Debate Rounds (5)
Round Two - write the verses of one Shakespearean sonnet
Round Three - write the verses of one Ode
Round Four - write one Limerick (no more then 10 lines)
Round Five - write one free verse poem
One--and only one--of your poems should be your own work. The rest should be the work of others, and there should be a link directing readers to the cite from which you acquired your transcript of the work. I hope this will be a fun debate! Gracias for accepting!
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war"s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
"Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the Judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers" eyes.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
An Ode is "a formal, often ceremonious lyric poem that addresses and often celebrates a person, place, thing, or idea. Its stanza forms vary."  To me, this poem just typifies this genre beautifully. And, Keats is amazing.
Citation One: http://www.poetryoutloud.org...
Citation Two: http://www.poetryoutloud.org...
I look forward to reading your next poem!
"Ode to a Nightingale" is one of the most famous " probably the most famous " of John Keats's Great Odes
The ode is a traditional Greek form that usually celebrates the person or object to which it is dedicated. In this poem, Keats celebrates the nightingale, a bird with a particularly magical voice.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,"
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain"
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:"Do I wake or sleep?
Ode : http://www.shmoop.com...
On the chest of a barmaid from Wales
was tattooed all the prices of ales
Whilst on her behind
For the sake of the blind
Was the very same thing, but in braille
I have found a few variations of the limerick, and it seems as if the author is unknown. I hope it amuses everyone.
A wonderful bird is the pelican
His bill can hold more than his belican
He can take in his beak
Food enough for a week
But I"m damned if I see how the helican
I look out from the porch:
I sense the still grasses
The rhythmic harp of the
Cicadas in the trees.
The sunbeams warm my bones
And I am loathe to move.
I should be out hunting
I should be active, but
I am content. There is
Nothing that I need now.
Why should I bestir myself?
My natural urges
Are suppressed by comfort,
So I lay here, aimless
Wondering why I am
Not fully content here.
Thanks to Lazy_Lipids for a great debate. Check out our Poetry Debate 2 if you liked this one! Thanks, please vote for me!
Mahatma Gandhi is remembered in the world for four major virtues. They are non-violence, truth, love and fraternity. By applying these four virtues he brought freedom to India. I have a self-composed poem on Mahatma Gandhi, fondly known as our Bapuji or Father of Our Nation(INDIA)
GANDHI - THE DOVE WITH A FIRE
Like a dove holding an olive branch
He marched across the saltwaters of dandi
Creating an event that marked
The birth of a leader-Gandhi
His pursuit was crystal clear
His desires widely known:
A broken rifle, a nation awakened
To rise above the torture it had been shown
A frail frame, a bony structure
An awaiting senescence-that's what he was;
From the outside-but this skeletal creature inspired an undivided
Nation to heal its inflicted scars.
The broken wings, the crushed dreams
Of an entire generation
Were brought back to life under Gandhi's
Relentless patience and determination
Be it Awadh, Ahmedabad or Surat
Gandhi left no stone unturned
To free his motherland from the clutches
Of the invaders, who had so gravely erred;
You can't hold back a wave of gushing energy
You can't stop a celestial hand
Likewise the rush of Patriotic emotions
Works like a magical wand
So lets immortalize the essence of Gandhi
There's still time to turn around
Lets reincarnate the figure of peace and harmony
cause our existencwe is time bound
Lets not be resilient, tolerant of injustice
Lets follow the golden path Gandhi left behind
Lets reignite the fire, the agitation in our hearts
To fight back the evil with our might....
- Shivani Prasad
1 votes has been placed for this debate.
Vote Placed by bsh1 3 years ago
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Reasons for voting decision: Okay, round per round analysis. R1: Summer's day is better. R2: Autumn is amazing. R3: Barmaid's bawdy humor is just too hard not to enjoy. R4: Both were nice, Gandhi was my favorite though. That's 2 for Pro, 2 for Con. Arguments are, therefore, tied. Sources will go Pro, however, because Con does not offer a link in round 4. Conduct is tied--nice civility by both contestants. S/G is also even. While I'm not a poetry aficionado, I thought this was an interesting experiment. Yet, literature is very subjective, so by telling judges to vote on the quality of the poems, your inviting subjectivity in results. The winner is left to chance--specifically, the chance that most voters will appreciate your selection more than your opponent's. You might want to find a more objective way to judge these debates in future, in order to improve the viability of this type of debate. Anyhow, bravo!
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