Do you like Poetry?
- Thread starter Elias
- Start date
I like poetry from before the 20th century, with a few exceptions. After the boom of free and blank verse, anyone who felt weepy would write a loose association of words and it was called poetry.
I like rhymes and meter. They aren't necessary, but if you're not going to use them, at least use flowery language....or have a point.
I like rhymes and meter. They aren't necessary, but if you're not going to use them, at least use flowery language....or have a point.
the only time i write poetry if i have an assignment in school and everytime i read them everyone (minus the teacher) looks at me like i'm crazy or "what you jus say/ huh !? and there are scared of them because the seem dark (thats what they say)
i like poems but hate those old poems with old english (it's confusing)
Here is one of my fav poem<3:
Frankie and Johnnie
Here is one of my fav poem<3:
Frankie and Johnnie
Frankie and Johnnie were lovers,
O, my Gawd, how they could love,
They swore to be true to each other,
As true as the stars above;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie was a good woman,
As everybody knows,
Gave her man a hundred dollars,
To get him a suit of clothes;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie and Johnnie went walking,
Johnnie in his bran' new suit,
"Oh, my Gawd," said Frankie,
"But don't my Johnnie look cute?"
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to Memphis,
Went on the morning train,
Paid a hundred dollars,
Got Johnnie a watch and chain;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie lived in a crib-house,
Crib-house with only two doors,
Gave her money to Johnnie,
He spent it on those parlour whores;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to the corner,
Went for a bucket of beer,
She said, "Oh, Mr. Bar-tender,
Has my loving Johnnie been here?
He is my man, and he's done me wrong."
"I won't make you no trouble,
I won't tell you no lie,
But I saw Johnnie an hour ago
With a girl named Nellie Bly;
He is your man, and he's doing you wrong."
Frankie went to the hock-shop,
Bought her a big forty-four,
Aimed that gun at the ceiling,
Shot a big hole in the floor;
"Now where's my man that's doing me wrong?"
Frankie went down to the hook-shop,
Looked in at a window so high,
There she saw her Johnnie,
Loving up Nellie Bly,
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie went up to the front door,
She rang the front-door bell,
Said, "Stand back, all you chippies,
Or I'll blow you all to hell;
I want my man, who's done me wrong."
Frankie went into the hook-shop,
She didn't go there for fun,
'Cause underneath her kimona
She toted that forty-four gun;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie looked in at the keyhole,
And there before her eye,
She saw her Johnnie on the sofa,
A loving up Nellie Bly;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie threw back her kimona,
Took out the little forty-four,
Roota-toot-toot, three times she shoot,
Right through that hardwood door;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Johnnie grabbed off his Stetson,
Said, "Oh, Gawd, Frankie, don't shoot!"
But she pressed hard on the trigger,
And the gun went roota-toot-toot;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
"Roll me over easy,
Oh, roll me over slow,
Roll me over on my right side,
'Cause my left side hurts me so."
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
"Bring out your rubber-tyred buggy,
Bring out your rubber-tyred hack,
I'll take my man to the graveyard,
But I won't bring him back;
He was my man, but he done me wrong."
They brought out the rubber-tyred hearses,
They brought out the rubber-tyred hack,
Thirteen men went to the graveyard,
But only twelve came back;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
"Bring 'round a hundred policemen,
Bring 'em around to-day,
And lock me in that jail-house,
Then throw the key away;
I shot my man, 'cause he done me wrong.
"I've saved up a little money,
I'll save up a little more,
I'll send it all to his widow,
And say it's from the girl next door;
He was my man, but he done me wrong."
Frankie went to the madame,
She fell down on her knees,
"Forgive me, Mrs. Halcome,
Forgive me, if you please;
I've killed my man, 'cause he done me wrong."
"Forgive you, Frankie darling?
Forgive you I never can.
Forgive you, Frankie darling,
For shooting your only man?
For he was your man, though he done you wrong."
Frankie went to the coffin,
Looked down at his face,
Said, "Oh, Lord, have mercy on me,
I'd like to take his place;
He was my man, but he done me wrong."
A rubber-tyred buggy,
A rubber-tyred hack,
Took poor Frankie to the jail-house
But it didn't bring her back;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie sat in her prison,
Had no electric fan,
Told her little sister,
Never marry no sporting man;
"I had a man, but he done me wrong."
The Sheriff took Frankie to the gallows,
Hung her until she died,
They hung her for killing Johnnie,
And the undertaker waited outside;
She killed her man, 'cause he done her wrong.
by Anonymous
O, my Gawd, how they could love,
They swore to be true to each other,
As true as the stars above;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie was a good woman,
As everybody knows,
Gave her man a hundred dollars,
To get him a suit of clothes;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie and Johnnie went walking,
Johnnie in his bran' new suit,
"Oh, my Gawd," said Frankie,
"But don't my Johnnie look cute?"
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to Memphis,
Went on the morning train,
Paid a hundred dollars,
Got Johnnie a watch and chain;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie lived in a crib-house,
Crib-house with only two doors,
Gave her money to Johnnie,
He spent it on those parlour whores;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to the corner,
Went for a bucket of beer,
She said, "Oh, Mr. Bar-tender,
Has my loving Johnnie been here?
He is my man, and he's done me wrong."
"I won't make you no trouble,
I won't tell you no lie,
But I saw Johnnie an hour ago
With a girl named Nellie Bly;
He is your man, and he's doing you wrong."
Frankie went to the hock-shop,
Bought her a big forty-four,
Aimed that gun at the ceiling,
Shot a big hole in the floor;
"Now where's my man that's doing me wrong?"
Frankie went down to the hook-shop,
Looked in at a window so high,
There she saw her Johnnie,
Loving up Nellie Bly,
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie went up to the front door,
She rang the front-door bell,
Said, "Stand back, all you chippies,
Or I'll blow you all to hell;
I want my man, who's done me wrong."
Frankie went into the hook-shop,
She didn't go there for fun,
'Cause underneath her kimona
She toted that forty-four gun;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie looked in at the keyhole,
And there before her eye,
She saw her Johnnie on the sofa,
A loving up Nellie Bly;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie threw back her kimona,
Took out the little forty-four,
Roota-toot-toot, three times she shoot,
Right through that hardwood door;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Johnnie grabbed off his Stetson,
Said, "Oh, Gawd, Frankie, don't shoot!"
But she pressed hard on the trigger,
And the gun went roota-toot-toot;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
"Roll me over easy,
Oh, roll me over slow,
Roll me over on my right side,
'Cause my left side hurts me so."
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
"Bring out your rubber-tyred buggy,
Bring out your rubber-tyred hack,
I'll take my man to the graveyard,
But I won't bring him back;
He was my man, but he done me wrong."
They brought out the rubber-tyred hearses,
They brought out the rubber-tyred hack,
Thirteen men went to the graveyard,
But only twelve came back;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
"Bring 'round a hundred policemen,
Bring 'em around to-day,
And lock me in that jail-house,
Then throw the key away;
I shot my man, 'cause he done me wrong.
"I've saved up a little money,
I'll save up a little more,
I'll send it all to his widow,
And say it's from the girl next door;
He was my man, but he done me wrong."
Frankie went to the madame,
She fell down on her knees,
"Forgive me, Mrs. Halcome,
Forgive me, if you please;
I've killed my man, 'cause he done me wrong."
"Forgive you, Frankie darling?
Forgive you I never can.
Forgive you, Frankie darling,
For shooting your only man?
For he was your man, though he done you wrong."
Frankie went to the coffin,
Looked down at his face,
Said, "Oh, Lord, have mercy on me,
I'd like to take his place;
He was my man, but he done me wrong."
A rubber-tyred buggy,
A rubber-tyred hack,
Took poor Frankie to the jail-house
But it didn't bring her back;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.
Frankie sat in her prison,
Had no electric fan,
Told her little sister,
Never marry no sporting man;
"I had a man, but he done me wrong."
The Sheriff took Frankie to the gallows,
Hung her until she died,
They hung her for killing Johnnie,
And the undertaker waited outside;
She killed her man, 'cause he done her wrong.
by Anonymous
Cloudbuster
Active member
Great song
Also liked the eponymous movie with Pacino and Pfeiffer.
I enjoy Edgar Alan Poe´s poetry and prose
Last edited:
Sasunarufan13
Active member
Only Edgar Allan Poe and Shakespeare - those are the only exceptions I'm willing to make. I'm not interested in other poetry *shrugs*
KimiNiTodoke
Active member
Awards
LeafSpirit 20
Active member
I didn't bother to read poems or even consider them as a form of art until I started studying Literature last year, and I actually discovered it's so much more than expressing your views on a certain topic or ranting about the injustice in the world and so on.
There are many many poetic devices and techniques and forms and meters and ryhmes and styles that need to be considered when writing poetry and delivering a message.
So not any person with a piece of paper who writes stanzas is a poet.
Favourite poems are One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde, and a few of W. H. Auden's
There are many many poetic devices and techniques and forms and meters and ryhmes and styles that need to be considered when writing poetry and delivering a message.
So not any person with a piece of paper who writes stanzas is a poet.
Favourite poems are One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde, and a few of W. H. Auden's