Log in

View Full Version : A Drumlin Woodchuck

November 11th, 2008, 04:38 PM
I've never been into poetry as a genre of writting. So I picked up the only poetry book I own, The Poems of Robert Frost, and I've been trying to get into it. Frost is cool, since I like nature as well.

Here's one I liked:

A Drumlin Woochuck
By Robert Frost

One thing has a shelving bank,
Another a rotting plank,
To give it cozier skies
And make up for its lack of size.

My own strategic retreat
Is where two rocks almost meet,
And still more secure and snug,
A two-door burrow I dug.

With those in mind at my back
I can sit forth exposed to attack
As one who shrewdly pretends
That he and the world are friends.

All we who prefer to live
Have a little whistle we give,
And flash, at the least alram
We dive down under the farm.

We allow some time for guile
And don't come out for a while
Either to eat or drink.
We take occasion to think.

And if after the hunt goes past
And the double-barreled blast
(Like war and pestilence
And the loss of common sense),

If I can with confidence say
That still for another day,
Or even another year,
I will be there for you, my dear,

It will be because, though small
As measured against the All,
I have been so instinctively thorough
About my crevice and burrow.

I'm thinking its saying he shelters himself people, so he can survive (he assumes people are dangerous, and I whole heartedly agree), all while maintaining the farce that "he and the world are friends", presumably so that the people he's sheltering himself from won't get wise to his game. His motivation for staying alive at all might be "his dear", in line 28. All this from the perspective of a woodchuck, but obviously applying to humans.

What do y'all make of it?

Tsar Phalanxia
November 11th, 2008, 05:24 PM
Good poetry is very good, but bad poetry is beyond awful. I'd say that was a good poem.

November 11th, 2008, 05:43 PM
... but bad poetry is beyond awful.

Just be happy its not Vogon poetry.

November 11th, 2008, 11:55 PM
The boy stood on the burning deck
His pocket full of crackers
One fell down his trouser leg
And blew off both his knackers.

(Wordsworth, "A Poem for Unix" 1066. Oxford University Press)

November 13th, 2008, 06:17 PM
The Lake

In youth's spring, it was my lot
To haunt of the wide earth a spot
The which I could not love the less;
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that tower'd around.
But when the night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot-as upon all,
And the wind would pass me by
In its still melody,
My infant spirit would awake
To the terror of that lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright
But a tremulous delight,
And a feeling undefin'd
Springing from a darken'd mind.
Death was in that poison'd wave
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his dark imagining;
Whose wild'ring thought could even make
An Eden of that dim lake.


thoughts Tsun?

Dr Goofy Mofo
November 13th, 2008, 06:22 PM
A poem Has the aspects of the reader and the writer. The writer is conveying his thoughts and the reader is interpreting the. The definition is then in the eye of the beholder. That is the beauty of poetry.

Speaking of Poe.

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

This is the only poem of anyone elses I have ever memorized it speaks to me and Understands me.

November 13th, 2008, 06:27 PM
Direct your eye inward, and you'll find
A thousand regions in your mind
Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be
Expert in home-cosmography.

William Habington

sam the moderately wize
November 18th, 2008, 12:36 PM
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour--

Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain--
Oh, might our marges meet again!

Who ordered, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?--
A god, a god their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.

To Margeurite, Matthew Arnold.

Possibly my favourite ever short poem.

Tsar Phalanxia
November 18th, 2008, 03:40 PM
Yay! Sam's back! ^_^
There is one at home, and when I get home I'll find and post it.

November 18th, 2008, 03:56 PM
don't scare him away...

(hi sam)

sam the moderately wize
November 19th, 2008, 08:18 PM
don't scare him away...

(hi sam)

Hello! :D

Last time I was here, the entire forum had become a waseland inhabited only by rival troll clans and intrepid rangers. I was perfectly justified in slinking away.

Tsar Phalanxia
November 19th, 2008, 11:15 PM
Hello! :D

Last time I was here, the entire forum had become a waseland inhabited only by rival troll clans and intrepid rangers. I was perfectly justified in slinking away.

Ofc. But that's fixed now. We think.