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Thread: Poetry for NTs?

  1. #11
    Senior Member Array SubjectA's Avatar
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    Jul 2009


    I figured any poem that makes you reflect on it would be interesting to an NT. I suppose it depends on how artistically inclined you are.

  2. #12
    Senior Member Array Willfrey's Avatar
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    Nov 2008


    Well, I don't know if this is for all NT's, but I enjoy Robert Service poetry simply because my father had a book of his work and I read it from a young age. Here is the poem that I get my signature from:

    The Shooting of Dan McGrew

    A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
    The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
    Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
    And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.
    When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and glare,
    There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
    He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
    Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
    There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
    But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

    There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
    And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
    With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
    As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
    Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
    And I turned my head--and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

    His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
    Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
    The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
    So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
    In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway,
    Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands--my God! but that man could play.

    Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
    And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
    With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
    A helf-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
    While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars?--
    Then you've a hunch what the music meant...hunger and might and the stars.

    And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
    But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
    For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
    But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowded with a woman's love--
    A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true--
    (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge,--the lady that's known as Lou.)

    Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
    But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
    That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
    That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
    'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through--
    "I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

    The music almost dies away...then it burst like a pent-up flood;
    And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
    The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
    And the lust awoke to kill, to kill...then the music stopped with a crash,
    And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;

    In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
    Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
    And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
    But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
    That one of you is a hound of hell...and that one is Dan McGrew."

    Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark;
    And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
    Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
    While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

    These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
    They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so.
    I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two--
    The woman that kissed him and--pinched his poke--was the lady known as Lou.

    If you liked this then I'd suggest reading 'Call of the Yukon' and 'The Cremation of Sam McGee', I believe most his work is public domain.
    ...Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark;
    And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark...

  3. #13
    I'm a star. Array Kangirl's Avatar
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    Dec 2008


    People/NTs who don't "like" poetry need to try harder. Because you're missing out.
    "Only an irrational dumbass, would burn Jews." - Jaguar

    "please give concise answers in plain English" - request from Provoker

  4. #14
    half mystic, half skeksis Array jenocyde's Avatar
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    Jan 2009


    Shel Silverstein.

  5. #15
    Senior Member Array Galusha's Avatar
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    Apr 2009


    My favorites are Poe, Percy Shelley and e.e. cummings, but this is my INTP mother's favorite poem:

    William, in his bright new sashes,
    Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes.
    Now, although the room grows chilly,
    I haven't the heart to poke up Willy.

  6. #16
    Senior Member Array BlahBlahNounBlah's Avatar
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    Dec 2008


    Quote Originally Posted by Kangirl View Post
    People/NTs who don't "like" poetry need to try harder. Because you're missing out.

    That's the point of this thread.

  7. #17
    Senior Member Array Jaguar's Avatar
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    May 2007


    Quote Originally Posted by SubjectA View Post
    I figured any poem that makes you reflect on it would be interesting to an NT. I suppose it depends on how artistically inclined you are.
    I think some people are blind to the fact there are NTs with English/English Literature degrees.

    I'm one of them.

    I've read, and written, poetry since I was a kid.
    It began when I snuck into my Dad's library,
    and found Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman.

    I thought," My Dad reads this shit?"
    Then I realized how deep it was.
    The rest was history, as they say.
    I became a master of metaphor and simile.

    So piss off NFs, NTs can be members of 'The Dead Poet's Society.'
    When all else fails, claim it's rigged.

  8. #18
    Member Array secondhandsight's Avatar
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    Jun 2009


    Philip Larkin might be good NT poetry fodder,

    I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
    Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
    In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
    Till then I see what's really always there:
    Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
    Making all thought impossible but how
    And where and when I shall myself die.
    Arid interrogation: yet the dread
    Of dying, and being dead,
    Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

    The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
    -- The good not done, the love not given, time
    Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
    An only life can take so long to climb
    Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
    But at the total emptiness for ever,
    The sure extinction that we travel to
    And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
    Not to be anywhere,
    And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

    This is a special way of being afraid
    No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
    That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
    Created to pretend we never die,
    And specious stuff that says No rational being
    Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
    That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
    No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
    Nothing to love or link with,
    The anaesthetic from which none come round.

    And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
    A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
    That slows each impulse down to indecision.
    Most things may never happen: this one will,
    And realisation of it rages out
    In furnace-fear when we are caught without
    People or drink. Courage is no good:
    It means not scaring others. Being brave
    Lets no one off the grave.
    Death is no different whined at than withstood.

    Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
    It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
    Have always known, know that we can't escape,
    Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
    Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
    In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
    Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
    The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
    Work has to be done.
    Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

  9. #19
    Blah Array Orangey's Avatar
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    Jun 2008


    I'm a fan of Paul Pascal and Anthony Hecht's "Double Dactyls."
    Artes, Scientia, Veritasiness

  10. #20
    Member Array Lithium Onyx's Avatar
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    Jul 2009


    Shel Silverstein, Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allen Poe were the only poets I'd ever taken interest in.

    I just couldn't ever get into poetry besides these three. My mother (ESFJ) loves Sylvia Plath poetry passionately and tried to get me into it. It just didn't do anything for me.

    Those math limericks, though - I like! There may be hope for me yet.
    I 79.65%
    N 67.34%
    T 80.53%
    P 75.76%

    5w6 sp/so/sx

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