06.23.05

Poetry & Porn

Posted in Uncategorized at 8:53 am by

I think I did an injustice to poetry in my last comment. I have been impressed by other poems. Some of Shakespeare’s sonnets are great, even if I can’t understand some of the lines. How about:

” That thou are blamed shall not be thy defect
For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair”

“This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to that which it fears to lose”

Also Yeats is great. My own favourites (from the Leaving Cert course!) are No Second Troy and September 1913

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

and

WHAT need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland?s dead and gone,
It?s with O?Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman?s rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save:
Romantic Ireland?s dead and gone,
It?s with O?Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave;
Romantic Ireland?s dead and gone,
It?s with O?Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were,
In all their loneliness and pain
You?d cry ?Some woman?s yellow hair
Has maddened every mother?s son?:
They weighed so lightly what they gave,
But let them be, they?re dead and gone,
They?re with O?Leary in the grave.

I can recite this one late at night with some drink in. Or at least used to.

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