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Drama Presentation
Posted by: Janeane (---.cg.shawcable.net)
Date: April 24, 2003 10:42PM

Okay, I need a poem with lost of emotion in it. I am kinda looking towards something with an angry vibe, or sad vibe. No William Shakespeare stuff though, everyone picks him...Can anyone help me find a certain poem, or a certain poet that I could check out....Thank you in advance.


My Boy Jack
Posted by: Henryp (213.78.104.---)
Date: April 25, 2003 11:21AM

You could look at two poems by Rudyard Kipling;
My Boy Jack, written for his son killed in the First World War
Danny Deever, the execution of a soldier


Re: My Boy Jack
Posted by: Marian-NYC (---.nyc1.dsl.speakeasy.net)
Date: April 25, 2003 12:03PM

Angry AND sad:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Re: My Boy Jack
Posted by: Marian-NYC (---.nyc1.dsl.speakeasy.net)
Date: April 25, 2003 12:05PM

How about some PROPHET OF DOOM stuff? If you could get into character as Elijah or Jeremiah...

Second KINGS, Chapter 9 is where Elisha says that dogs will lick the blood of Jezebel.


Re: drama presentation
Posted by: RJAllen (193.114.111.---)
Date: April 25, 2003 12:37PM

Philip Larkin: Aubade or The old fools.
Robinson Jeffers: Steelhead.
One of Robert Browning's dramatic monologues (you'd have to edit down a bit, though)
Hopkins's Carrion comfort...


Re: Drama Presentation
Posted by: Pam Adams (---)
Date: April 25, 2003 12:42PM

How about Wilfred Owen's Dulce Et Decorum Est? Great for bitter.

pam


Re: Drama Presentation
Posted by: rikki (---.wc.optusnet.com.au)
Date: April 26, 2003 02:22AM

Another angry and sad one -


The Feud

I hear a cry from the Sansard cave,
O mother, will no one hearken?
A cry of the lost, will no one save?
A cry of the dead, though the oceans rave,
And the scream of a gull as he wheels o'er a grave,
While the shadows darken and darken.'

'Oh, hush thee, child, for the night is wet,
And the cloud-caves split asunder,
With lightning in a jagged fret,
Like the gleam of a salmon in the net,
When the rocks are rich in the red sunset,
And the stream rolls down in thunder.'

'Mother, O mother, a pain at my heart,
A pang like the pang of dying.'
'Oh, hush thee, child, for the wild birds dart
Up and down, and close and part,
Wheeling round where the black cliffs start,
And the foam at their feet is flying.'

'O mother, a strife like the black clouds'
And a peace that cometh after.'
'Hush, child, for peace is the end of life,
And the heart of a maiden finds peace as a wife,
But the sky and the cliffs and the ocean are rife
With the storm and thunder's laughter.'

'Come in, my sons, come in and rest,
For the shadows darken and darken,
And your sister is pale as the white swan's breast,
And her eyes are fixed and her lips are pressed
In the death of a name ye might have guessed,
Had ye twain been here to hearken.'

'Hush, mother, a corpse lies on the sand,
And the spray is round it driven,
It lies on its face, and one white hand
Points through the mist on the belt of strand
To where the cliffs of Sansard stand,
And the ocean's strength is riven.'

'Was it God, my sons, who laid him there?
Or the sea that left him sleeping?'
'Nay, mother, our dirks where his heart was bare,
As swift as the rain through the teeth of the air;
And the foam-fingers play in the Saxon's hair,
While the tides are round him creeping.'

'Oh, curses on you, hand and head,
Like the rains in this wild weather
The guilt of blood is swift and dread,
Your sister's face is cold and dead,
Ye may not part whom God would wed
And love hath knit together.'


Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)

Notes

"The ballad was written one evening in Drummondville" (Collected Poems [Vancouver: Clarke and Stuart, 1934]: 180).

Sansard: an invented placename?

dirks: knives.


Re: Drama Presentation
Posted by: Jeanete (---.220.137.193.in-addr.arpa)
Date: April 29, 2003 07:49AM

Dancing On The Grave Of A Son Of A Bitch
" It is in a collection of Diane Wakoski poems which has the same title. -- published in 1973/74 by Black Sparrow Press"


Dancing On The Grave Of A Son Of A Bitch

God damn it,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,
old man;
you've stepped on my shadow once too often,
you've been ubfaithful to me with other women,
women so cheap and insipid it psychs me out to think i might
ever
be put
in the same category with them;
you've left me alone so often that I might as well have been
a homesteader in Alaska
these past years;
and you've left me, thrown me out of your life
often enough
that I might as well be a newspaper,
differently discarded each day.
Now you're gone for good
and I don't know why
but your leaving actually made me as miserable
as an earthworm with no
earth,
but now I've crawled out of the ground where you stomped me
and I gradually stand taller and taller each
day.
I have learned to sing new songs,
and as I sing,
I'm going to dance on your grave
because you are
dead
dead
dead
under the earth with the rest of the shit,
I'm going to plant deadly nightshade
on your grassy mound
and make sure a hemlock tree starts growing there.
Henbane is too good for you,
but I'll let a bit grow there for good measure
because we want to dance,
we want to sing,
we want to throw this old man
to the wolves,
but they are too beautiful for him, singing in harmony
with each other.
So some white wolcves and I
will sing on your grave, old man
and dance for the joy of your death.
"Is this an angry statement?"
"No, it is a statement of joy."
"Will the sun shine again?"
"Yes,
yes,
yes,"
because I'mgoing to dance dance dance
Duncan's measure, and Pindar's tune,
Lorca's cadence, and Creeley's hum,
Steven's sirens and Williams' little Morris dance,
oh, the poets will call the tune,
and I will dance, dance, dance
on your grave, grave, grave,
because you're a sonofabitch, a sonofabitch,
and you tried to do me in,
but you cant cant cant.
You were a liar in a way I that only I know:
You ride a broken motorcycle,
You speak a dead language,
You are a bad plumber,
And you write with an inkless pen.
You were mean to me
and I've survived,
God damn you,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,
old man,
I'm going to learn every traditional dance,
every measure,
and dance dance dance on your grave
one step
for every time
you done me wrong.




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