protein consumption

If you believe in God, but not the good in everyone

If you hate to think about this shit, because
why the fuck is it always on you
to preprove your loyalty and innocence?

If—frightened for your life and
the livelihood of your immediate and extended
family—in that split second, you reel
and train your own gun back at the far face
of that vapory barrel now aiming at your own

If, yes, you are sometimes angry and so look forward
to escaping your truck driver's life on certain
designated dates, on certain designated
lands, not always clearly demarcated, but always clearly stolen
from the ancestors of fat drunk red men
so confused they chase their own firey songs
in the form of their sons

Stolen from generations of skewed black backs,
hunched your whole life on street corners laughing
and picking their bones

Stolen from the paychecks of your brown coworker
social security ghosts

Stolen like your own people
from mountains in one land
only to be resettled and resented here
in projects and tenements

If you barely finished high school, but you know
from all you've ever seen of this system
Might Makes Right,
and excuses, treaties, and cover-ups
appear the only true code inscribed on most white men's souls

If, after such slurs, pushes, and threats in these woods
it is now also on you to assess
if that far rifle still locked on your face
just issued a mistake, a warning
shot, or murderous attempt—
                                    and the answer is:
your military muscle fibers
act

If you then spot three four five six seven? other
hunters now scattering for their atvs
and, of course—if a gook,
don't be a dumb one—
scattering now also for their weapons

If you are alone in this land,
on foot, in miles of coming snow, wind, and branches
and don't even know
in which direction you'd run

If from birth you've seen
what men with guns, knives,
and bombs are capable of doing
for reasons you never wanted to understand

If in this very same county's court of all-white
witnesses, counsel, judge, and jurors
it will forever be your word against theirs
because there was no forensic testimony
over who shot first

If, yes, sometimes you can hear voices,
not because you're insane, but
in your culture
you are a shaman, a spiritual healer,
though in this very different land
of goods and fears, your only true worth
seems to be as a delivery man and soldier

If, upon that first fateful exchange in these woods,
your instinct, pushing pin to
balloon, were to tell you it's now
either you and your fatherless family of fourteen,
or all of them

Would you set your rifle down;
hope the right, the decent,
the fair thing on this buried American soil
will happen?

Or would you stay low,
one knee cold, and do
precisely as your whole life
and history have trained?

And if you did,
would anyone even care
what really happened

that afternoon
eight bodies plummeted
to earth like deer?
Muscles are nonsensical they have nothing to do with this bullshit.

- Avishek

sunday: long very easy run 80+ mins @ 5:40+ (14+ km)
monday: strength/cross training
tuesday: easy run 60+ mins @ 5:20-5:30 (11+ km)
wednesday: fartlek (mostly easy pace with mix of strides, hills, long tempo) 45 mins (8+ km)
thursday: easy run 60+ mins @ 5:20-5:30 (11+ km), strength/cross-training
friday: rest
saturday: short tempo 6-8x500 @ sub-4:00 (7 km)

strength would be:
- hops 2x10
- box jumps or ME SVJ 2x5
- squats 3x6-8 or weighted BSS/lunges 3x10/leg
- RDL/hypers 2x10-12 or SLRDL 2x10-12/leg
- upper push myo-reps or sets to technical failure
- upper pull myo-reps or sets to technical failure
- leg raises, holds, pallof presses

seifullaah73

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Re: poetry
« Reply #3 on: July 30, 2014, 01:44:14 pm »
0
that is a good poem, very deep.
 ::)
----------------------------------------------------------------
So, verily, with every difficulty, there is relief.
Holy Quran 94:5
-------------------------------------------------------------
Measuring reminder:
5 toe to heel steps = 148cm
------------------------------------------------------------------------

�Strength comes from the legs, Power comes from the torso and Speed comes from the arm.� � Al Vermeil

My Progress Log
A Journey to Running fast and Jumping High