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Favorite Poems thread!

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RationalBiker

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Vociferous Passage -

Essence smothered by mystical entropy,

life lost to promised illusion,

self spiraling to ignobility.

Shards of the soul lie scattered,

as foundation and faith are shattered,

a sojourn devoid of answers.

The Ego awakens! The mind's eye sees!

The treasure sought was never far,

the Joy internal, the rational Me!

- Vern Stevens

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The day it rained

I was playing outside

but had to stop

the clay

rolled down the hill

in seething waves

I stood at the foot

of the giant hill

letting it all wash over my feet

the clay warm

from tropical rain

got trapped inside

little leather sandals

I went back home

scraped the clay off

with a stick found

on the way and

made skyscrapers, cars and

train stations

laughing at the sky

It kept banging against

the glass that day

trying to get in

It

stopped.

I kept building and building

not looking outside

at the sun that had come out

to dry the clay.

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:)

I am currently doing a Graduate Diploma in Creative Writing, and I am taking one poetry class. Of course, a part of this class involves reading material by a lot of poets. It has been virtually impossible to find any poetry that has some sort of optimism, something important to say, etc, etc. It's been quite disappointing. A lot of modern day poets seem to just love wallowing in their misery...

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It has been virtually impossible to find any poetry that has some sort of optimism, something important to say, etc, etc.

Check out Berton Braley -- a real favorite of many Objectivists -- by clicking here. After you read "The Thinker" (click here) you'll see why.

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Thank you, Betsy.

I love "The thinker". The imagery is fantastic and so is the rhythm. The poet obviously has a strict, precise grasp of the English language too. It is just a beautifully tight, composed poem. Truly inspirational.

However, I did not like "Success" nearly as much. It too has a great rhythm, especially when you read it out aloud, but it's just too obvious for my tastes. Whereas 'the Thinker' engaged me intellectually to the point where I had to visualise the imagery and work out the implications of that imagery for myself using my mind, 'Success' went down the path of telling, and not showing. Yes, the sense of life is great, but if I don't have to expand too much mental effort when appreciating a poem, I will never fully love such a piece.

But thank you for telling me about this poet. I'll read some more pieces by him and make a more complete judgment on him after that. Is this poet's work still in print?

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Is this poet's work still in print?

Objectivist Peter Leeflang has created and maintains the Berton Braley Cyber Museum at http://www.bertonbraley.com. If you go to that page and click on "Works" on the right side of the page, it will take you to an access point for online access to almost all of Braley's out of copyright works. Click on "Poems" on the right side of this page and it will display a page where you can access 1033 Braley poems through an alphabetical index, a subject index, and a chronological index.

Most of Braley's collected poems are out of print, but Peter plans to publish new Berton Braley anthologies. In the meantime, he has a lending library and many of Braley's earlier volumes are available on eBay and from used book dealers for very reasonable prices.

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Not enough discussion had been given to good poetry in these forums.

I would be very happy to hear about your favorite poems and poets.

If possible in terms of copyrights - please post your favorite poems here.

If not - please link to some examples.

Here's one of MY favorites:

The Thinker

by: Berton Braley

Back of the beating hammer

By which the steel is wrought,

Back of the workshop's clamor

The seeker may find the Thought,

The Thought that is ever master

Of iron and steam and steel

That rises above disaster

And tramples it under heel!

The drudge may fret and tinker

Or labor with lusty blows,

But back of him stands the Thinker,

The clear-eyed man who knows;

For into each plow or saber,

Each piece and part and whole,

Must go the Brains of Labor,

Which gives the work a soul!

Back of the motors humming,

Back of the belts that sing,

Back of the hammers drumming,

Back of the cranes that swing,

There is the eye which scans them

Watching through stress and strain,

There is the Mind which plans them-

Back of the brawn, the Brain!

Might of the roaring boiler,

Force of the engine's thrust,

Strength of the sweating toiler-

Greatly in these we trust.

But back of them stands the Schemer,

The Thinker who drives them through;

Back of the Job-the Dreamer

Who's making the dream come true!

***

More of Berton Braley's poems can be found at - http://www.bertonbraley.com

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I can admire lots of poems, but only a few poets. I prefer aloof poets, and obscure poems. I like my poems to be a unique riddle. Its a good brain exercise. that is why i like alot of moderist era poems. Too bad all of the poets of that era led worthless lives.

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In light of another thread, I think I will offer some meaning to my poem above. :)

The other night I had to try to sleep at night because I had some training to attend the next morning. Since I don't normally sleep at night (like most folks), I was just lying awake instead. So I started thinking. How could I sum up forty years of life in a short poem? Metaphysically, I identified three distinct "phases" of my life.

First verse: Me, the christian. I became quickly at odds with the concept of religion. The way I thought did not add up to what I was being taught. It lead to a more social life, but away from the nature of who I was as a man.

Second verse: Me, the agnostic. I had not totally rejected the idea of a diety. On the other hand, I really didn't embrace any particular philosophy. My beliefs were a mish-mesh of mysticism, humanism, obfuscation and doubt. A road that lead nowhere.

Last verse: Me, the student of Objectivism. Confidence and certainty have always been difficult for me. I was finally discovering ideas that I had already entertained and that made sense to me. I was also discovering new ideas that made sense to me. I saw at last that others shared my way of thinking, and I felt slightly affirmed in my beliefs.

While I feel and understand things much better, my mind is still occupied with lingering mystical thoughts which I know have to reason through. But at least I'm not reading in the dark anymore.

VES

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Not enough discussion had been given to good poetry in these forums.

I would be very happy to hear about your favorite poems and poets.

If possible in terms of copyrights - please post your favorite poems here.

If not - please link to some examples.

Here's one of MY favorites:

The Thinker

by: Berton Braley

[...]

More of Berton Braley's poems can be found at - http://www.bertonbraley.com

Love it!

In fact, before you posted this, I had just mentioned this very poem -- and the Berton Braley web site -- on another thread on this forum. See

http://forum.ObjectivismOnline.com/index.php?showtopic=879

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I personally love Walt Whitman simply because of the sense of life that radiates from much of his poetry.

I cut this QA that I have from him to show you all what I mean:

Q. What does religion mean to you?

A. It means nothing; and it seems, so far as I can observe,

useless to others. I am sixty-seven years of age and have resided in

X. fifty years, and have been in business forty-five, consquently I have some

little experience of life and men, and some women too, and I find that

the most religious and pious people are as a rule those most lacking in

uprightness and morality. The men who do not go to church or have any

religious convictions are the best. Praying, singing of hymns, and sermonizing

are prenicious - they teach us to rely on some supernatural power, when we

ought to rely on ourselves. I totally disbelieve in a God. The God-idea was begotten

in ignorance, fear, and a general lack of any knowledge of Nature. If I were to die now,

being in a healthy condition for my age, both mentally and physically, I would just as

lief, yes, rather die with a hearty enjoyment of music, sport, or any other rational

pastime. As a timepiece stops, we die - there being no immortality in either case.

[...]Q. What things work most strongly on your emotions?

A. Lively songs and music; Pinafore instead of an Oratorio.

I like Scott, Burns, Byron, Longfellow, especially Shakespeare, etc., etc.

Of songs, the Star-Spangle Banner, America, Marseilaise, and all moral and

soul-stirring songs, but wishy-washy hymns are my detestation. I greatly enjoy nature,

especially fine weather, and until within a few years used to walk Sundays into

the country, tweleve miles often, with no fatigue, and bicycle forty or fifty.

I have dropped the bicycle. [...] All of my thoughts and cogitations have been of a

healthy and cheerful kind, for instead of doubts and fears I see things as they are,

for I endeavor to adjust myself to my environment. This I regard as the deepest law.

Mankind is a progressive animal. I am satisfied he will have made a great advance over

his present status a thousand years hence.

Q. What is your notion of sin?

A. It seems to me that sin is a condition, a disease, incidental to man's

development not being yet advanced enough. Morbidness over it increases the disease.

We should think that a million of years hence equity, justice, and mental and physical

good order will be so fixed and organized that no one will have any idea of evil or sin."

:)

And as to the poetry, one of my favorites by his is (it's a bit long but WORTH it :) )

:

"Song of the Exposition"

1

AFTER all, not to create only, or found only,

But to bring, perhaps from afar, what is already founded,

To give it our own identity, average, limitless, free;

To fill the gross, the torpid bulk with vital religious fire;

Not to repel or destroy, so much as accept, fuse, rehabilitate; 5

To obey, as well as command—to follow, more than to lead;

These also are the lessons of our New World;

—While how little the New, after all—how much the Old, Old World!

Long, long, long, has the grass been growing,

Long and long has the rain been falling, 10

Long has the globe been rolling round.

2

Come, Muse, migrate from Greece and Ionia;

Cross out, please, those immensely overpaid accounts,

That matter of Troy, and Achilles’ wrath, and Eneas’, Odysseus’ wanderings;

Placard “Removed” and “To Let” on the rocks of your snowy Parnassus; 15

Repeat at Jerusalem—place the notice high on Jaffa’s gate, and on Mount Moriah;

The same on the walls of your Gothic European Cathedrals, and German, French and Spanish Castles;

For know a better, fresher, busier sphere—a wide, untried domain awaits, demands you.

3

Responsive to our summons,

Or rather to her long-nurs’d inclination, 20

Join’d with an irresistible, natural gravitation,

She comes! this famous Female—as was indeed to be expected;

(For who, so-ever youthful, ’cute and handsome, would wish to stay in mansions such as those,

When offer’d quarters with all the modern improvements,

With all the fun that ’s going—and all the best society?) 25

She comes! I hear the rustling of her gown;

I scent the odor of her breath’s delicious fragrance;

I mark her step divine—her curious eyes a-turning, rolling,

Upon this very scene.

The Dame of Dames! can I believe, then, 30

Those ancient temples classic, and castles strong and feudalistic,

could none of them restrain her?

Nor shades of Virgil and Dante—nor myriad memories, poems, old associations, magnetize and hold on to her?

But that she ’s left them all—and here?

Yes, if you will allow me to say so, 35

I, my friends, if you do not, can plainly see Her,

The same Undying Soul of Earth’s, activity’s, beauty’s, heroism’s Expression,

Out from her evolutions hither come—submerged the strata of her former themes,

Hidden and cover’d by to-day’s—foundation of to-day’s;

Ended, deceas’d, through time, her voice by Castaly’s fountain; 40

Silent through time the broken-lipp’d Sphynx in Egypt—silent those century-baffling tombs;

Closed for aye the epics of Asia’s, Europe’s helmeted warriors;

Calliope’s call for ever closed—Clio, Melpomene, Thalia closed and dead;

Seal’d the stately rhythmus of Una and Oriana—ended the quest of the Holy Graal;

Jerusalem a handful of ashes blown by the wind—extinct; 45

The Crusaders’ streams of shadowy, midnight troops, sped with the sunrise;

Amadis, Tancred, utterly gone—Charlemagne, Roland, Oliver gone,

Palmerin, ogre, departed—vanish’d the turrets that Usk reflected,

Arthur vanish’d with all his knights—Merlin and Lancelot and Galahad—all gone—dissolv’d utterly, like an exhalation;

Pass’d! pass’d! for us, for ever pass’d! that once so mighty World—now void, inanimate, phantom World! 50

Embroider’d, dazzling World! with all its gorgeous legends, myths,

Its kings and barons proud—its priests, and warlike lords, and courtly dames;

Pass’d to its charnel vault—laid on the shelf—coffin’d, with Crown and Armor on,

Blazon’d with Shakspeare’s purple page,

And dirged by Tennyson’s sweet sad rhyme. 55

I say I see, my friends, if you do not, the Animus of all that World,

Escaped, bequeath’d, vital, fugacious as ever, leaving those dead remains, and now this spot approaching, filling;

—And I can hear what maybe you do not—a terrible aesthetical commotion,

With howling, desperate gulp of “flower” and “bower,”

With “Sonnet to Matilda’s Eyebrow” quite, quite frantic; 60

With gushing, sentimental reading circles turn’d to ice or stone;

With many a squeak, (in metre choice,) from Boston, New York, Philadelphia, London;

As she, the illustrious Emigré, (having, it is true, in her day, although the same, changed, journey’d considerable,)

Making directly for this rendezvous—vigorously clearing a path for herself—striding through the confusion,

By thud of machinery and shrill steam-whistle undismay’d, 65

Bluff’d not a bit by drain-pipe, gasometers, artificial fertilizers,

Smiling and pleased, with palpable intent to stay,

She ’s here, install’d amid the kitchen ware!

4

But hold—don’t I forget my manners?

To introduce the Stranger (what else indeed have I come for?) to thee, Columbia: 70

In Liberty’s name, welcome, Immortal! clasp hands,

And ever henceforth Sisters dear be both.

Fear not, O Muse! truly new ways and days receive, surround you,

(I candidly confess, a queer, queer race, of novel fashion,)

And yet the same old human race—the same within, without, 75

Faces and hearts the same—feelings the same—yearnings the same,

The same old love—beauty and use the same.

5

We do not blame thee, Elder World—nor separate ourselves from thee:

(Would the Son separate himself from the Father?)

Looking back on thee—seeing thee to thy duties, grandeurs, through past ages bending, building, 80

We build to ours to-day.

Mightier than Egypt’s tombs,

Fairer than Grecia’s, Roma’s temples,

Prouder than Milan’s statued, spired Cathedral,

More picturesque than Rhenish castle-keeps, 85

We plan, even now, to raise, beyond them all,

Thy great Cathedral, sacred Industry—no tomb,

A Keep for life for practical Invention.

As in a waking vision,

E’en while I chant, I see it rise—I scan and prophesy outside and in, 90

Its manifold ensemble.

6

Around a Palace,

Loftier, fairer, ampler than any yet,

Earth’s modern Wonder, History’s Seven outstripping,

High rising tier on tier, with glass and iron façades. 95

Gladdening the sun and sky—enhued in cheerfulest hues,

Bronze, lilac, robin’s-egg, marine and crimson,

Over whose golden roof shall flaunt, beneath thy banner, Freedom,

The banners of The States, the flags of every land,

A brood of lofty, fair, but lesser Palaces shall cluster. 100

Somewhere within the walls of all,

Shall all that forwards perfect human life be started,

Tried, taught, advanced, visibly exhibited.

Here shall you trace in flowing operation,

In every state of practical, busy movement, 105

The rills of Civilization.

Materials here, under your eye, shall change their shape, as if by magic;

The cotton shall be pick’d almost in the very field,

Shall be dried, clean’d, ginn’d, baled, spun into thread and cloth, before you:

You shall see hands at work at all the old processes, and all the new ones; 110

You shall see the various grains, and how flour is made, and then bread baked by the bakers;

You shall see the crude ores of California and Nevada passing on and on till they become bullion;

You shall watch how the printer sets type, and learn what a composing stick is;

You shall mark, in amazement, the Hoe press whirling its cylinders, shedding the printed leaves steady and fast:

The photograph, model, watch, pin, nail, shall be created before you. 115

In large calm halls, a stately Museum shall teach you the infinite, solemn lessons of Minerals;

In another, woods, plants, Vegetation shall be illustrated—in another Animals, animal life and development.

One stately house shall be the Music House;

Others for other Arts—Learning, the Sciences, shall all be here;

None shall be slighted—none but shall here be honor’d, help’d, exampled. 120

7

This, this and these, America, shall be your Pyramids and Obelisks,

Your Alexandrian Pharos, gardens of Babylon,

Your temple at Olympia.

The male and female many laboring not,

Shall ever here confront the laboring many, 125

With precious benefits to both—glory to all,

To thee, America—and thee, Eternal Muse.

And here shall ye inhabit, Powerful Matrons!

In your vast state, vaster than all the old;

Echoed through long, long centuries to come, 130

To sound of different, prouder songs, with stronger themes,

Practical, peaceful life—the people’s life—the People themselves,

Lifted, illumin’d, bathed in peace—elate, secure in peace.

8

Away with themes of war! away with War itself!

Hence from my shuddering sight, to never more return, that show of blacken’d, mutilated corpses! 135

That hell unpent, and raid of blood—fit for wild tigers, or for lop-tongued wolves—not reasoning men!

And in its stead speed Industry’s campaigns!

With thy undaunted armies, Engineering!

Thy pennants, Labor, loosen’d to the breeze!

Thy bugles sounding loud and clear! 140

Away with old romance!

Away with novels, plots, and plays of foreign courts!

Away with love-verses, sugar’d in rhyme—the intrigues, amours of idlers,

Fitted for only banquets of the night, where dancers to late music slide;

The unhealthy pleasures, extravagant dissipations of the few, 145

With perfumes, heat and wine, beneath the dazzling chandeliers.

9

To you, ye Reverent, sane Sisters,

To this resplendent day, the present scene,

These eyes and ears that like some broad parterre bloom up around, before me,

I raise a voice for far superber themes for poets and for Art, 150

To exalt the present and the real,

To teach the average man the glory of his daily walk and trade,

To sing, in songs, how exercise and chemical life are never to be baffled;

Boldly to thee, America, to-day! and thee, Immortal Muse!

To practical, manual work, for each and all—to plough, hoe, dig, 155

To plant and tend the tree, the berry, the vegetables, flowers,

For every man to see to it that he really do something—for every woman too;

To use the hammer, and the saw, (rip or cross-cut,)

To cultivate a turn for carpentering, plastering, painting,

To work as tailor, tailoress, nurse, hostler, porter, 160

To invent a little—something ingenious—to aid the washing, cooking, cleaning,

And hold it no disgrace to take a hand at them themselves.

I say I bring thee, Muse, to-day and here,

All occupations, duties broad and close,

Toil, healthy toil and sweat, endless, without cessation, 165

The old, old general burdens, interests, joys,

The family, parentage, childhood, husband and wife,

The house-comforts—the house itself, and all its belongings,

Food and its preservations—chemistry applied to it;

Whatever forms the average, strong, complete, sweet-blooded Man or Woman—the perfect, longeve Personality, 170

And helps its present life to health and happiness—and shapes its Soul,

For the eternal Real Life to come.

With latest materials, works,

Steam-power, the great Express lines, gas, petroleum,

These triumphs of our time, the Atlantic’s delicate cable, 175

The Pacific Railroad, the Suez canal, the Mont Cenis tunnel;

Science advanced, in grandeur and reality, analyzing every thing,

This world all spann’d with iron rails—with lines of steamships

threading every sea,

Our own Rondure, the current globe I bring. 180

10

And thou, high-towering One—America!

Thy swarm of offspring towering high—yet higher thee, above all towering,

With Victory on thy left, and at thy right hand Law;

Thou Union, holding all—fusing, absorbing, tolerating all,

Thee, ever thee, I bring. 185

Thou—also thou, a world!

With all thy wide geographies, manifold, different, distant,

Rounding by thee in One—one common orbic language,

One common indivisible destiny and Union.

11

And by the spells which ye vouchsafe, 190

To those, your ministers in earnest,

I here personify and call my themes,

To make them pass before ye.

Behold, America! (And thou, ineffable Guest and Sister!)

For thee come trooping up thy waters and thy lands: 195

Behold! thy fields and farms, thy far-off woods and mountains,

As in procession coming.

Behold! the sea itself!

And on its limitless, heaving breast, thy ships:

See! where their white sails, bellying in the wind, speckle the green and blue! 200

See! thy steamers coming and going, steaming in or out of port!

See! dusky and undulating, their long pennants of smoke!

Behold, in Oregon, far in the north and west,

Or in Maine, far in the north and east, thy cheerful axemen,

Wielding all day their axes! 205

Behold, on the lakes, thy pilots at their wheels—thy oarsmen!

Behold how the ash writhes under those muscular arms!

There by the furnace, and there by the anvil,

Behold thy sturdy blacksmiths, swinging their sledges;

Overhand so steady—overhand they turn and fall, with joyous clank, 210

Like a tumult of laughter.

Behold! (for still the procession moves,)

Behold, Mother of All, thy countless sailors, boatmen, coasters!

The myriads of thy young and old mechanics!

Mark—mark the spirit of invention everywhere—thy rapid patents, 215

Thy continual workshops, foundries, risen or rising;

See, from their chimneys, how the tall flame-fires stream!

Mark, thy interminable farms, North, South,

Thy wealthy Daughter-States, Eastern, and Western,

The varied products of Ohio, Pennsylvania, Missouri, Georgia, Texas, and the rest; 220

Thy limitless crops—grass, wheat, sugar, corn, rice, hemp, hops,

Thy barns all fill’d—thy endless freight-trains, and thy bulging store-houses,

The grapes that ripen on thy vines—the apples in thy orchards,

Thy incalculable lumber, beef, pork, potatoes—thy coal—thy gold and silver,

The inexhaustible iron in thy mines. 225

12

All thine, O sacred Union!

Ship, farm, shop, barns, factories, mines,

City and State—North, South, item and aggregate,

We dedicate, dread Mother, all to thee!

Protectress absolute, thou! Bulwark of all! 230

For well we know that while thou givest each and all, (generous as God,)

Without thee, neither all nor each, nor land, home,

Ship, nor mine—nor any here, this day, secure,

Nor aught, nor any day secure.

13

And thou, thy Emblem, waving over all! 235

Delicate beauty! a word to thee, (it may be salutary;)

Remember, thou hast not always been, as here to-day, so comfortably ensovereign’d;

In other scenes than these have I observ’d thee, flag;

Not quite so trim and whole, and freshly blooming, in folds of stainless silk;

But I have seen thee, bunting, to tatters torn, upon thy splinter’d staff, 240

Or clutch’d to some young color-bearer’s breast, with desperate hands,

Savagely struggled for, for life or death—fought over long,

’Mid cannon’s thunder-crash, and many a curse, and groan and yell—and rifle-volleys cracking sharp,

And moving masses, as wild demons surging—and lives as nothing risk’d,

For thy mere remnant, grimed with dirt and smoke, and sopp’d in blood; 245

For sake of that, my beauty—and that thou might’st dally, as now, secure up there,

Many a good man have I seen go under.

14

Now here, and these, and hence, in peace all thine, O Flag!

And here, and hence, for thee, O universal Muse! and thou for them!

And here and hence, O Union, all the work and workmen thine! 250

The poets, women, sailors, soldiers, farmers, miners, students thine!

None separate from Thee—henceforth one only, we and Thou;

(For the blood of the children—what is it only the blood Maternal?

And lives and works—what are they all at last except the roads to Faith and Death?)

While we rehearse our measureless wealth, it is for thee, dear Mother! 255

We own it all and several to-day indissoluble in Thee;

—Think not our chant, our show, merely for products gross, or lucre—it is for Thee, the Soul, electric, spiritual!

Our farms, inventions, crops, we own in Thee! Cities and States in Thee!

Our freedom all in Thee! our very lives in Thee!

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Please give examples. This thread is meant to be a showcase for good poems, not just an abstract discussion - which I doubt most members will be able to partcipate in or enjoy.

Here is my favorite poem if you want to know specifics. Sorry if my post bothered you. I just didnt think you wanted to read a 17 page long poem, but here it is: The Wasteland

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In a question period in the early 1970's, Ayn Rand mentioned that this was one of her favorite poems. See if you can figure out why:

Rudyard Kipling

L'ENVOI

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an eon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair;

They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

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This is one of my favourite poems of all time:

Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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I especially like the last stanza, Vern.

This is one I wrote not too long ago:

(Still untitled):

Man stands next to

a hundred story building

"What is the point?" He says.

The sun

explodes -

from behind the building

sharpening steel-glass corners

slicing the sky

The glass

reflects acres

of waste space around it

the building standing

like a picture

of infinite promise

The building

pointing to the ground it stands on

tells the world

that this was once wasteland

a rotting wasteland

and now today it's this

People surge in

and out

of glass doors

like

precision poetry

electric pulses

through a model of the mind

in glass and steel

The human mind

worked time fatigued months

on this -

on THIS!

a caffeine stained desk

holding drawing tools

a great mind's thoughts

gushing

like water through tightsteel pipes

he wakes in the night

a solution to a problem!

a problem that has challenged

for weeks

and weeks

he writes it down

darkness frozen solid

outside his walls

a vulture circles above the ice

"What is the point?" It says.

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Here's one of my favorites, by Alfred Tennyson:

ULYSSES

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink

Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

That love me, and alone; on shore, and when

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known--cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all--

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains; but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and isle--

Well-beloved of me, discerning to fulfill

This labor, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me--

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.

Death closes all; but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are--

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

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Invictus

Out of the night that covers me

Black as the Pit from pole to pole

I thank whatever gods maybe

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate

How charged with punishment the scroll

I am the Master of my fate

I am the Captain of my soul.

-- William Earnest Henley

This poem is most powerful if you're suffering -- and I find it less affecting the happier I become. Still, I think its an important tribute to free will and integrity.

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Regarding Betsy's post on Miss Rand's favorite poem (by Kipling): It sounds to me that what Kipling was hoping for in the afterlife, Miss Rand demanded of life on earth.

KittyHawk: You got there first! I was going to cite Tennyson. I've used the line "As if to breathe were life" many times. It is telling that this poem is regularly criticized for its display of selfishness. I had a prof. who spent an entire class ripping it apart for this reason. :)

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Here's another poem I like, and it, too, is about Ulysses:

Ulysses and the Siren

Siren: Come, worthy Greek, Ulysses, come,

Possess these shores with me;

The winds and seas are troublesome,

And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil

That travail on the deep,

And joy the day in mirth the while,

And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses: Fair nymph, if fame or honor were

To be attained with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,

And leave such toils as these.

But here it dwells, and here must I

With danger seek it forth;

To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.

Sir: Ulysses, O be not deceived

With that unreal name;

This honor is a thing conceived,

And rests on others' fame.

Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile

The best thing of our life, our rest,

And give us up to toil.

Ulys: Delicious nymph, suppose there were

Nor honor nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wear

The time in idle sport.

For toil doth give a better touch,

To make us feel our joy;

And ease finds tediousness, as much

As labor, yields annoy.

Sir: Then pleasure likewise seems the shore

Whereto tends all your toil,

Which you forgo to make it more,

And perish oft the while.

Who may disport them diversly,

Find never tedious day,

And ease may have variety

As well as action may.

Ulys: But natures of the noblest frame

These toils and dangers please,

And they take comfort in the same

As much as you in ease,

And with the thoughts of actions past

Are recreated still;

When pleasure leaves a touch at last

To show that it was ill.

Sir: That doth opinion only cause

That's out of custom bred,

Which makes us many other laws

Than ever nature did.

No widows wail for our delights,

Our sports are without blood;

The world, we see, by warlike wights

Receives more hurt than good.

Ulys: But yet the state of things require

These motions of unrest,

And these great spirits of high desire

Seem born to turn them best,

To purge the mischiefs that increase

And all good order mar;

For oft we see a wicked peace

To be well changed for war.

Sir: Well, well, Ulysses, then I see

I shall not have thee here,

And therefore I will come to thee,

And take my fortunes there.

I must be won that cannot win,

Yet lost were I not won;

For beauty hath created been

T' undo, or be undone.

by Samuel Daniel, 1605

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Regarding Betsy's post on Miss Rand's favorite poem (by Kipling):  It sounds to me that what Kipling was hoping for in the afterlife, Miss Rand demanded of life on earth.

That's close to my conclusion.

Actually, Kipling was very secular. I think Kipling was expressing, and Ayn Rand was responding to, a sense of life message: "This is an artists's idea of heaven."

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