Sometimes you have to meet a poem halfway. For instance, I always thought that strategically inserting the phrase "you pencil-dicks" into "Ozymandias" would really increase its impact and relevance.

Now, see, if you had a title like "The Second Coming" and then underneath it posted a pic of Justine Bateman, you would easily start making that double entendre fueled crazy blog money.

But this poetry shit? I think you owe me a paypal donation for killing my buzz.

I like your Dad, though. He seems like a pretty cool guy. Maybe he could write a post or two?

Plus, I heard Maud Gonne was totally, like, a dude. Yeats = teh ghey.

As some one who, much to my shame, is currently in training to analyze and propogate poetry for "a living,"
[Slogan: "Frickin' Kids! I don't need this - I have a MASter's degree in FOLKlore and myTHOLogy"]

, I have to agree.

This is probably the "best" part, and it's also creepy in a first-time-you-saw-Marilyn-Manson-on-MTV (caveat: "you" were 12-13 at the time), not a first-time-you-watched-Clockwork Orange kinda way.

"somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds."

(I've been up for 50+ hours, so I'm in a pretty manic state. Sorry for vomiting all over your boards like this.)

I guess I'm trying to figure out how "indignant" desert birds display this particular attitude.

Are you drunk? Or did you lose big at p*ker.

In other news, is that smoke I see eminating from John Howard's pants, indicating that he's "On F'n Fire!?" Check out the interview posted on Insty...

"If you imagine that you can buy immunity from fanatics by curling yourself in a ball, apologising for the world - to the world - for who you are and what you stand for and what you believe in, not only is that morally bankrupt, but it's also ineffective."

Hey Knemon, have you tried Lithium?

I can just hear Papa Titus, played by Stacey Keach, reciting almost exactly what you just wrote, with the exception of a few "wussies" thrown in for good measure. Hilarious.

Agreed, John Howard was kicking ass today.

If only Blair wasn't such a pandering asshole....[sigh]

I like a little fancy explication de texte on occasion.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

So you have peace, war, and a loveless, heartless, depressed old bastard without the mercies of either Val-u-Rite discount vodka or God, who has been rejected. Yeah, his nightmare was vexed, alright. Too bad this rough beast couldn't slouch toward a bar once in a while. Project much? And keep your sarcasm about Jesus to yourself, motherfucker.

... I love those emotional, touching father-son conversations ...

/TJ
... NIF
... The Wide Awakes

I've never much been one for poetry Ace, but perhaps due to the early hour, I found myself in a serene calm while reading through your Yeats.

Thank you for snapping me back to reality with your father's eloquence. I almost forgot why I hated that "pussy-shit" in high school.

I think people write peotry because they're too lame to write an actual short story or novel. Never could stand the stuff - except Haikus, of course.

This? This is no poem.

It doesn't even fuckin' rhyme.

Now that was a funny fucking post.

Ace,
I shot coffee out my nose. Do we have the same old man? Sheezus Cripes.

That was HIGH-larious. In the first part I really thought Ace was getting all nancy-fancy on us.
And rdbrewer's interpretation was excellent.

Too bad this rough beast couldn't slouch toward a bar once in a while. Project much

Heh. Indeed.

Now why am I not surprised your father read you poems about the coming of the anti-Christ?

Effing poser.

I figured ace was posting drunk with the first part, the second part redeemed it. Nice

Now this is more like it.

I do have to wonder why your old man would be reading pussy-shit so much that his poetry tome would be dog-eared.

Perhaps there was some Kipling in there.

(And no, I've never Kippled.)

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Proof that Yeats unknowingly predicted Hillary was the anit christ.

At the risk of being ostracised (however, lets be honest, not a single one of you should be "ostracising" *anyone*), I like the poem. And, in general I like Yeats.

I also like Slayer too, so suck it. :P

Damn, rdbrewer, that was just brilliant! I never would have seen all that without your help. Now I'm sorry I didn't major in English Lit.

Great demented explication, a lost art, brewer.

Wow, great post and wonderful comments.
Together they were a perfect model of, um Synergy.
(or Host/Parasite relationship, I forget which).
Anyway, my Little Gay Guy inside, liked it even though I didn't understand the hidden Paul Anka reference.

Oh, and I'm with fat kid -- I like the poem. It's got some great imagery in it. And is marvelous to use when you're pissed off at someone because they're nuts. Though I know it's supposed to be about the world, it seems to me to describe some mentally ill people, too.

I also like T.S. Eliot (esp. Little Gidding(sp?)) and W.H. Auden. And lots of others who don't rhyme.

Ahem. That should be Mister Paul Anka, if you please.

My god people. This is a CONSERVATIVE poem. God is the falconer and we are the falcons who are losing touch with our faith in something greater than ourselves as we drift away in the "widening gyre". Look at Europe to see the good lacking all conviction and the worst full of passionate intensity. Liberalism is the "blood dimmed tide" and...

To Hell with it. It sucks but in a good way.

it's all about the IRA conflict, isn't it?

It's either about that or "indignant desert birds."

Think that was a typo.
Surely he meant 'indigent.'
Indigent desert birds.
Makes way more sense. Nothing to eat in the desert.

Well, those are them rude arab wimmens, indigent or not.

Ahhhh! Ballantine Ale, that's the proper context.

RDBrewer, I have saved your brilliant post. Last week it was Ace fisking a perfectly harmless archeology article; this week it's you fisking Yeats. I suppose next week will bring a fisking of H.M.S. Pinafore - whatever it is, I'll be watching.

I just want to know why Ace's dad called him "Nancyboy?"

Ace, did you like high fashion? Did you play the violin? Take ballet? Have curly blonde locks?

What???

Thanks, LauraW, Michael, Persona, and Wanda. It went to my head, and I started a new thread at The Perfect World for hypercritical analysis. Enjoyed using the riffs, Ace.

Poems are bad, Haikus are OK ... but Limericks, NOW YOU ARE TALKING!

/TJ