A Retort Discourteous

This is a poem that I read and memorized yesterday. It's by Stephen Vincent Benet. It's one of the most beautiful ballads I've ever encountered.

But what, by the fur on your satin sleeves,
And the rain that drags at my feather.
And great Mercurius, god of thieves,
Are we thieves doing together?

Last night your blades bit deep for their hire,
And we were the sickled barely.
Tonight atoast by the common fire,
You ask me to join your parley.

Your spears are shining like Iceland spar,
The blood-grapes drip for your drinking.
For you folk follow the rising star,
But I follow the star that's sinking.

My queen is old as the frosted whins,
Nay, how could her wrinkles charm me.
And the starving bones are bursting the skinds,
In the ranks of her ancient army.

You marshall a steel and silken troop,
Your cressets are fed with spices.
And you battter the world like a rolling hoop,
To a goal of your proud devices.

I've rocked your thrones, but your fight is won,
Tonight, at the highest bidder.
You offer a share of your brigand sun,
Consider, old bull, consider.

Ahead, red Death, and the fear of Death,
Your vultures stoop to their slaughter.
But I shall fight you body and breath,
Til my life runs out like water!

My queen is wan as the polar snows,
Her host is a rout of specteres.
I gave her Youth like a burning rose,
And her age shall not lack protectors.

I shall not turn for the thunderclap,
Nor the face of the woman who bore me.
With her battered badge still scarring my cap,
And the drums of defeat before me.

Roll your hand in the honey of life,
Kneel to your white-necked strumpets.
You gained your crowns with a squealing fife,
But I shall go out with trumpets.

Poison the steel of the plunging dart,
Hulloa your hounds to their stations.
I march to my ruin with such a heart,
As a king to his coronation.

Your poets roar of your golden feats-
I have herded the stars like cattle.
And you may die in the perfumed sheets,
But I shall die in battle.

I just copied that down that off the top of my head.

EDIT: See, this is why the "me" thing needs to pass into memory. It takes away from the beauty of the language.

 

What episode?

 

Mmm...it's alright, but could've been so much more, in my opinion. The rhythm is out of kilter as well - not vital, but a flow to the words is always nice.

What's your interpretation of it?

[Edit] - The name escapes me, but there's a fantastic poem by a relatively unknown Australian World War One poet called Harry McCann - I'll try to post it tonight.

Also, the song in my sig, Dire Straits' Brothers in Arms, while maybe not too complex, really struck a chord with me (especially the first verse). Take a listen, but you might want the lyrics - they're a tad hard to hear.

 

Yes, Benet has always been criticized for his imperfect rhyming...but I love it anyway. I have to study the background of the poem. It said in parentheses below the title "Italy, 16th century." I'm not sure what that meant, but I'm assuming the poem refers to a conflict in that country and era, since I know Benet didn't write it then, since he wrote during the 19th century.
I love the verse in your sig.

 

The rhyming isn't too bad, it's just that the rhythm is a little jarring at times. Still a good piece, though.

The first verse of Brothers in Arms gives the feeling of being 'set', for lack of a better word, in that sort of ambiguous period of time when real civilizations started rising, and eventually meeting. Try to think of it in that context, and enjoy it even more.

I don't have that other poem (and can't find it on the net), but it's called Killed in Action, by Harry McCann.

 

Well, I like it, but for some reason (I think its to do with that old lady thing) I associate it with an English soldier talking about his Queen and how he would rather die with a hight heart then die feeling insecure and comfortable. And I associate Settler's sig with Russian camaraderie (spelling?) during WWII.

But here's my poem

The Boy, over there, on the bed,
Cloudy,
Patchy,
Fog,
Grey,
Purple,
White,
Blue,
Mauve,
Bland colours fill his thoughts,
And dreams,
That he hardly remembers,
Sorrow filled awakenings,
Tormented slumber,
Nothing is at peace,
He longs to fly,
With the birds,
Spread his aching, feathered wings,
And join his soul mates in the sky,
Tormented,
Volatile,
Vulgar,
Faces fill his thoughts,
As his eyes are closed,
Black,
Bleak,
Despair, longing, waiting,
For something, that may never come,
Worse thought,
It May not even exist,
What am I looking for?
What am I waiting for?
I need to get out,
Of my life, somehow,
I wish I were in hospital,
Maybe a mental hospital,
Where people give you drugs,
To make the pain go away,
And sleeping pills,
To make your slumber, dreamless,
And when you wake you feel rested and happy to be alive,
Not wishing you will die during the night,
Instead I feel exhausted, like living is a chore,
I don't care about anything or anyone anymore,
I am empty inside,
And it makes me so sad to admit that,
I am scattered.

 

Mmmm...brilliant, SeaDog...is that one of yours?

 

Since were all getting so poetic all of a sudden, perhaps i'll share one of my last endeavor into the useless, self-indulgent world of poetic writing.

Here is my poem;

She walks in shades of blue
And everyone around her can feel the morning dew
In her shadows
She’s sad but does she know it
All is a greenish shade of you
But what can you say?
You don’t know so you say nothing
And a feeling you were loving...
Is thrown away
God please, what do i do

The trees are naked underground
Leaves and leaves and leaves and leaves

Where did you go?

And leaves and leaves and leaves and leaves...

Pass me the ball,
I have all the friends I need
And leaves and leaves...
The trees are naked underground
What do you do?
Destroy herself in you.
And leaves and leaves and
And ah

Does she cry in shades of you?
And none of them around her will ever know
Where does she go when she is lonely?
When
Does
She
Dance?
And leaves and leaves...
When will yours fall?
Will they at all?

Great tragedy

 

Nice Jeek, I like deep poems that you have to think about to find the meaning, and yes I wrote that poem Settler.