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Author Topic: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.  (Read 2884 times)

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Offline smartoo

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Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« on: April 10, 2014, 07:18:48 pm »
GIVE ME THE MINSTREL'S
SEAT- TRADITIONAL POEM
Give me the minstrel's seat that i may sit
and ask you a word, my friends.
Let me ask for what reason or rhyme
women refuse to marry?
Woman cannot exist except by man,
what is there in that to vex some of
them so?
A woman is she who has a husband
and she cannot but prosper.
Cleave unto your man and his kinsmen
will become jealous
His kinsmen have planted cocoyams but
d fruit they reap is dum-palm nuts!
We think you plant the borassus palm,
the teak, the mnga and the solanum
tree,
When man goes on the road he goes
with a friend, for he who walks alone
has no good fortune.
As man goes through life soon he is
pierced by the thorn,
Or the sand-mote enters his eyes and
he needs a friend to remove it.
Likewise I give u advice, the rich man
and the poor man.
Joim hands accross the shroud.
Better a loin-cloth witout disgrace than
d fine-flowered shawl of shame.
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #1 on: April 10, 2014, 07:19:30 pm »
An African Thunderstorm”
From the west
Clouds come hurrying with the wind
Turning
Sharply
Here and there
Like a plague of locusts
Whirling
Tossing up things on its tail
Like a madman chasing nothing
Pregnant clouds
Ride stately on its back
Gathering to perch on hills
Like dark sinister wings
The wind whistles by
And tress bends to let it pass
In the village
Women
Babies clinging on their backs
Dart about
In and out
Madly
The wing whistles by
Whilst trees bend to let us pass
Clothes were like tattered flags
Flying off
To expose dangling bosoms
As jagged blinding flashes
Rumble, tremble, and crack
Amidst the smell of fired smoke
And the pelting march of the storm.
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #2 on: April 10, 2014, 07:20:09 pm »
To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each bosom;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turns to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #3 on: April 10, 2014, 07:20:53 pm »
To His Coy Mistress Summary
"To His Coy Mistress" is divided into three
stanzas or poetic paragraphs. It’s spoken by
a nameless man, who doesn’t reveal any
physical or biographical details about
himself, to a nameless woman, who is also
biography-less.
During the first stanza, the speaker tells the
mistress that if they had more time and
space, her "coyness" (see our discussion on
the word "coy" in "What’s Up With the Title?"
wouldn’t be a "crime." He extends this
discussion by describing how much he
would compliment her and admire her, if
only there was time. He would focus on
"each part" of her body until he got to the
heart (and "heart," here, is both a metaphor
for sex, and a metaphor for love).
In the second stanza he says, "BUT," we
don’t have the time, we are about to die! He
tells her that life is short, but death is
forever. In a shocking moment, he warns
her that, when she’s in the coffin, worms
will try to take her "virginity" if she doesn’t
have sex with him before they die. If she
refuses to have sex with him, there will be
repercussions for him, too. All his intimate
desire will burn up, "ashes" for all time.
In the third stanza he says, "NOW," I’ve told
you what will happen when you die, so let’s
have sex while we’re still young. Hey, look at
those "birds of prey" mating. That’s how we
should do it – but, before that, let’s have us a
little wine and time (cheese is for sissies).
Then, he wants to play a game – the turn
ourselves into a "ball" game. (Hmmm.) He
suggests, furthermore, that they release all
their pent up frustrations into the sex act,
and, in this way, be free.
In the final couplet, he calms down a little.
He says that having sex can’t make the "sun"
stop moving. In Marvell’s time, the
movement of the sun around the earth (we
now believe the earth rotates around the
sun) is thought to create time. Anyway, he
says, we can’t make time stop, but we can
change places with it. Whenever we have
sex, we pursue time, instead of time
pursuing us. This fellow has some confusing
ideas about sex and time. Come to think of
it, we probably do, too. "To His Coy Mistress"
offers us a chance to explore some of those
confusing thoughts.
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #4 on: April 10, 2014, 07:22:05 pm »
Bat
By D. H. (David Herbert) Lawrence
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa,
beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise...
When the tired flower of Florence is in
gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding...
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush
from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing
the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under
the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in
the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in
flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the
light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave
way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices
indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an
old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of
disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
In China the bat is symbol for happiness.
Not for me!
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #5 on: April 10, 2014, 07:23:10 pm »
Towards evening, the sun was setting
beyond the mountains of Carrara and the
world was surprised by the sudden
departure of the sun and the sudden
darkness. The city of Florence was in gloom
though the brown hills around were
glowing with the last sun rays. A green
beam of sunlight came under the arches of
the bridge of Ponte Vecchio from the west
and the direction of the beam of light was
against the current of the river Arno. At this
point, should anyone look up from a terrace,
one could see something flying between
light and darkness as if these things were
stitching the shadows together with spools
of thread. The bats were flying from one
patch of darkness to another through a
lighted part. As the sun went down more,
the shadows came closer to each other as if
the bats were stitching them together.
The bats were flying in a circle, and then
they suddenly swooped to the river. They
suddenly changed their orbits into a
parabola and turned a somersault and
dipped to the water. At first, the narrator
mistook the bats for swallows, though he
wondered as to why they were flying so
late. Yet he could not be sure if they were
swallows. The bats flew at times in a loop-
like orbit though it was not a pure loop.
They made a sudden movement of the body.
They twittered and made the air shudder as
it was. The bats looked like gloves thrown
up at the light and falling back.
The manner of flight only proved to the
narrator that the flying things were not
swallows. He could now realize that the
swallows had gone away and the bats had
come just like the change of guard. As soon
as he realized that they were bats, he
experienced a very uneasy sensation in his
scalp. He felt that the bats were flying madly.
He remembered how disgusting the bats
looked when they sleep hanging upside
down from branches of trees or inside
caves. They grin as if they are smiling in
mockery and contempt. He did not look
upon them as anything good though they
are regarded in China as a symbol of
happiness.
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #6 on: April 10, 2014, 07:32:21 pm »
The Journey of the Magi
By: TS ELLIOT
"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The was deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter."
And the camels galled, sore-footed,
refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor
and women,
And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of
shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns
unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high
prices.:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a
temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of
vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill
beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the
meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves
over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces
of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we
continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too
soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say)
satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we lead all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen
birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this
Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our
death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old
dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #7 on: April 10, 2014, 07:34:32 pm »
STRUGNELL'S SONNETS (VI)
Let me not to the marriage of true swine
Admit impediments. With his big car
He's won your heart, and you have
punctured mine.
I have no spare; henceforth I'll bear the scar.
Since women are not worth the booze you
buy them
I dedicate myself to Higher Things.
If men deride and sneer, I shall defy them
And soar above Tulse Hill on poet's wings --
A brother to the thrush in Brockwell Park,
Whose song, though sometimes drowned
by rock guitars,
Outlives their din. One day I'll make my mark,
Although I'm not from Ulster or from Mars,
And when I'm published in some classy mag
You'll rue the day you scarpered in his Jag.
-- Wendy Cope
FROM STRUGNELL’S SONNETS(IV)
Not only marble, but the plastic toys
From cornflake packets will outlive this
rhyme
I can't immortalize you, love - our joys
Will lie unnoticed in the vault of time.
When Mrs. Thatcher has been cast in bronze
And her administration is a page
In some O-Level text-book, when the dons
Have analysed the story of our age,
When travel firms sell tours of outer space
When aeroplanes take off without a sound
And Tulse Hill has become a trendy place
And upper Norwood's on the underground
Your beauty and my name will be forgotten -
My love is true, but all my verse is rotten
-- Wendy Cope
SONNET Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his
height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and
cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and
weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
(not yet complete)
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #8 on: April 10, 2014, 07:36:24 pm »
Unclad SOLES
byADEOTI GBEmisola
A carnival of Unclad soles
dancing through blooming thorns
hopping with muffled shrill
on souls of thorns with glass chips
with ageing faces in puzzling smiles
drained of terror
a passerby points attention
to the horror locked in
lisping lips and clanging teeth
all dancing figures in a pool of spikes
and in procession they turn
into the forest of cactus
a painful passage along a pin ful path
hopping between pricks and tears
amidst chants and retorts
charming thunders of stripped soles
roared through our new acropolis
where pins and nails
and shattered shells of snails
pile from rooftop to floor
at the close of the carnival
we are left with regal strutting
on bare soles
and milk of bleakness
we are left with royal bearing
on thorn filled cushions
and wild faces behind ageing masks
from thrones of thorns.
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #9 on: April 10, 2014, 07:38:27 pm »
End of WAR- OKINBA LAUNKO
They say,
a war only ends, when
another war begins:
the silence of the battlefield
heralds the widow's anguish
for, to set questions
is not as hard as finding answers......
Our war has ended
because war is now with us
the deserted houses, the fallen rafters
breed the city's slums
and the praise singers are not dead
they have only gone to the barracks......
the butchers fill the parliaments......
and the victims no longer die by bullets
but survive to pay the levies.....
Listen-----they will tell you---
to beat drums is mere children's play
the adult's is to start echoes......
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #10 on: April 10, 2014, 07:39:35 pm »
Heritage of Liberation
since it was you who in all these thin
seasons
Gave to our minds the visions of life
Take these weapons for our children's
children.
They were ours.
They broke the enemies' encirclements.
So let our children live with our voices
With all the plentifulness of our nightmares.
Let them bury us in the mountain
To remind them of our wanderings.
The sunset steals our youth.
We must depart.
We must follow the trail of the killerbird
Or else sleep the sleep of terror
TO generations hereafter
May they inherit our dream of the festival
We who smelt the acrid smell of death
Who saw the vultures leave our comrade's
flesh
We Bequeath to you the rays of the
morning....
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Re: Literature UTME Poems || For Jamb.
« Reply #11 on: April 10, 2014, 08:02:59 pm »
Check d Previous Page Guys...And Ignore Spammers
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