Tuesday, November 13, 2012


My head is unusually of ideas today, but all of them are crap (more than usual, that is), so I feel that pressing urge that something needs to be posted, but nothing is leaping over the very low hurdle of my crappy content bar.

I hate poetry. When re-reading the Lord of the Rings, I skip the poems. When I read anything with poems embedded in it, I skip the poems. I don't like them. If they have something valuable to say, then surely it can be said better without a meter, and if you have a meter, then you might as well put in some music. Poems on a page do absolutely nothing for me. Humorous limericks and the like don't really count for this, nor do the bits of Shakespeare which are intended to be read as dialogue more than as poetry.

Except this one; the only poem I have ever appreciated:

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.' 
-P. B. Shelley.

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