Best Famous Keep It Up Poems

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Written by Rg Gregory | from the Ansty Experience (a) they seek to celebrate the word not to bring their knives out on a poem dissecting it to find a heart whose beat lies naked on a table not to score in triumph on a line no sensitive would put a nostril to but simply to receive it as an offering glimpsing the sacred there poem probes the poet's once-intention but each time said budges its truth afresh (leaving the poet's self estranged from the once-intending man) and six ears in the room have tuned objectives sifting the coloured strands the words have hidden from the poet asking what world has come to light people measured by their heartbeats language can't flout that come-and-go to touch the heartbeat in a poem calls for the brain's surrender a warm diffusion of the mind a listening to an eery silence the words both mimic and destroy (no excuses slipping off the tongue) and when a poem works the unknown opens a timid shutter on a world so familiar it's not been seen before - and then it's gone bringing a frisson to an altered room and in a stuttering frenzy dusty attributes are tried to resurrect a glimpse of what it's like inside a truth (the glow a glow-worm makes) this is not (not much) what happens there's serious concern and banter there's opacity there's chit-chat diversions and derailings from a line some avalanche has blocked (what a fine pass through the mountains) poetry and fidgets are blood-brothers it's within all these the cosmos calls that makes these afternoons a rich adventure through a common field when three men moving towards death (without alacrity but conscious of it) find youth again and bubble with its springs - opening worn valves to give such flow their own direction there's no need of competition no wish to prove that one of us holds keys the others don't to the sacral chambers - no want to find consensus in technique or drench the rites of words in orthodox belief - difference is essential and delightful (integrity's all) quality's a private quarrel between the poem and the poet - taste the private hang-up of receivers mostly migrained by exposure to opinions not their own - fed from a culture no one bleeds in sustained by reputations manured by a few and spread by hearsay (b) these meetings are a modest vow to let each poet speak uncluttered from establishment's traditions and conditions where passions rippling from the marrow can choose a space to innocent themselves and long-held tastes for carlos williams gurney poems to siva (to name a few) can surface in a side-attempt to show unexpected lineage from the source to present patterns of the poet - but at the core of every poem read and comment made it's not the poem or the poet being sifted to the seed but poetry itself given the works the most despised belittled enervated creative cowcake of them all in the public eye prestigious when it doesn't matter to the clapped-out powers and turned away from when too awkward and impolitic to confront - ball to be bounced from high art to low when fights break out amongst the teachers and shakespeare's wielded as a cane as the rich old crusty clan reverts to the days it hated him at school but loved the beatings - loudhailer broken-down old-banger any ram-it- up-your-**** and suck-my-prick to those who want to tear chintz curtains down and shock the cosy populace to taste life at its rawest (most obscene) courtesan to fashion and today's ploy - advertisement's gold gimmick slave of beat and rhythm - dead but much loved donkey in the hearts of all who learned di-dah di-dah at school and have been stuck in the custard since plaything political-tool pop- star's goo - poetry's been made to garb itself in all these rags and riches this age applauds the eye - is one of outward exploration - the earth (in life) and universe (in fiction) are there for scurrying over - haste is everything and the beat is all fireworks feed the fancy - a great ah rewards the enterprise that fills night skies with flashing bountifuls of way-out stars - poetry has to be in service to this want (is fed into the system gracelessly) there can be no standing-still or stopping-by no take a little time and see what blossoms here - we're into poetry in motion and all that **** and i can accept it all - what stirs the surface of the ocean ignores the depths - what talks the hindlegs off the day can't murder dreams - that's not to say the depths and dreams aren't there for those who need them - it's commonplace they hold the keystones of our lives i fear something else much deeper the diabolical self-deceiving (wilful destruction of the spirit) by those loudspeaking themselves as poetry's protectors - publishers editors literature officers poetry societies and centres all all jumping on the flagship competition's crock of gold find the winners pick the famous all the hopefuls cry please name us aspiring poets search their wardrobes for the wordy swimsuit likely to catch the eyeful of the judges (winners too in previous contests inured to the needle of success but this time though now they are tops totally pissed-off with the process only here because the money's good) winners' middle name is wordsworth losers swallow a dose of shame organisers rub their golden hands pride themselves on their discernment these jacks have found the beanstalk castle harp and the golden egg the stupid giant and his frightened wife who let them steal their best possessions whose ear for poetry's so poor they think fum rhymes with englishman and so of course they get no prizes thief and trickster now come rich poetry's purpose is to hit the jackpot so great the lust for poetic fame thousands without a ghost of winning find poems like mothballs in their drawers sprinkle them with twinkling stardust post them off with copperplate cheques the judges wipe their arses on them the money's gone to a super cause everyone knows it's just a joke who gets taken - the foolish and vain if they're daft enough and such bad poets more money than sense the best advice is - keep it up grannies the cause is noble and we'll take your cheque again and again and again it's the winners who fall in the bog to win is to be preened - conceit finds a little fluffy nest dear to the feted heart and swells there fed (for a foetal space) on all the praisiest worms but in the nest is a bloated thing that sucks (and chokes) on hurt that has the knack of pecking where there's malice - it grows two heads winners by their nature soon become winged and weighted - icarus begins to prey upon their waking dreams prometheus gnawed by eagles the tight-shut box epimetheus gave pandora about to burst apart - yeats's centre cannot hold being poets they know the references and they learn the lesson quickly climb upon others as they would climb on you - in short be ruthless or be dead they mostly fade away being too intact or too weak-willed to go the shining way with light- ning bolts at every second bend agents breathing fire up their pants those who withstand the course become the poets of their day (and every one naturally good as gold - exceptions to the rule - out of the hearing and the judgment of their rivals) the media covet the heartache and the bile - love the new meteor can't wait to blast it from the heavens universities will start the cult with-it secondary teachers catch the name on fast - magazines begin to taste the honey on the plate and soon another name is buzzing round the bars where literary pass- ons meet to dole out bits of hem i accept it all - it's not for me above it all the literary lions (jackals to each other) stand posed upon their polystyrene mountains constructed by their fans and foes alike (they have such need of them) disdaining what they see but terror- stricken when newcomers climb up waving their thin bright books for so long they've dubbed themselves the intellectual cream - deigning to hand out poems when they're asked (for proper recompense in cash or fawning) - but well beyond the risk of letting others turn the bleeders down so sure they are they're halfway to the gods (yet still need preening) a poem from one of them is like the loaves and fishes jesus touched and rendered food for the five thousand they too can walk on water in their home - or so the reviewers say poetry from their mouths is such a gift if you don't read or understand it you'll be damned - i accept all that but what i can't accept is (all this while) the source and bed of what is poetry to me as cracked and parched - condemned ignored made mock of shoved in wilderness by those who've gone the gilded route (mapped out by ego and a driving need to claim best prick with a capital pee) it's being roomed with the said poem coming back and back to the same felt heartbeat having its way with words absorbing the strains and promises that make the language opt for paths no other voice would go - shifting a dull stone and knowing what bright creature this instinct has bred there it's trusting the poet with his own map not wanting to tear it up before the ink is dry because the symbols he's been using don't suit your own conception of terrain you've not been born to - it's being pleased to have connections made in ways you couldn't dream of (wouldn't want to)

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | A Dream of the Melbourne Cup Bring me a quart of colonial beer And some doughy damper to make good cheer, I must make a heavy dinner; Heavily dine and heavily sup, Of indigestible things fill up, Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, And I have to dream the winner. Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, The rich ragout and the charming cham. , I've got to mix my liquor; Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, Hard and tough as a wooden peg, And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, 'Twill make me dream the quicker. Now that I'm full of fearful feed, Oh, but I'll dream of a winner indeed In my restless, troubled slumber; While the night-mares race through my heated brain And their devil-riders spur amain, The trip for the Cup will reward my pain, And I'll spot the winning number. Thousands and thousands and thousands more, Like sands on the white Pacific shore, The crowding people cluster; For evermore is the story old, While races are bought and backers are sold, Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, In their thousands still they muster. * * * * * And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, "I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!" "Five monkeys, Little John, sir!" "Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!" And so they shout through the livelong day, And stick to the game that is sure to pay, While fools put money on, sir! And now in my dream I seem to go And bet with a "book" that I seem to know -- A Hebrew money-lender; A million to five is the price I get -- Not bad! but before I book the bet The horse's name I clean forgret, Its number and even gender. Now for the start, and here they come, And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum Beat by a hand unsteady; They come like a rushing, roaring flood, Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; For Acme is making the pace so good They are some of 'em done already. But round the track she begins to tire, And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!" The magpie jacket's leading; And Crossfire challenges fierce and bold, And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, But at length gives way to the black and gold, Which right to the front is speeding. Carry them on and keep it up -- A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, You must race and stay to win it; And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, Now takes the lead with his raking stride, And a mighty roar goes far and wide -- "There's only Commotion in it!" But one draws out from the beaten ruck And up on the rails by a piece of luck He comes in a style that's clever; "It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!" "Go at 'em now while their courage fails;" "Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!" "The blue and white for ever!" Under the whip! with the ears flat back, Under the whip! though the sinews crack, No sign of the base white feather: Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, Stick to it now though your hearts should break, While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, They come down the straignt together. Trident slowly forges ahead, The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, The pace is undiminished Now for the Panics that never fail! But many a backer's face grows pale As old Commotion swings his tail And swerves -- and the Cup is finished. * * * * * And now in my dream it all comes back: I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, A million I've won, no question! "Give me my money, you hook-nosed hog! Give me my money, bookmaking dog!" But he disappeared in a kind of fog, And I woke with "the indigestion".

Written by D. H. Lawrence | The Revolutionary Look at them standing there in authority The pale-faces, As if it could have any effect any more. Pale-face authority, Caryatids, Pillars of white bronze standing rigid, lest the skies fall. What a job they've got to keep it up. Their poor, idealist foreheads naked capitals To the entablature of clouded heaven. When the skies are going to fall, fall they will In a great chute and rush of d?b?cle downwards. Oh and I wish the high and super-gothic heavens would come down now, The heavens above, that we yearn to and aspire to. I do not yearn, nor aspire, for I am a blind Samson. And what is daylight to me that I should look skyward? Only I grope among you, pale-faces, caryatids, as among a forest of pillars that hold up the dome of high ideal heaven Which is my prison, And all these human pillars of loftiness, going stiff, metallic-stunned with the weight of their responsibility I stumble against them. Stumbling-blocks, painful ones. To keep on holding up this ideal civilisation Must be excruciating: unless you stiffen into metal, when it is easier to stand stock rigid than to move. This is why I tug at them, individually, with my arm round their waist The human pillars. They are not stronger than I am, blind Samson. The house sways. I shall be so glad when it comes down. I am so tired of the limitations of their Infinite. I am so sick of the pretensions of the Spirit. I am so weary of pale-face importance. Am I not blind, at the round-turning mill? Then why should I fear their pale faces? Or love the effulgence of their holy light, The sun of their righteousness? To me, all faces are dark, All lips are dusky and valved. Save your lips, O pale-faces, Which are slips of metal, Like slits in an automatic-machine, you columns of give-and-take. To me, the earth rolls ponderously, superbly Coming my way without forethought or afterthought. To me, men's footfalls fall with a dull, soft rumble, ominous and lovely, Coming my way. But not your foot-falls, pale-faces, They are a clicketing of bits of disjointed metal Working in motion. To me, men are palpable, invisible nearnesses in the dark Sending out magnetic vibrations of warning, pitch-dark throbs of invitation. But you, pale-faces, You are painful, harsh-surfaced pillars that give off nothing except rigidity, And I jut against you if I try to move, for you are everywhere, and I am blind, Sightless among all your visuality, You staring caryatids. See if I don't bring you down, and all your high opinion And all your ponderous roofed-in ******** of right and wrong Your particular heavens, With a smash. See if your skies aren't falling! And my head, at least, is thick enough to stand it, the smash. See if I don't move under a dark and nude, vast heaven When your world is in ruins, under your fallen skies. Caryatids, pale-faces. See if I am not Lord of the dark and moving hosts Before I die.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Merlin “Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see, So far beyond the faint edge of the world? D’ye look to see the lady Vivian, Pursued by divers ominous vile demons That have another king more fierce than ours? Or think ye that if ye look far enough And hard enough into the feathery west Ye’ll have a glimmer of the Grail itself? And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady, What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?” So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knight Because he loved him as he laughed at him, Intoned his idle presence on a day To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone, Had there been in him thought of anything Save what was murmured now in Camelot Of Merlin’s hushed and all but unconfirmed Appearance out of Brittany. It was heard At first there was a ghost in Arthur’s palace, But soon among the scullions and anon Among the knights a firmer credit held All tongues from uttering what all glances told— Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon, Fearing he might say more to Lancelot Of Merlin’s rumor-laden resurrection Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish, Had sauntered off with his imagination To Merlin’s Rock, where now there was no Merlin To meditate upon a whispering town Below him in the silence. —Once he said To Gawaine: “You are young; and that being so, Behold the shining city of our dreams And of our King. ”—“Long live the King,” said Gawaine. — “Long live the King,” said Merlin after him; “Better for me that I shall not be King; Wherefore I say again, Long live the King, And add, God save him, also, and all kings— All kings and queens. I speak in general. Kings have I known that were but weary men With no stout appetite for more than peace That was not made for them. ”—“Nor were they made For kings,” Gawaine said, laughing. —“You are young, Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world Between your fingers, knowing not what it is That you are holding. Better for you and me, I think, that we shall not be kings. ” Gawaine, Remembering Merlin’s words of long ago, Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again, He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard: “There’s more afoot and in the air to-day Than what is good for Camelot. Merlin May or may not know all, but he said well To say to me that he would not be King. Nor more would I be King. ” Far down he gazed On Camelot, until he made of it A phantom town of many stillnesses, Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings To reign in, without omens and obscure Familiars to bring terror to their days; For though a knight, and one as hard at arms As any, save the fate-begotten few That all acknowledged or in envy loathed, He felt a foreign sort of creeping up And down him, as of moist things in the dark,— When Dagonet, coming on him unawares, Presuming on his title of Sir Fool, Addressed him and crooned on till he was done: “What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?” “Sir Dagonet, you best and wariest Of all dishonest men, I look through Time, For sight of what it is that is to be. I look to see it, though I see it not. I see a town down there that holds a king, And over it I see a few small clouds— Like feathers in the west, as you observe; And I shall see no more this afternoon Than what there is around us every day, Unless you have a skill that I have not To ferret the invisible for rats. ” “If you see what’s around us every day, You need no other showing to go mad. Remember that and take it home with you; And say tonight, ‘I had it of a fool— With no immediate obliquity For this one or for that one, or for me. ’” Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously: “I’ll not forget I had it of a knight, Whose only folly is to fool himself; And as for making other men to laugh, And so forget their sins and selves a little, There’s no great folly there. So keep it up, As long as you’ve a legend or a song, And have whatever sport of us you like Till havoc is the word and we fall howling. For I’ve a guess there may not be so loud A sound of laughing here in Camelot When Merlin goes again to his gay grave In Brittany. To mention lesser terrors, Men say his beard is gone. ” “Do men say that?” A twitch of an impatient weariness Played for a moment over the lean face Of Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly: “The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing, One of these days. ”—Gawaine looked hard at him: “If I be too familiar with a fool, I’m on the way to be another fool,” He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him: “Yes, Dagonet,” he ventured, with a laugh, “Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly, And that he shines now as the Lord’s anointed, And wears the valiance of an ageless youth Crowned with a glory of eternal peace. ” Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head: “I grant your valiance of a kind of youth To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question; For, though I know no more than any churl Who pinches any chambermaid soever In the King’s palace, I look not to Merlin For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb He comes again to Camelot. Time swings A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace Goes down before its edge like so much clover. No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes, Without a trumpet—and without a beard, If what you say men say of him be true— Nor yet for sudden war. ” Gawaine, for a moment, Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet, And, making nothing of it, looked abroad As if at something cheerful on all sides, And back again to the fool’s unasking eyes: “Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace, Let Merlin stay away from Brittany,” Said he, with admiration for the man Whom Folly called a fool: “And we have known him; We knew him once when he knew everything. ” “He knew as much as God would let him know Until he met the lady Vivian. I tell you that, for the world knows all that; Also it knows he told the King one day That he was to be buried, and alive, In Brittany; and that the King should see The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed Away to Vivian in Broceliande, Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods Of many savors, and sweet ortolans. Wise books of every lore of every land Are there to fill his days, if he require them, And there are players of all instruments— Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms And there forgets that any town alive Had ever such a name as Camelot. So Vivian holds him with her love, they say, And he, who has no age, has not grown old. I swear to nothing, but that’s what they say. That’s being buried in Broceliande For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy. But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard This tale, or many like it, more than once; And you must know that Love, when Love invites Philosophy to play, plays high and wins, Or low and loses. And you say to me, ‘If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay Away from Brittany. ’ Gawaine, you are young, And Merlin’s in his grave. ” “Merlin said once That I was young, and it’s a joy for me That I am here to listen while you say it. Young or not young, if that be burial, May I be buried long before I die. I might be worse than young; I might be old. ”— Dagonet answered, and without a smile: “Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that; A fancy—a mere fancy. ” Then he smiled: “And such a doom as his may be for you, Gawaine, should your untiring divination Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord. And when you stake your wisdom for a woman, Compute the woman to be worth a grave, As Merlin did, and say no more about it. But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high! Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,—and her love. Gawaine, farewell. ” “Farewell, Sir Dagonet, And may the devil take you presently. ” He followed with a vexed and envious eye, And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet’s Departure, till his gaunt obscurity Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees. “Poor fool!” he murmured. “Or am I the fool? With all my fast ascendency in arms, That ominous clown is nearer to the King Than I am—yet; and God knows what he knows, And what his wits infer from what he sees And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows Of Lancelot, or what I might know now, Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool To springe a friend. … No, I like not this day. There’s a cloud coming over Camelot Larger than any that is in the sky,— Or Merlin would be still in Brittany, With Vivian and the viols. It’s all too strange. ” And later, when descending to the city, Through unavailing casements he could hear The roaring of a mighty voice within, Confirming fervidly his own conviction: “It’s all too strange, and half the world’s half crazy!”— He scowled: “Well, I agree with Lamorak. ” He frowned, and passed: “And I like not this day. ”

Written by Robert Frost | Home Burial He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: 'What is it you see From up there always -- for I want to know. ' She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: 'What is it you see?' Mounting until she cowered under him. 'I will find out now -- you must tell me, dear. ' She, in her place, refused him any help With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see, Blind creature; and a while he didn't see. But at last he murmured, 'Oh' and again, 'Oh. ' 'What is it -- what?' she said. 'Just that I see. ' 'You don't,' she challenged. 'Tell me what it is. ' 'The wonder is I didn't see at once. I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason. ' The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it. Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? There are three stones of slate and one of marble, Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those. But I understand: it is not the stones, But the child's mound --' 'Don't, don't, don't, don't,' she cried. She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs; And turned on him with such a daunting look, He said twice over before he knew himself: 'Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?' 'Not you! Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it! I must get out of here. I must get air. I don't know rightly whether any man can. ' 'Amy! Don't go to someone else this time. Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs. ' He sat and fixed his chin between his fists. 'There's something I should like to ask you, dear. ' 'You don't know how to ask it. ' 'Help me, then. ' Her fingers moved the latch for all reply. 'My words are nearly always an offence. I don't know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught I should suppose. I can't say I see how, A man must partly give up being a man With women-folk. We could have some arrangement By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you're a-mind to name. Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love. Two that don't love can't live together without them. But two that do can't live together with them. ' She moved the latch a little. 'Don't -- don't go. Don't carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it's something human. Let me into your grief. I'm not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother-loss of a first child So inconsolably- in the face of love. You'd think his memory might be satisfied --' 'There you go sneering now!' 'I'm not, I'm not! You make me angry. I'll come down to you. God, what a woman! And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead. ' 'You can't because you don't know how. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand--how could you?--his little grave; I saw you from that very window there, Making the gravel leap and leap in air, Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly And roll back down the mound beside the hole. I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes. You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave And talk about your everyday concerns. You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it. ' 'I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed. I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed. ' I can repeat the very words you were saying , "Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build. " Think of it, talk like that at such a time! What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlour? You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretence of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand. But the world's evil. I won't have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't' 'There, you have said it all and you feel better. You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door. The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up? Amyl There's someone coming down the road!' 'You --oh, you think the talk is all. I must go- Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you --' 'If--you -- do!' She was opening the door wider. 'Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! --'