Ah, there. Top of the column in a post page, but kida buried on the main. Thanks.
Yup -- works in Opera 8.54.
---L.
Um. What selector? Asks the man running Opera v8.54, who doesn't see one.
---L.
Don't hold back, Adam. Tell us how you really feel.
---L.
To Keep Will Yeats in Mind
I
He left us in the dead time of year:
The brooks were ice, the ports were all but dead,
And snow made our carved men lose their shapes;
The glass bulbs sank in the mouth of the end of day.
O all the means we have to mark it say
The day of his death was a cold dark day.
Far from where he lay ill
The wolves ran on through the fir woods,
The serf stream was not lured by the quays then in style;
By tongues that mourn
The death of the man was kept from his work.
But for him it was his last day in his self,
An eve of the nurse and wild news;
The states of his corpse left his rule,
The squares of his mind held no one,
A still hush took up the edge of town,
The flow of what he felt failed; he turned to those who like him.
Now he is strewn in some five score towns
And all took up by loves he did not know;
To find his joy in one more wood
And be paid for it by a new code of what's thought right.
The words of a dead man
Are changed in the guts of those who live.
But in the pomp and noise of the next day
When those who trade roar like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have all the aches they're used to,
And each in cell of his self can all but think he's free,
A few score of scores will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did a thing not quite the norm.
O all the means we have to mark it say
The day of his death was a cold dark day.
II
You were a fool like us; your gift lived through it all:
The church wards of rich dames, the loss of health,
You; the mad Green Isle hurt you to your verse.
Now the Green Isle has her mad thoughts and is rained on still,
For verse won't make things come to pass: they live
In the vales where they were said, where sharp men
Would not want to mess with, it flows south
From the range of just one's self and much worked griefs,
Raw towns that we have faith and die in; it lives on,
A way to come to pass, a mouth.
III
Earth, please take this famed new guest:
Will B. Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Green Isle's great cup lie
All verse poured out by-and-by.
Time, that will not take the part
Of the brave and pure of heart,
And in a week gives no more nods
To a hard and well-formed bod,
Treats fine words as gods and gives
Grace to those who make them live;
Lets by wimps, the vain, the cheats,
Lays its bright wreaths at their feet.
Time that with this strange life use
Let by Red Kip and his views,
And will let by Paul as well,
Lets him 'cause he wrote real well.
In the bad dream of the dark
All the Old World dogs do bark,
And the states that still live wait,
Each one set off in its hate;
Ill-wrought thoughts that wreck our grace
Stare out now from each man's face,
And the seas of rue do lie
Locked and iced up in each eye.
Go on, verse man, go on right
To the low point of the night,
Break our bonds with your free voice,
Teach us to sing out our joys;
With a sown field of a verse
Make a grape farm of the curse,
Sing of how a man can't win
In your joy at life's hard strain;
In the dry lands of the heart
Let the spring that heals now start,
In the jail cell of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
The source is here -- I used W.H.A.'s first draft, not the snipped and wimped one you see most. I did the first two parts some years since, back in the old place.
---L.
My jaw drops. To quote one of Will the Bard's girls, "I am like in a maze. I know not what to say."
---L.
Yes, TNH should post "Do not go, sans fight, in to that good night." She should, she should! Her fans plead!
The Jabbed Wock
by Lew Song
It brilled, and the quite slithe toves
Did gyre and gimp in the wabe:
The bores had mimsed in all the groves,
And the mome raths out did grabe.
"Look out for the black Jabbed Wock, my son!
The jaws the bite, the claws that catch!
Look out for the Twice Jubbed bird, and shun
The vent fumes of the Snatch!"
He took his vore-made sword in hand:
Long time the quite Manx foe he sought --
And then rest he by the Twice Tum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
And, as in thoughts of uff he stood,
The Jabbed Wock, with its eyes of flame,
Came with a whiff through the dark tuldged wood,
And popped breath as it came!
One two! One two! And through and through
The vore-made blade went snick then snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He umphed his way on back.
"And hast thou slain the black Jabbed Wock?
Come to my arms, my bright beamed boy!
Oh day of frabjs! Call "Oh"! Call "Hey"!"
He said with a snort in his joy.
It brilled, and the quite slithe toves
Did gyre and gimp in the wabe:
The bores had mimsed in all the groves,
And the mome raths out did grabe.
---L.
Nice to work with, I meant, as well as strong lines in their own right.
Oh -- nice one, O.C.W. Yes, the rhyme might tip the hat soon, but it's still good. May I add?
---L.
Gnah! I think that's the first Lord B. in good words I've seen. I tried that one once, and could not get far.
And nice ones, cand. Will's last two lines are nice, no?
---L.
Tim, I hope you'll post your Blake, here or there, as you will.
I also did one of the Songs of Age, once. Though that's not a good name for them. Blake does not set Youth on Age, with those books, but ... things I can't say in good words.
---L.
*claps at Carr S., Kip, and H.J.L.*
Kip, I used "Stryped Cat" when I did it. I did not think of "Big Cat," I don't think. But that was a while since.
---L.
By the way, I've meant to say all day that we've now got a place for all to play on L.J., the group wordsofonebeat. Which is not a word of four beats, but four words of one beat, sans space -- L.J. does not like long names.
---L.
Hee! I like "Tom Tough." Though "Tom is Hard" would be more clear, I think.
Jo -- Nice. Do you mind if I add you to the Book?
---L.
I wish Dave L. would do more of "The Ground of Death's Wife." And cand. would tell me who did the first form of "The Drowned Man" and the next one. I can't work it out.
---L.
Sam Coll Ridge is not that hard. You just have to think slant, like Mike Ford does when he make Al Chuck Swin small (and makes my head hurt). Thus:
The Great Khan
In Old Town Xan did the Great Khan
A pomp-filled dome of vice have made:
Where Alph, the most pure stream, had ran
Through caves which are not marked by man
Down to a sea sans days.
So twice five miles of good farm ground
With walls and spires were all wrapped round:
And there were herb plots bright with snake-like rills,
Where bloomed all of those nice scent trees;
And here were woods as old as the hills,
With folds where sun shines on the green.
But oh! that deep, oft sung of ditch which slants
Down the green hill and through a pine tree stand!
A wild place! as god-filled and spell-bound
As one where in the wan moon's light now haunts
A girl who wails loud for her love from hell!
And from that ditch, where roils don't cease to seeth,
As if this earth in fast thick pants could breathe,
A strong jet for a sec was forced:
And in that swift half-there, half-not-there burst
Huge shards jumped up like ground-bounced hail,
Or chaff-filled grain threshed by the flail:
And with those rocks which danced for all of time
It flung up for a sec that most pure stream.
Five miles it wound all round its maze-like way,
Through wood and dale the pure stream ran
Then reached the caves not marked by man,
And sank with lots of noise to that dead bay:
And in this noise the Great Khan heard from far
His dead folks' ghosts speak words of war!
The shade from this large dome of toys
Floats in the midst of waves;
Where once was heard the mixed-up noise
From both the jets and caves.
It was a rare deed made for vice,
A sun-filled dome with caves of ice!
A young girl with a lute
I thought once that I saw:
It was an south-land maid
And on her lute she played,
And sang of her home's Mount.
Could I bring it back in me,
Her string band work and song,
To such deep joy it'd win me,
That with that tune so loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sun-filled dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Look out! Look out!
His eyes, they flash! his hair, it floats!
Weave charms on him three times all round,
And close your eyes in god-filled dread
For he hath on the gods' food fed,
And drunk the milk of God's own land.
---L.
Oo -- good ones, here. Mike, cand., Lea, El., Dave, may I post those in the One Beat Book of Verse?
---L.
The Mad Ape Den is almost as whacked and fun as the verbs_bad LJ community, unfortunately defunct.
---L.
I like Jeff's take on the month more than Tom's:
"When the fourth month with his sweet rain has pierced to the root the drought of March, and bathed each vine with sweet life, by which
strength the bloom is born; when the west wind with his sweet breath has brought forth in each holt and heath the new crops, and the young sun has run half his course in the Ram, and the small birds make song and yet don't close their eyes all night while they sleep -- for Life pricks them in their hearts -- then, folks long to see the saints and wear the palm while they seek strange shores with far off shrines, known in all the lands; and most of all, from the end of each shire of this land they wend to Saint Tom's Town, to seek the late great saint who has helped the sick when they have sought him."
Um, yeah, prose -- I'm not quite so good to do our Olde Tongue in words of one beat.
---L.
Shouldn't you start in the beginning, go all the way to the end, and then stop?
---L.
| Year | Number of comments posted |
|---|---|
| 2006 | 4 |
| 2005 | 22 |
| 2004 | 122 |
| 2003 | 93 |
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