Tag Archives: poets

Text of “If” by Rudyard Kipling

EDITORIAL NOTE: Hey 3.5 readers.  BQB here.  Professor Nannerpants is busy sipping champagne with royalty in Monte Carlo, but he says this poem will be your next homework assignment.  So check it out and leave your thoughts about what it all means in the comments.

“If”

By: Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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Search Engine Optimized Poet – Who Bought the Playboy Mansion?

:::Bongo Drum Beats:::

Hey there all you hep cats and hep kittens. Come on down to the East Randomtown Java Bean, where the poets always stink and the cups are never clean.

Next on the mic is the one and only Search Engine Optimized Poet…the only rhyme-smith whose beats bring in the Googler’s feets, ya dig?

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Playboy Mansion! Whoa, Playboy Mansion!

Who in the hell purchased you?

Is Hugh Hefner’s reign really though?

I heard Hugh’s neighbor bought you.

To combine both properties and make one out of two.

Your new owner owns Twinkies, the snack cake filled with cream.

I feel like with that mansion, there are jokes to be made about cream.

Dare I dream?

No it would be too obscene.

Charlie Sheen.

He probably would have liked to live there.

I hope I don’t get eaten by a bear.

What is the best brand of underwear?

Can I go to IKEA to buy a chair?

Stare.

At BQB’s web hits as they go up.

Why does that guy at Starbucks write my name on my cup?

I know who I am. I don’t need to be told twice.

If I borrow my friend’s hat, will I come down with lice?

Nice. Is that a good way to be?

I wouldn’t know.

I spend all my time up a tree.

Yippee. It’s time to take a snooze.

Can someone tell me what is the best brand of mattress to use?

I suppose whichever one I choose.

What is happening in the daily news?

The election.

I should give it an inspection.

To determine the country’s ultimate direction.

Wait a minute. I just found my old playboy mags and got an erection.

Damnation. This whole poem needs an entire course correction.

Confection. It’s a sugary snack.

Can you believe that Jon Snow is back?

I’m the worst poet ever. Truly, a hack.

Talent is something that I utterly lack.

Will Fox ever bring Firefly back?

What are the lyrics to Love Shack?

It was the B-52’s greatest hit.

Back in the 90’s. So long ago. I can’t believe it.

Holy shit. Where did the time go?

Can anyone recommend a site that will teach me to sew?

I don’t know. But I know I ripped my pants.

Because I watched So You Think You Can Dance?

And fooled myself into thinking, “Yes. I do think I can dance.”

Like Lady Gaga, I’m trapped in a bad romance…

…with myself. I don’t know how to leave me.

I have dumped myself a thousand times but I inevitably go back to retrieve me.

I shouldn’t take myself back. I will only deceive me.

Perhaps myself and I should get a divorce.

I could drive away. Myself could leave on a horse.

The Norse. Aren’t they from Norway?

I have hit rock bottom. I have nothing left to say.

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Search Engine Optimized Poet #2 – Why Do Men Have Nipples?

Nipples!  Whoa, nipples!up-korora-beatnik-800px

Why are there nipples on a man?

It’s not like they can squirt milk into a can.

Or can they?  A Google search for this info is now a part of my plan.

Flan?  How do I make it?

And your coffee.  How do you take it?

Is a Keurig easy to use?

Which brand of java should I use?

Booze.  Which kind is best to get me drunk?

Will the city dump take all of my junk?

I’m in a funk.  Because I want to know whether or not it will rain.

And which is the best laundry detergent?  Tide or Gain?

Who is that stuck up dude who used to play Dr. Frasier Crane?

Oh search engine, there is so much for you to explain.

Like why are there bubbles in champagne?

Maybe to help me celebrate.

What is the best site to find a date?

How many oranges come in a crate?

Does anyone remember that old TV show, “Sister Kate?”

Wasn’t it only on air for a year?

Where can I find the tastiest beer?

There are so many things that I fear.

Like what do I do if I get bitten by a gnome?

Will I be ok?  Should I just go on home?

Foam.  Where can I find a pillow made out of foam?

Did E.T. ever phone home?

Of that film, I am very fond.

Speaking of movies, who was the best James Bond?

Do gentlemen really prefer blondes?

How do I take of my fern’s delicate fronds?

I wish there weren’t so many questions floating around inside my mind.

Oh Internet, sweet Internet, I really am in a bind.

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Search Engine Optimized Slam Poetry

:::Bongo drum beats:::

ANNOUNCER: Oh yeah.  Welcome all you hep cats and kittens to the East Randomtown Java Bean, where our poets are never good and the cups are never clean.

Sit back, relax and feast your ears on frequently used search engine terms, as recited by a far out beatnik, ya’ dig?

Kardashian!  Kardashian!

Nude photos are what I do seek.

Sleek and sexy pics of a goddess created in 1980 though I swear her bosoms must have started cooking in 1975. You jive?

This mole!  This mole!  This mole that is on my back.up-korora-beatnik-800px

Should I get it looked at, Jack?

When my mole changes colors, is it bad?

Is it just one of the many bodily imperfections that makes me, me?

Or is it the calling card of the Grim Reaper? No it can’t be.

I am not ready.

Though will I ever be?

Probably not.

How much was that Samsung Galaxy that my neighbor bought?

Women!  Oh women!

How can I look better for chicks?

How can I drop flab and improve my abs?

Where I can I buy a selfie-stick?

Who killed JFK?  Will we meet aliens one day?

Is Trump’s hair for real?  Does Costco have good deals?

How many calories are in McDonald’s meals?

I’m trying to watch my weight.

How do I ask a foxy lady out on a date?

Pluto!  Oh Pluto!  Pluto, are you still a planet?

Or are you just Mickey Mouse’s dog?

How do I fix a toilet that’s been clogged?

Is there anything that Siri doesn’t know?

What in the hell is zero divided by zero?

Can you believe Khloe and Lamar gave it another go?

Whoa!  Put my mind at ease.

What’s the best treatment to cure my dog of those pesky fleas?

Is global warming caused by chopping down too many trees?

What smells can be removed with a spritz of Febreze?

Is there a way I can stop losing my car keys?

I want to go to the movies.

What time does the latest flick start?

And tell me…will I die if I hold in my fart?

Who does Caitlyn Jenner’s hair?

Can Ronda Rousey defeat me with one icy glare?

Is this the right season to buy a pear?

Should I go to IKEA to buy my next chair?

Stamos!  John Stamos!  How in the world does he still look so youthful?

How can I tell if my mate is being truthful?

I can’t think of a word that rhymes with truthful but I can think of thoughts that strain the minds of lesser men.

Why did Mike Brady spend so much time in his den?

Did it make him feel zen?

I know where I am but do you know where I’ve been?

I’ve been to Mars.  On a rocket that was thrustin’.

What’s the latest single from Bieber comma Justin?

Is it Sorry?  Is he really sorry?

What was the first video console ever made?

I bet it was Atari.

After a first date, how many days must I wait…before I can call that chick again?

Was Peter Parker’s father really named Ben?

Stress!  Oh stress!  How can I push you away?

When is the next holiday?

Is Adam Lambert gay?

Is that a cool question to even say?

It probably isn’t.  My apologies.

What is the best wine to drink while eating cheese?

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Happy World Poetry Day

Who is your favorite poet, 3.5 readers?

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Walt Whitman’s O Captain! My Captain!

Written to honor President Abe Lincoln after his assassination, Walt Whitman’s  O Captain!  My Captain! compares the end of the Civil War to the end of a long ship voyage, and Lincoln to a journey weary Captain. Makes sense, as Lincoln did guide the nation through some very choppy seas.

O Captain!  My Captain!

By: Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

The poem is often used as a tribute to leaders in general, and was prominently featured in Dead Poets Society, starring Robin Williams.

Fun fact – a Walt Whitman poetry book carelessly left on a toilet tank would go on to play an important part in AMC’s Breaking Bad.

So, good for you, WW, you honored a great president, and you were featured on a cable drama.

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Your Favorite Romantic Books and Poems

Valentine’s Day is around the corner.

What are your favorite romantic books and poems?  I am not asking so I can use them on women.  I just legitimately want to know as a literary connoisseur.

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What Will Your Verse Be?

All week long, I have wanted to write something about Robin Williams. With his zany, madcap energy and mile-a-minute comedic riffs, he was the very last person you would expect to check himself out early, wasn’t he? Much has been speculated on as everyone tries to figure out the why of it all – depression, drugs, a Parkinson’s Disease diagnosis. Truth be told, only he knew why and he didn’t choose to share with us the reason.

And that’s ok. He shared with us so much else.

For several months now, I’ve been trying to figure out my own voice on this blog. It is primarily a book blog, to share with you my thoughts on the latest novels I have been reading. Alas, life often gets in the way, weeks go by and I find that before I know it, much time has passed and the next book I planned to read and talk to you about is just sitting there on my shelf, growing dusty. Work, family commitments, general duties of taking care of myself and others – the business of life, it more often than not comes first.

For as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed of being a published author. Double Alas, it has yet to happen. Such is life. I find myself often wishing that I could go back in time – back to the days when I was picking a college major – and become an English teacher. That way, at the end of my life, if my dream of getting published never pans out, I could at least say that I spent my time on this planet being involved with something I love – reading books and talking to people about them. Maybe in a smaller way, that’s what I’m doing here.

Robin, you were an alien, a genie, a wacky doctor, an unconventional President, a down on his luck shrink, a DJ in Vietnam, and yes, you were even a divorced man who had to stoop to the level of dressing up like an old British nanny just to see his kids. But for the purposes of our little online community of literature lovers, your stint as an English teacher is what I’ll leave my readers with today:

The “What Will Your Verse Be?” Speech from Dead Poets Society (1989)

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love – these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, ‘O me! O life!…of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless..of cities filled with the foolish, what good amid these, O me, O life?’ Answer: that you are here; that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

As always, fellow Bookshelf Battlers, thank you for reading. I wish you the best of luck in finding your verse.

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