forums
new posts
donate
UER Store
events
location db
db map
search
members
faq
terms of service
privacy policy
register
login




UER Forum > UE Main > Poetry? (Viewed 5343 times)
Granuaile 


Location: Cincinnati
Gender: Female
Total Likes: 158 likes


Enveloped in a sentiment

 |  | 
Poetry?
< on 5/10/2014 3:22 AM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
1.


So I came across this poem.Anyone else know of other urban exploring/urban decay related poetry?




"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit."
UnchartedSights 


Location: Commerce City, CO
Gender: Male
Total Likes: 76 likes


Live hard, live your dream

 |  |  | Urbex Colorado
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 1 on 5/10/2014 3:35 AM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
I write poetry for fun and wrote this one. Not my best work but touches on urban exploration, though from a different point of view than we usually go about exploring.

Closer Look

See the house
In the country
Among the silent hills
And flower fields
Where green grass waves
Under blue sky
Long abandoned

Or is it

Take a closer look
And see

The new occupants
A fox slips out the back door
See her den in the kitchen
A field mouse now calls
The bedroom home
Bats sleep in the attic
An assortment of insects
Await those who seek

Though abandoned
And forgotten by man
This house is now cherished
By the wild




"Why not?" is a slogan for an interesting life.
-Mason Cooley
http://unchartedsights.blogspot.com/ http://www.flickr....tos/danielmcadams/
Ghost5 


Total Likes: 162 likes




 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 2 on 5/10/2014 4:45 AM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Wrote this years ago.

Hurt

I wear this crown for the ones I love the most
Who leave unwritten notes to meet at crossroads
This pile of dust leaves a lump in my throat
My empire of dirt, its my last hope.

I can tell it shows, if I call you close
You seem to be the ones that I hurt the most
I lost the search for you, its gods little joke
I hurt myself today the dust turns to smoke.

I tripped and broke my crown, i'm sick of falling down
My empire of dirt is a lonely ditch now
I truly need a friend somebody save me from the end
Theres no more time to see what time could have mend.

I tried to move on, but cant recover from your loss
Send my hated up to God for the life that he robbed
The only things that real is this pain that I feel
Its need to see you again, time to meet this steel.


Because you're not ordinary. You're way out there on the fringe somewhere. by Ghostfive, on Flickr




What makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time. John Berger
Granuaile 


Location: Cincinnati
Gender: Female
Total Likes: 158 likes


Enveloped in a sentiment

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 3 on 5/10/2014 12:45 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Thank you both for sharing. I very much enjoyed reading those. Hurt reminded me of the nine inch nails song of the same name .




"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit."
PressingLeap 


Location: Mid-Atlantic
Gender: Female
Total Likes: 82 likes




 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 4 on 5/10/2014 1:57 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Another nice thread idea, Granuaile. Also, love your signature ;)
Good ones, everybody!

Here is one I wrote a while back when I was thinking about where all I had been over the course of the previous year.


in the South

what do race car drivers and wards have in common?
they haunt the places where we now visit.
making a spectacle of themselves
going in circles, in cycles.

what do inmates and mill workers have in common?
they live days out where life does summon.
filled with dread, lungs full of poison.

what do rural school kids and apartment dwellers have in common?
an eviction notice come the start of the summer.
reduced lunch ends, poverty & hunger.




And a type of poetry, song lyrics, often remind me of urban exploring. Especially from the band Banner Pilot, which happens to be great music for getting pumped in the car beforehand or while doing research! Here's some links to a couple songs and lyrics. Enjoy

http://www.youtube...atch?v=mAYLZI22x5o
http://www.plyrics...pilot/isolani.html

http://www.youtube...atch?v=SI7H4gfrzPo
http://www.plyrics...theobituaries.html







www.flickr.com/photos/pressingleap
G to the Race 


Total Likes: 305 likes


Hi!

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 5 on 5/10/2014 2:50 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Posted by Granuaile
1.
340341.jpg (17 kb, 250x335)
click to view



So I came across this poem.Anyone else know of other urban exploring/urban decay related poetry?


Just being a critic: I liked this until the orgasm part. Thought it was cheap. Good poem over all. If you are interested in the topic read The Aesthetics of Decay by Dylan Trigg. It's most rooted in Romanticism and the period's love affair w/the ruin.

http://www.amazon....lgia/dp/0820486469

I believe that Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth is about an abandoned abbey building, and if I recall Trigg writes extensively about it.

FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:--feelings too 30
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world, 40
Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,--
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft-- 50
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man 70
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love, 80
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 90
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels 100
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 110
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream 150
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
1798.



[last edit 5/10/2014 2:51 PM by G to the Race - edited 1 times]

You betcha
Granuaile 


Location: Cincinnati
Gender: Female
Total Likes: 158 likes


Enveloped in a sentiment

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 6 on 5/10/2014 5:02 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
PressingLeap - Thanks. I take it you have seen Waking Life? =) Excellent movie. Thanks for sharing your poetry and the music.Not my kind of music but i did like the lyrics ;).

G to the Race - thank you for that interesting link and wonderful poem. I do agree with you on the last part of the poem i posted.To be fair,the poem came from a book of poems called “B Is for Bad Poetry” by Pamela August Russell. Found it on Tumblr.I have a mild Tumblr addiction.




"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit."
G to the Race 


Total Likes: 305 likes


Hi!

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 7 on 5/10/2014 5:25 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Posted by Granuaile
PressingLeap - Thanks. I take it you have seen Waking Life? =) Excellent movie. Thanks for sharing your poetry and the music.Not my kind of music but i did like the lyrics ;).

G to the Race - thank you for that interesting link and wonderful poem. I do agree with you on the last part of the poem i posted.To be fair,the poem came from a book of poems called “B Is for Bad Poetry” by Pamela August Russell. Found it on Tumblr.I have a mild Tumblr addiction.


Apparently Alan Ginsberg also has a Tintern Abbey poem, composed while tripping on acid. How interesting it is that this spot inspired Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Ginsberg. I wonder if there is a place in America that holds this kind of power? If so, I want to go there. The poem's not bad either:


Wales Visitation

White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow
Trees moving in rivers of wind
The clouds arise
as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist
above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed
along a green crag
glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine—


Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught
but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion,
of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology,
the wisdom of earthly relations,
of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible
orchards of mind language manifest human,
of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry
flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny
bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs—


Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower
& network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self
the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating
heard in Blake’s old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness
clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey—
Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!


All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind
undulating on mossy hills
a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels
on the mountainside
whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway
in granitic undertow down—
and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees
and lifted the grasses an instant in balance
and lifted the lambs to hold still
and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave


A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale,
a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley,
the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean
tonned with cloud-hang,
—Heaven balanced on a grassblade.
Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body,
One Being on the mountainside stirring gently
Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance,
one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of daisies,
one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering
to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down
through shivering flowers on the mountain’s head—


No imperfection in the budded mountain,
Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together,
daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble,
grass shimmers green
sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes,
horses dance in the warm rain,
tree-lined canals network live farmland,
blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn’d hills,
pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern—


Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air,
Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body!
Stare close, no imperfection in the grass,
each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story,
myriad-formed—
Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells dropped
doubled down the stem trembling antennae,
& look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare
breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn—
I lay down mixing my beard with the wet hair of the mountainside,
smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless,
tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness—
One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath
moves every floweret in the stillness on the valley floor,
trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass,
lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught
hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,


Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart
Calling our Presence together
The great secret is no secret
Senses fit the winds,
Visible is visible,
rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale,
gray atoms wet the wind’s kabbala
Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain,
rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless,
breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside,
Heaven breath and my own symmetric
Airs wavering thru antlered green fern
drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn,
Sounds of Aleph and Aum
through forests of gristle,
my skull and Lord Hereford’s Knob equal,
All Albion one.


What did I notice? Particulars! The
vision of the great One is myriad—
smoke curls upward from ashtray,
house fire burned low,
The night, still wet & moody black heaven
starless
upward in motion with wet wind.
Allen Ginsberg


We often think that the UE community has a kind of monopoly on the appreciation of the ruin but I was surprised how many upper-middle class kids I know that have said they dig the decay scene as well.




You betcha
Harvestman 


Location: Somewhere in SORTA/TANK Territory!
Gender: Male
Total Likes: 565 likes


Everything about me has a poker face.

 |  |  | Don't you dare click this
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 8 on 5/10/2014 8:32 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Once I did some urbexing
When I was feeling bitter
So I drank lots of alcohol
And shit in a derelict shitter.




Oh good, my slow clap processor made it into this thing.
Adventure Crime 


Location: Cleveland
Gender: Male
Total Likes: 72 likes




 |  |  | Urbex Underground
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 9 on 5/10/2014 9:29 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Beauty In Decay

Gauging the past with liquid puddles of rust.
Above lies the present with unawareness and lust.
A capsule in time, preserved and lay rotten,
A cornerstone of history now long forgotten.

Cold iron lies through the fragile fabrics of time.
The march of mother nature leaves nothing behind.
A monolithic labyrinth, an era of old skill.
For when I entered within, time stood still.

Once mellifluous tones of their oratorical master,
Now mountains of metal weeping with plaster.
Through danger and darkness at every endeavor.
We always seem to find, the lights are out forever.

But when a buildings skin is stripped away.
When timeless ghosts have had their way.
I see no more beauty in the living,

Only beauty in decay.






Granuaile 


Location: Cincinnati
Gender: Female
Total Likes: 158 likes


Enveloped in a sentiment

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 10 on 5/10/2014 10:05 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Posted by G to the Race


Apparently Alan Ginsberg also has a Tintern Abbey poem, composed while tripping on acid. How interesting it is that this spot inspired Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Ginsberg. I wonder if there is a place in America that holds this kind of power? If so, I want to go there. The poem's not bad either:


Wales Visitation

White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow
Trees moving in rivers of wind
The clouds arise
as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist
above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed
along a green crag
glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine—


Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught
but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion,
of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology,
the wisdom of earthly relations,
of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible
orchards of mind language manifest human,
of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry
flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny
bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs—


Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower
& network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self
the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating
heard in Blake’s old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness
clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey—
Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!


All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind
undulating on mossy hills
a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels
on the mountainside
whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway
in granitic undertow down—
and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees
and lifted the grasses an instant in balance
and lifted the lambs to hold still
and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave


A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale,
a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley,
the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean
tonned with cloud-hang,
—Heaven balanced on a grassblade.
Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body,
One Being on the mountainside stirring gently
Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance,
one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of daisies,
one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering
to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down
through shivering flowers on the mountain’s head—


No imperfection in the budded mountain,
Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together,
daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble,
grass shimmers green
sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes,
horses dance in the warm rain,
tree-lined canals network live farmland,
blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn’d hills,
pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern—


Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air,
Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body!
Stare close, no imperfection in the grass,
each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story,
myriad-formed—
Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells dropped
doubled down the stem trembling antennae,
& look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare
breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn—
I lay down mixing my beard with the wet hair of the mountainside,
smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless,
tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness—
One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath
moves every floweret in the stillness on the valley floor,
trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass,
lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught
hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,


Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart
Calling our Presence together
The great secret is no secret
Senses fit the winds,
Visible is visible,
rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale,
gray atoms wet the wind’s kabbala
Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain,
rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless,
breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside,
Heaven breath and my own symmetric
Airs wavering thru antlered green fern
drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn,
Sounds of Aleph and Aum
through forests of gristle,
my skull and Lord Hereford’s Knob equal,
All Albion one.


What did I notice? Particulars! The
vision of the great One is myriad—
smoke curls upward from ashtray,
house fire burned low,
The night, still wet & moody black heaven
starless
upward in motion with wet wind.
Allen Ginsberg


We often think that the UE community has a kind of monopoly on the appreciation of the ruin but I was surprised how many upper-middle class kids I know that have said they dig the decay scene as well.


If you find that place in America let me know.Some places are just magical with or without drugs.I'm a bit of a Ginsberg fan so thanks for that poem.Abandoned places have a beauty that appeals to any class of people I imagine. I have not met many other people who are into this but I think most people have an urge to explore their surroundings.


I always liked this one by Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.




"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit."
Ghost5 


Total Likes: 162 likes




 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 11 on 5/10/2014 11:38 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Posted by Granuaile
Thank you both for sharing. I very much enjoyed reading those. Hurt reminded me of the nine inch nails song of the same name .


Long story short my friend made a beat of the Johnny Cash version of Hurt. So its a cover of a cover so to speak i guess haha. Good job identifying it. Thank You.




What makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time. John Berger
G to the Race 


Total Likes: 305 likes


Hi!

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 12 on 5/12/2014 12:32 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Posted by Granuaile


If you find that place in America let me know.Some places are just magical with or without drugs.I'm a bit of a Ginsberg fan so thanks for that poem.Abandoned places have a beauty that appeals to any class of people I imagine. I have not met many other people who are into this but I think most people have an urge to explore their surroundings.


I always liked this one by Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.


That's awesome! I don't know Coleridge aside from the Ancient Mariner, I suppose I should but when I was introduced to that poem I felt it was enough. I didn't mean to sound snotty about the upper-middle class kids, I was just surprised that when I brought a particular place up in class the students were like "We had this place!" or "Our town has this one building we went in!" Seems more universal than exclusive to me. I think any place that can take us away from the hubbub of the everyday can be magical or even places saturated in the everyday if we just allow ourselves to be free. Sorry for the hippie talk.

BTW, here's Tintern Abbey:



[last edit 5/12/2014 12:34 PM by G to the Race - edited 1 times]

You betcha
Granuaile 


Location: Cincinnati
Gender: Female
Total Likes: 158 likes


Enveloped in a sentiment

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 13 on 5/12/2014 2:11 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Posted by G to the Race


That's awesome! I don't know Coleridge aside from the Ancient Mariner, I suppose I should but when I was introduced to that poem I felt it was enough. I didn't mean to sound snotty about the upper-middle class kids, I was just surprised that when I brought a particular place up in class the students were like "We had this place!" or "Our town has this one building we went in!" Seems more universal than exclusive to me. I think any place that can take us away from the hubbub of the everyday can be magical or even places saturated in the everyday if we just allow ourselves to be free. Sorry for the hippie talk.

BTW, here's Tintern Abbey:
http://www.livingt...TinternAbbey11.jpg


Wow...I can see why that place inspires people. No worries on sounding snotty, I understand what you meant. I'm all about freedom and hippie talk. ;).




"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit."
MrGreen 


Location: Romania
Gender: Male
Total Likes: 15 likes


Here are the thrill seekers, corrupt and immoral.

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 14 on 5/12/2014 5:43 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
These are beautiful, I don't have one of my own but I'll leave you with one from Bukowski.


a poem is a city
a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter…
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows…
a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world…
and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor’s scrutiny,
and night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on the gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.




Granuaile 


Location: Cincinnati
Gender: Female
Total Likes: 158 likes


Enveloped in a sentiment

 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 15 on 5/12/2014 8:38 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Bukowski is always welcomed! =)Thanks .




"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit."
UnnamedKid 


Total Likes: 0 likes




 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 16 on 9/15/2022 3:59 AM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Here are the 2 poems I wrote. The first poem is a Shakespearean sonnet I wrote for an assignment in Grade 10 about an abandoned house that was taken over by wild cats. The second poem is about an abandoned movie theater from the 70's that I wrote a month ago.

Poem 1:

The old, decrepit house on the corner
Creaks eerily as I open the door
Cats signal to each other there's danger
As they run into a hole in the floor.
Mould covers the roof in a black blanket
While the house weeps for those no longer here.
Chunks of broken wall cover the carpet
And crunch as I break the house's still year.
The building has been ransacked by looters
Hoping to find treasures inside
Leaving very little for explorers
That come after looking goggle-eyed.
But because there is no more people there
The house slowly falls into disrepair.



Poem 2:


I carefully crept inside
As the theatre's newest guest.
The floor quietly sighed
While my heart pounded in my chest.
When I stepped over the pit,
I could see the rows of seats
That had become covered in grit
And pieces of broken concrete.

In my mind the movie played
And I seen the people from over all the years
As they laughed, screamed and cried
And would erupt into cheers
As the movie ended.
Then they would all begin to stand
Satisfied with the film they'd attended
And would begin to disband.

Never to return again.

Because though it had been so cared for
After that it slowly began to fall into disrepair
Until it could never have the glory it did before.




UnnamedKid 


Total Likes: 0 likes




 |  | 
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 17 on 9/21/2022 3:05 PM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
Here are the 2 poems I wrote. The first poem is a Shakespearean sonnet I wrote for an assignment in Grade 10 about an abandoned house that was taken over by wild cats. The second poem is about an abandoned movie theater from the 70's that I wrote a month ago.

Poem 1:

The old, decrepit house on the corner
Creaks eerily as I open the door
Cats signal to each other there's danger
As they run into a hole in the floor.
Mould covers the roof in a black blanket
While the house weeps for those no longer here.
Chunks of broken wall cover the carpet
And crunch as I break the house's still year.
The building has been ransacked by looters
Hoping to find treasures inside
Leaving very little for explorers
That come after looking goggle-eyed.
But because there is no more people there
The house slowly falls into disrepair.



Poem 2:


I carefully crept inside
As the theatre's newest guest.
The floor quietly sighed
While my heart pounded in my chest.
When I stepped over the pit,
I could see the rows of seats
That had become covered in grit
And pieces of broken concrete.

In my mind the movie played
And I seen the people from over all the years
As they laughed, screamed and cried
And would erupt into cheers
As the movie ended.
Then they would all begin to stand
Satisfied with the film they'd attended
And would begin to disband.

Never to return again.

Because though it had been so cared for
After that it slowly began to fall into disrepair
Until it could never have the glory it did before.




bandi 

Lippy Mechanic Bastard


Location: Trent Hills, ON
Gender: Male
Total Likes: 731 likes


A liminal mind is all I've ever known.

 |  |  | Add to ICQ
Re: Poetry?
< Reply # 18 on 9/25/2022 12:13 AM >
Reply with Quote
Posted on Forum: UER Forum
I'll try the haiku angle

Lonely factory
I will go inside of it
So I can go poop




hi i like cars
UER Forum > UE Main > Poetry? (Viewed 5343 times)


Add a poll to this thread



This thread is in a public category, and can't be made private.



All content and images copyright © 2002-2024 UER.CA and respective creators. Graphical Design by Crossfire.
To contact webmaster, or click to email with problems or other questions about this site: UER CONTACT
View Terms of Service | View Privacy Policy | Server colocation provided by Beanfield
This page was generated for you in 109 milliseconds. Since June 23, 2002, a total of 737088835 pages have been generated.