# Favorite Poem?



## eightyseven (Jul 29, 2006)

I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet 

Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot

"Mornings, evenings, afternoons
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons..."


----------



## Esme (Jul 29, 2006)

What a great idea Eightyseven! You DO dare disturb the universe it seems. 

My, all-time, favorite poem is "The Journey" by Mary Oliver.

"...little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world..."


----------



## MsGreenLantern (Jul 29, 2006)

Wow, this was a great idea. And you have great taste! I love TS Eliot! I took a class on him. That poem is up there on my list of favorites as well. I really enjoy Tennyson. Walt Whitman is great too. If you haven't ever read his collection called "Leaves of Grass" do so! It is excellent. I've been smitten with poetry since I was a kid :wubu: 

From Tennyson's Lady of Shalott:

"Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Through the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 
Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four grey walls, and four grey towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 
The Lady of Shalott." 



From Walt Whitman's "I Sing The Body Electric" :

"This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction, 
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor,
all falls aside but myself and it, 
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what
was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response
likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all
diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling
and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of
love, white-blow and delirious nice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the
prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day."


----------



## candygodiva (Jul 29, 2006)

I've always been fond of good poetry.
Here is only one of my favorites, as there are many. :wubu: 

The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost 1920

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,	
And sorry I could not travel both	
And be one traveler, long I stood	
And looked down one as far as I could	
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,	
And having perhaps the better claim,	
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;	
Though as for that the passing there	
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay	
In leaves no step had trodden black.	
Oh, I kept the first for another day!	
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,	
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh	
Somewhere ages and ages hence:	
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I	
I took the one less traveled by,	
And that has made all the difference.


----------



## GWARrior (Jul 29, 2006)

Modern Times by Bobby Sands

It is said we live in modern times,
In the civilised year of 'seventy nine,
But when I look around, all I see,
Is modern torture, pain, and hypocrisy.

In modern times little children die,
They starve to death, but who dares ask why?
And little girls without attire,
Run screaming, napalmed, through the night afire.

And while fat dictators sit upon their thrones,
Young children bury their parents' bones,
And secret police in the dead of night,
Electrocute the naked woman out of sight.

In the gutter lies the black man, dead,
And where the oil flows blackest, the street runs red,
And there was He who was born and came to be,
But lived and died without liberty.

As the bureaucrats, speculators and presidents alike,
Pin on their dirty, stinking, happy smiles tonight,
The lonely prisoner will cry out from within this tomb,
And tomorrow's wretch will leave its mother's womb!


----------



## ripley (Jul 29, 2006)

Great thread idea, 87!


I can't pick just one...from sonnets to haiku I just love poetry.


----------



## sweetnnekked (Jul 29, 2006)

The Skippery Boo - Earl L. Newton

I went to bring,
From the rippling spring,
One morning dry and damp,
A brimming pail
Of adam's ale
For use about the camp;
My happy frame
Did well proclaim
A cheerful bent of mind,
And I hummed a song,
As I loped along,
Of the most enchanting kind.
But my heart stood still,
As I turned the hill,
And the spring came to my view,
For drinking there
Of the potion rare,
Was the terrible Skippery Boo.

He drank his fill
From the flowing rill,
And shook his maighty mane,
Then with his jaws
And his hairy paws,
He ripped a tree in twain.
With fear and dread
To camp I sped,
For my trusty .30 bore,
Then turned about
With daring shout,
And sought the spring once more;
But though my feet
As o'er the glade I flew,
No sign was there
On earth, in air,
Of the slippery Skippery Boo.

To left and right
I strained my sight,
To find where he has gone,
Among the pines
I sought for signs,
But found not a single one.
To East and West
I turned my quest,
But all to no avail,
No trace I found
On gorse or ground,
Of his departing trail.
And then aloft
My gaze I doffed,
And there in the hazy blue,
On the topmost spine
Of the tallest pine,
Hung the fabulous Skippery Boo.

Oh, the Skippery Boo
Is a fanciful zoo:
A mermaid and a bat,
A grizzly hare
And a webfoot bear,
A goof and a bumble-cat.
He can fell an oak
With a single stroke,
Or shatter a mountain side,
Then lightly rise
To the azure skies,
And light as a zephyr ride.
My heart he fills
With terror's chills,
Oh, don't know what I'd do,
If some dark night,
In broad daylight,
I should meet a Skippery Boo.
A poison flows
From his warty toes,
And the grass where he shall tread,
Shall wilt and fade
At evening's shade,
And tomorrow shall be dead.
And who shall walk
Where he shall stalk,
O'er valley, hill or plain,
shall die, 'tis said,
Of illness dread,
And a terrible dark-green pain.
So as you wade
This vale of shade,
And jog life's journey through,
At day, at night,
Be it dark or light,
Watch out for the Skippery Boo.


----------



## Jack Skellington (Jul 30, 2006)

The Tiger by William Blake

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand and what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? What dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And water'd heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


----------



## Michelle (Jul 30, 2006)

Good idea for a Lounge Thread, eightyseven. Like Ripley, it’s nearly impossible to choose. One of my favorites has always been the one Candy posted, “The Road Not Traveled” by Robert Frost. I love reading what everyone is posting and plan to rep you all when I'm able. Thanks.


I’m going to post two here. The first one is relevant to today’s political climate and very well known. The second one was extremely riske’ and very political for its time. It’s not well known plus it’s the first “internet” typing before the internet existed (no typos in it, folks!). 

“Grass” by Carl Sandburg

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg.
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.


“the way to hump a cow” by e.e. cummings

the way to hump a cow is not
to get yourself a stool
but draw a line around the spot
and call it beautifool

to multiply because and why
dividing thens by nows
and adding and (i understand)
is hows to hump a cows

the way to hump a cow is not
to elevate your tool
but drop a penny in the slot
and bellow like a bool

to law a wreath from ancient greath
on insulated brows
(while tossing boms at uncle toms)
is hows to hump a cows

the way to hump a cow is not
to push and then to pull
but practicing the art of swot
to preach the golden rull

to vote for me (all decent mem
and wonens will allows
which if they don’t to hell with them)
is hows to hump a cows


----------



## Pear320 (Jul 30, 2006)

There are SO many . . I came across this the other day and liked it:

FINDING HER HERE
by Jayne Relaford Brown

I am becoming the woman I've wanted, 
grey at the temples,
soft body, delighted,
cracked up by life
with a laugh that's known bitter
but, past it, got better,
knows she's a survivor --
that whatever comes,
she can outlast it.
I am becoming a deep
weathered basket.

I am becoming the woman I've longed for, 
the motherly lover
with arms strong and tender,
the growing up daughter
who blushes surprises.
I am becoming full moons
and sunrises.

I find her becoming,
this woman I've wanted,
who knows she'll encompass,
who knows she's sufficient,
knows where she's going
and travels with passion.
Who remembers she's precious,
but knows she's not scarce --
who knows she is plenty,
plenty to share.


----------



## bbwsweetheart (Jul 30, 2006)

Great Topic! I cannot choose a favorite; there are too many great poems. Here is one of the many that I like.


Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night
by: Dylan Thomas 

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


----------



## Rainahblue (Jul 30, 2006)

I have tons of favorite poems, but my two "perfect" poems are probably such because they're short enough for me to remember.

Margaret Atwood - You Fit Into Me 

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye.
A fish hook
An open eye.


Sonia Sanchez - Poem #3

I gather up
each sound
you left behind 
and stretch them 
on our bed. 
Each nite
I breathe you
and become high. 



​


----------



## eightyseven (Jul 30, 2006)

Michelle... mad points for Sandburg and cummings (no capital C!), even if you are *gasp* SPARTANS fan. I have to admit... I'm not so much a State-hater because I'm not FROM Michigan so it's not like half my high school went to MSU. I do, however, LOVE the anti-Spartans song:

"If you can't get into college, go to State (clap clap)
If you can't get into college go to State (clap clap)
If you can't get into college and you really really SUCK
If you can't get into college go to State (clap clap)!"

You don't suck... it's just funny to cheer at hockey games 

And yay poetry.


----------



## jamie (Aug 2, 2006)

I spend way too much time in poetry land - but here is a sampling of favorites, I feel like leaving some out I am cutting off body parts, but I will live.

_*Donald Hall, because for right now, he is the most important.*_

*Affirmation*

To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads
when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer
pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters
into debris on the shore,
and a friend from school drops
cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us
past middle age, our wife will die
at her strongest and most beautiful.
New women come and go. All go.
The pretty lover who announces
that she is temporary
is temporary. The bold woman,
middle-aged against our old age,
sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand.
Another friend of decades estranges himself
in words that pollute thirty years.
Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge
and affirm that it is fitting
and delicious to lose everything. 

*Amy Lowell - she has always been a personal hero of mine. She was a lesbian, and fat, and told that there is no way she could write such sensual poetry, because she would never have known such a life with her physical shape.
*
*Taxi*

When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
ANd the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

_*It was hard to choose between Rilke, Donald Justice, Neruda and Baudelaire, but in the end Rilke had to win out, he made me really notice and love poetry.*_

*You, Darkness*

You, darkness, that I come from
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone
and then no one outside learns of you.

But the darkness pulls in everything-
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them! -
powers and people-

and it is possible a great presence is moving near me.

I have faith in nights.


----------



## Jes (Aug 2, 2006)

I like a lot of things, but have been on a Rilke kick of late. So, some selections:

10.
My life is not this steeply sloping hour, 
in which you see me hurrying.
Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree;
I am only one of many mouths,

I am the rest between two notes,
which are somehow always in dischord
because Death's note wants to climb over-- 
but in the dark interval, reconciled,
they stay there trembling.
And the song goes on, beautiful.



4.

I love the dark hours of my being
in which my senses drop into the deep.
I have found in them, as in old letters,
my private life, that is already lived through,
and become wide and powerful now, like legends.
Then I know that there is room in me 
for a second huge and timeless life.


But sometimes I am like the tree that stands
over a grave, a leafy tree, fully grown,
who has lived out that particular dream, that the dead boy
(around whom its warm roots are pressing)
lost through his sad moods and his poems.


Finally, one I think about a lot b/c I love the autumn and it's so hot right now:

October Day

Oh Lord, it's time, it's time. It was a great summer.
Lay your shadow now on the sundials,
and on the open fields let the winds go!

Give the tardy fruits the hint to fill; 
give them two more Mediterranean days,
drive them on into their greatness, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house by now will not build.
Whoever is alone now will remain alone,
will wait up, read, write long letters,
and walk along sidewalks under large trees,
not going home, as the leaves fall and blow away.


----------



## bbwsweetheart (Aug 2, 2006)

Oldies but goodies...Robert Frost


Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know. 
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.


----------



## bbwsweetheart (Aug 2, 2006)

Romance Sonambulo

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain. 
With the shade around her waist 
she dreams on her balcony, 
green flesh, her hair green, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
Green, how I want you green. 
Under the gypsy moon, 
all things are watching her 
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green. 
Big hoarfrost stars 
come with the fish of shadow 
that opens the road of dawn. 
The fig tree rubs its wind 
with the sandpaper of its branches, 
and the forest, cunning cat, 
bristles its brittle fibers. 
But who will come? And from where? 
She is still on her balcony 
green flesh, her hair green, 
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade 
my horse for her house, 
my saddle for her mirror, 
my knife for her blanket. 
My friend, I come bleeding 
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy, 
I'd help you fix that trade. 
But now I am not I, 
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed. 
Of iron, if that's possible, 
with blankets of fine chambray. 
Don't you see the wound I have 
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown 
thirsy dark brown roses. 
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash. 
But now I am not I, 
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least, 
up to the high balconies; 
Let me climb up! Let me, 
up to the green balconies. 
Railings of the moon 
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up, 
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood. 
Leaving a trail of teardrops. 
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines 
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green, 
green wind, green branches. 
The two friends climbed up. 
The stiff wind left 
in their mouths, a strange taste 
of bile, of mint, and of basil 
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you! 
How many times would she wait for you, 
cool face, black hair, 
on this green balcony! 
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging, 
green flesh, her hair green, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water. 
The night became intimate 
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door. 
Green, how I want you green. 
Green wind. Green branches. 
The ship out on the sea. 
And the horse on the mountain. 

Federico García Lorca


----------



## bbwsweetheart (Aug 2, 2006)

John Masefields Sea-Fever:

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheels kick and the winds song and the white sails shaking,
And a grey mist on the seas face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gulls way and the whales way where the winds like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long tricks over.


----------



## Rainahblue (Aug 2, 2006)

Gotta love the Langston Hughes. I think I'm going to name my next pet Langston. 


Dream Variations - Langston Hughes 

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me--
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.



Dreams - Langston Hughes 

Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.​


----------



## butch (Aug 2, 2006)

So many great poems and poets, what a wonderful idea for a thread.

I could list a bajilliony poems, and was geeked to see how many people here are REALLY into poetry, but I'll restrain myself. I must give much thanks to Rainahblue for including Atwood's poem in here, as I've always liked that one myself.

In a class may years ago, we had to memorize a different poem each week and then we were tested on it. I don't remember all of the poems, but it was fun to memorize Sylvia Plath's "Daddy" (and no, I don't still have it memorized). Here's the last stanza:

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through

The first poem I ever remember really liking was one I was introduced to when I was 13, during Black History Month. Gwendolyn Brooks' "We Real Cool":

THE POOL PLAYERS. 
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.



We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

So much good stuff out there. I may have to come back and post snippets from other stuff. I too am starting to develop an interest in Amy Lowell, and wonder if there is some way to look at both Gertrude Stein and Amy Lowell's poetry as somehow related to their bodies and their sexualities? 

Thanks for the great stuff here, dimensions people!


----------



## eightyseven (Aug 2, 2006)

bbwsweetheart said:


> Oldies but goodies...Robert Frost
> 
> 
> Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
> ...



<--- Can recite these verbatim off the top of my head


----------



## snuggletiger (Aug 2, 2006)

ME WE by Muhammad Ali


----------



## Reenaye Starr (Aug 2, 2006)

Bliss Carman. 1861 

24. A Vagabond Song 

THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood 
Touch of manner, hint of mood; 
And my heart is like a rhyme, 
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. 

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 5 
Of bugles going by. 
And my lonely spirit thrills 
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; 
We must rise and follow her, 10 
When from every hill of flame 
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.


----------



## pdgujer148 (Aug 2, 2006)

Here are a couple warped prose poems. 

"Ape": by Russell Edson

You haven't finished your ape, said mother to father,
who had monkey hair and blood on his whiskers.

I've had enough monkey, cried father.

You didn't eat the hands, and I went to all the
trouble to make onion rings for its fingers, said mother.

I'll just nibble on its forehead, and then I've had enough,
said father.

I stuffed its nose with garlic, just like you like it, said
mother.

Why don't you have the butcher cut these apes up? You lay
the whole thing on the table every night; the same fractured
skull, the same singed fur; like someone who died horribly. These
aren't dinners, these are post-mortem dissections.

Try a piece of its gum, I've stuffed its mouth with bread,
said mother.

Ugh, it looks like a mouth full of vomit. How can I bite into
its cheek with bread spilling out of its mouth? cried father.

Break one of the ears off, they're so crispy, said mother.

I wish to hell you'd put underpants on these apes; even a
jockstrap, screamed father.

Father, how dare you insinuate that I see the ape as anything
more thn simple meat, screamed mother.

Well what's with this ribbon tied in a bow on its privates?
screamed father.

Are you saying that I am in love with this vicious creature?
That I would submit my female opening to this brute? That after
we had love on the kitchen floor I would put him in the oven, after
breaking his head with a frying pan; and then serve him to my husband,
that my husband might eat the evidence of my infidelity . . . ?

I'm just saying that I'm damn sick of ape every night,
cried father.


"A Radically Condensed History of Postindustrial Life" by David Foster Wallace

When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed very hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.

The man whod introduced them didnt much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one.


----------



## FreeThinker (Aug 2, 2006)

"Gnosis", by Christopher Pearse Cranch.

The opening stanza has been in my head since I was fifteen:



> Thought is deeper than all speech,
> Feeling deeper than all thought:
> Souls to souls never can teach
> What unto themselves was taught.


----------



## mejix (Aug 3, 2006)

favorite poem? singular? not possible. 

here are two i like and have easily accessible:


*"in the hourless forest"*
_jules supervielle_

in the hourless forest
a tall tree is being felled.
a vertical void
trembles in the form of a shaft
near the outstreched trunk.

search, birds, search, 
for the site of your nests
in this high memory
while it is still murmuring.


*episode in a library*
_zbigniew herbert_

A blonde girl is bent over a poem. With a pencil sharp as a lancet she transfers the words to a blank page and changes them into strokes, accents, caesuras. The lament of a fallen poet now looks like a salamander eaten away by ants.

When we carried him away under machine-gun fire, I believed that his still warm body would be resurrected in the word. Now as I watch the death of the words, I know there is no limit to decay. All that will be left after us in the black earth will be scattered syllables. Accents over nothingness and dust.


*


----------



## LJ Rock (Aug 3, 2006)

"Cross"

My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder were I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?

Langston Hughes


----------



## Boteroesque Babe (Aug 3, 2006)

Oh, now what was the name of that poem.... it lyrically traced the societal and wartime pressures heaped upon the flowering love between a dashing British Count, of the manor born, and a young girl from Nantucket....


----------



## Jes (Aug 3, 2006)

One of my favorite genres of poetry is WWI stuff. I have a big collection of it. But really, it's too sad, too sad. I can't type it out here.


And butch, that Plath is a laugh a minute, no?


----------



## Rainahblue (Aug 3, 2006)

Jes said:


> One of my favorite genres of poetry is WWI stuff. I have a big collection of it. But really, it's too sad, too sad. I can't type it out here.
> 
> 
> And butch, that Plath is a laugh a minute, no?



You know, I walked around with a copy of The Bell Jar when I was in high school (I think I was going for the teen-in-danger look), but I never actually read it until I was an adult. 
Laugh riot.​


----------



## butch (Aug 3, 2006)

Ha, that Bell Jar is so funny I feel like hole-ing up in my basement with a copy of it right now! 

I wonder, BBabe, if there is a lovely limerick about Ms. Plath and a lad from Nantucket?


----------



## Boteroesque Babe (Aug 3, 2006)

butch said:


> Ha, that Bell Jar is so funny I feel like hole-ing up in my basement with a copy of it right now!
> 
> I wonder, BBabe, if there is a lovely limerick about Ms. Plath and a lad from Nantucket?


_Miss Plath loved a lad from Nantucket
When he went away she said "Fuck it"

And put her head in the oven_

Great set-up, Butch. Preesh. But it doesn't make up for the fact I'll now have Dee-Lite playing in my head the rest of the day. Fortunately, I've got a gas oven, for the groove-infected head.


----------



## lemmink (Aug 3, 2006)

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

- Stephen Crane, the Black Riders and other lines.


----------



## Jane (Aug 3, 2006)

i sing of Olaf glad and big 
by E. E. Cummings 


XXX

i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand; 
but--though an host of overjoyed 
noncoms(first knocking on the head 
him)do through icy waters roll 
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed 
anent this muddy toiletbowl, 
while kindred intellects evoke 
allegiance per blunt instruments--
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag 
upon what God unto him gave) 
responds,without getting annoyed 
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers 
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride) 
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion 
voices and boots were much the worse, 
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease 
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat--
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified 
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.


----------



## mejix (Aug 3, 2006)

the meanest, baddest poet of them all: martial


"While worshipping Juppiter with many prayers, always bowing perfectly, 
in the Temple, Aethon farted. 
All the men laughed, but the father of the gods was offended and 
sentenced him to three nights of eating dinner at home. 
Now, after this disgrace, when poor little Aethon wants to go into 
the Temple, he first finds the bathroom and farts 10 and 20 times. 
And although he has guarded against himself by sounding off in the bathroom, 
Aethon now worships Jupiter with cheeks clenched"



"Last night, after five pints of wine,
I said, 'Procillus, come and dine
Tomorrow.' You assumed I meant
What I said (a dangerous precedent)
And slyly jotted down a note
Of my drunk offer. Let me quote
A proverb from the Greek: ' I hate
An unforgetful drinking mate.' 



"Hoping, Fescennia, to overpower
The reek of last nights drinking, you devour
Cosmus sweet-scented pastilles by the gross.
But though they give your teeth a whitish gloss
They fail to make your breath any less smelly
When a belch boils from your abyss-like belly.
In fact, blended with lozenges its much stronger,
It travels farther and it lingers longer.
Give up these stale, transparent tricks. A skunk
Must be itself. Why not just be a drunk?"



"The little puppy licks your mouth and lips, Manneia. 
I am not astonishedif it pleases the dog to eat shit. "




*


----------



## butch (Aug 3, 2006)

Thanks for the laugh, BBabe. 

Try cooking some deee-lite-ful succotash on top of that gas oven your head's in, 'kay? Just kidding, kiddies, don't try this at home.


----------



## Elfcat (Aug 3, 2006)

I read this one at the NAAFA Convention in 2004, in honor of what would have been his 60th birthday that year.

*Your Laughter, by Pablo Neruda*

Take my breath away if you wish.
Take away the air.
But never take your laughter from me.

Take not this rose, this lanceflower you pluck,
The water of your joy that rises in a sudden silver wave.

My struggle is hard,
And my eyes ache from troubles that never end.
But when your laughter comes,
It rises to me and opens all the doors.

My love, in the darkest hour your laughter suddenly shines.
And if you see my blood staining the stones of the street, then laugh,
Because your laughter puts a stronger weapon in my hands.

Next to the autumn ocean, your laughter must rise in its foamy cascade.
And in the spring my love, your laughter is the flower I wait for,
That blue flower, the rose of my crying country.

Laugh at the night, the day and the moon.

Laugh at the twisted streets of this island.

Laugh at this clumsy boy who loves you.

But when my eyes open and when they close,
When my steps go and when they return,
You can refuse me food, air, light and spring.

But the day your laughter ends will be the day I die.


----------



## Rainahblue (Aug 3, 2006)

lemmink said:


> In the desert
> I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
> who, squatting upon the ground,
> Held his heart in his hands,
> ...



Oh man one of my faaaaves!
You seriously rock.  ​


----------



## mottiemushroom (Aug 3, 2006)

This one was sent me many moons ago:

She was beautiful, she was kind,

But in God's eyes she will never be mine.

She is strong, i am weak.

It's in my sleep that we meet:

There we dance, there we sing,

There we talk of many a thing.

Our hands we claps, our eyes they meet,

Our hearts entwine, as one they beat.

As daylight comes, as daylight will...

As dawn creeps over my window sill,

My eyes are open, my day begun,

But oh! for night, my love to come. 



And this one i discovered back in my teens:

The Gift

I watched the child as reverently

She placed the gift near the Christmas tree.

That little toy dog with ruffled fur

Was much, much, more than a toy to her.

Forgive me, Blackie, a small heart cried,

For i love you ever so much inside,

But teacher said we must bring a toy

To give to a poor little girl or boy.

Teddy is old & wearing through,

And dolly got cracked, so there is only you.

But don't you cry, just wait & see

Someone will love you as much as me.

I like to think on that Christmas night,

She dreamt of a stable filled with light,

And there in the cradle the Christ child lay, 

And in His hand clutched something in the hay.

Not gold, nor frankincense, nor myrrh - 

But a little toy dog, with ruffled fur.


----------



## pdgujer148 (Aug 3, 2006)

I had a hard time coming up with a favorite poem. I posted a couple poems that amuse me, but I think this is my favorite:

"When You Are Old" by W. B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Read that again...

"How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face"

A "pilgrim Soul"...that phrase is beyond beautiful.


----------



## bbwsweetheart (Aug 3, 2006)

How neatly a cat sleeps, sleeps with its paws and its posture, sleeps with its wicked claws, and with its unfeeling blood, sleeps with all the rings-- a series of burnt circles-- which have formed the odd geology of its sand-colored tail.I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire; and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams.I have seen how the cat asleep would undulate, how the night flowed through it like dark water; and at times, it was going to fall or possibly plunge intothe bare deserted snowdrifts. Sometimes it grew so much in sleep like a tiger's great-grandfather, and would leap in the darkness over rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.Sleep, sleep cat of the night, with episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache. Take care of all our dreams; control the obscurity of our slumbering prowess with your relentless heart and the great ruff of your tail.

Neruda

I have been trying in vain to find two poems that really touch me by my favorite poet, Borges, without success: Dreamtigers and The Yellow Emperor.  I am enjoying reading some poems that I have not run across before. This is a great idea for a thread!


----------



## GeorgeNL (Dec 9, 2006)

MsGreenLantern said:


> From Tennyson's Lady of Shalott:
> 
> "Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
> Little breezes dusk and shiver
> ...



He he, the animal in us is still alive. But a very nice one!!


----------



## GeorgeNL (Dec 9, 2006)

bbwsweetheart said:


> John Masefields Sea-Fever:
> 
> I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
> And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
> ...



MMmmmmm, smell the salty air. Very very nice one!


----------



## GeorgeNL (Dec 9, 2006)

Great threat idea, and very nice posts! 

Hope my translation doesn't harm the poem to much: 

"Auto psychography" 

The poet only pretends. 
He ponders so thoroughly 
The he even pretends to be in pain 
A truly experienced pain 

And those who read what he wrote, 
Feel the pain that is read 
Not the two he suffered 
But the one that cannot be theirs. 

And so rides in circles, 
For the joy of reason, 
The winding-up train, in poet's mouth 
Also called "the hearth"


Fernando Pessoa (1931)


----------



## GeorgeNL (Dec 9, 2006)

Actually the song texts of Bjork are quite poetic to: 

"All Is Full Of Love"

you'll be given love
you'll be taken care of
you'll be given love
you have to trust it

maybe not from the sources
you have poured yours
maybe not from the directions
you are staring at

trust your head around
it's all around you
all is full of love
all around you

all is full of love
you just aint receiving
all is full of love
your phone is off the hook
all is full of love
your doors are all shut
all is full of love!​

And of course

"Unison"

One hand allows the other
So much and me

Born stubborn me
Will always be
Before you count
One two three
I will have grown my own private branch
Of this tree

You gardener
You discipliner
Domestically
I can obey all of your rules
And still be, be

I never thought I would compromise
I never thought I would compromise

Let's unite tonight
We shouldn't fight
Embrace you tight
Let's unite tonight

I thrive best hermit style
With a beard and a pipe
And a parrot on each side
But now I can't do this without you

I never thought I would compromise
I never thought I would compromise

Let's unite tonight
We shouldn't fight
Embrace you tight
Let's unite tonight

One hand allows the other
So much and me

Let's unite tonight
We shouldn't fight
Embrace you tight
Let's unite tonight

Let's unite tonight
We shouldn't fight
Embrace you tight
Let's
Ooohhhh ooohh
​


----------



## BBW Betty (Dec 9, 2006)

A Mother's Christmas Vacation

Christmas vacation in all of its glory
Prompted me to tell you my story....

The kids were all home for eleven whole days
My house was in shambles, my mind was a haze

They played fox-and-goose in the new-fallen snow
But it turned into fighting, and wouldn't you know
One youngster came in, screaming and crying
His face had been snow-washed; I thought he was dying

Christmas Eve when the chores were all done
Everyone was excited and ready for fun

They grabbed for their presents, they ripped and they tore
Til ribbons and paper messed up my whole floor
When I suggested they all help me clean it
They looked at me as if they hadn't seen it

Christmas Day--football was on every station
My heart went to mothers all over the nation
With me in my kitchen and Dad in his chair,
I soon had the notion that nobody cared.

Just when I sat down to feel sorry for me
Company came to examine what was left of our tree
With ornaments broken and icicles stripped
If I hadn't tied it, it would have been tipped!

The weather changed, it snowed and got cold
By New Year's Day, I was feeling quite old

Monday morning came finally, and there was a fuss
I had to make sure they did not miss that bus!

I heard a rumble from over the hill
I hurried away to the window sill
There was the bus, with lights flashing red
"That bus is a beautifuly sight!" I said.

With a middle-aged driver, bedraggled but brave
I figured those kids would send him to his grave.
And I heard him grumble as he drove away,
"Summer vacation seems soooo far away."


----------



## superodalisque (Jan 8, 2007)

The Giantess
> Of old when Nature, in her verve defiant,
>Conceived each day some birth of monstrous mien,
>I would have lived near some young female giant
>Like a voluptuous cat beside a queen;
>
> To see her body flowering with her soul
>Freely develop in her mighty games,
>And in the mists that through her gaze would roll
>Guess that her heart was hatching sombre flames;
>
> To roam her mighty contours as I please,
>Ramp on the cliff of her tremendous knees,
>And in the solstice, when the suns that kill
>
> Make her stretch out across the land and rest,
>To sleep beneath the shadow of her breast
>Like a hushed village underneath a hill.


----------



## superodalisque (Jan 8, 2007)

if you know where this is from could you tell me? it sounds familiar but i can't place it. 

Your Curves are a Poem

From: largehipslover
Date: Sep 2, 2006 3:35 AM


your curves are a monument
a monument to fertility
your curves are the hips of a real woman
inviting as a siren
and seductive like mother earth
your opulent smile
makes you beautiful as a goddess
and your thighs, oh, your thighs
what a sight
full and magnificient like a calm ocean of love
and my words are not enough
for all that abundant beauty
that surrounds your presence


----------



## Dr. Feelgood (Jan 8, 2007)

From "The Garden of Proserpine" by Algernon Charles Swinburne:

"From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea."


----------



## Aliena (Jan 8, 2007)

My most favorite poem was penned by Theodore Roethke. It's titled: 



I Knew a Woman

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)


----------



## Ruby Ripples (Jan 8, 2007)

John Masefield's Sea Fever is my favourite, but has already been chosen here, so I won't show it again. My next favourites are:- 


*To An Isle In The Water *

SHY one, Shy one, 
Shy one of my heart, 
She moves in the firelight 
pensively apart. 
She carries in the dishes, 
And lays them in a row. 
To an isle in the water 
With her would I go. 
With catries in the candles, 
And lights the curtained room, 
Shy in the doorway 
And shy in the gloom; 
And shy as a rabbit, 
Helpful and shy. 
To an isle in the water 
With her would I fly. 

by William Butler Yeats 

~~~~~~~~


*The Pobble Who Has No Toes*

The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"

The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!" 

by Edward Lear 

~~~

*Nae Hair On't*

Yestreen I wed a lady fair,
An ye wad believe me,
On her c*nt there growes nae hair,
That's the thing that grieves me.

It vexed me sair, it plagued me sair,
It put me in a passion,
To think that I haed wad a wife,
Whase c*nt was oot o fashion.

by Robert Burns

And many more of Rabbie Burns' poetry that I'm too scared to copy onto here, lol!


----------



## liz (di-va) (Jan 8, 2007)

OH my gosh, what a fabulous thread! And look how we all pounced on it!! All my littry strings are twanging hard. I'm a total sucker for Prufrock, We Real Cool, Daddy. My favorite poet is probably morbid old obvious Philip Larkin (esp. classick biggies "The Explosion," "An Arundel Tomb," "Church Going," "When First We Faced," "Aubade," "At Grass," "Faith Healing" and always "Toads" on bad days at work). Few other favs are Lucille Clifton, Stevie Smith, Elizabeth Bishop, Kingsley Amis, Wallace Stevens, Byron; also "light verse"--love Dorothy Parker, Keith Preston, John Updike...

*Cut Grass*
_Philip Larkin_

Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death

It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,

White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer's pace.


----------



## Green Eyed Fairy (Jan 8, 2007)

Kahlil Gibran is my favorite... from "The Prophet"

On Pain

And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."

And he said:

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears. 

On Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable


On Joy & Sorrow

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."

And he answered:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall. 

"The Prophet" is hosted online and is free to read for everyone
http://www.columbia.edu/~gm84/gibtable.html


----------



## liz (di-va) (Jan 8, 2007)

Proof that I'm a total English major dork: Didn't realize how old some of these postings were (thought it was an all-new thread). Hehe! DUH. *quiets down*


----------



## Punkin1024 (Jan 9, 2007)

Two of my favorites have already been posted - Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" and "Stopping By The Wood on a Snowy Evening". I pulled out my old college copy of "Introduction to Literature - Poems" and flipped over to the Robert Frost section - I had this one highlighted:

"Fire and Ice"
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great 
And would suffice.

Here is another favorite by Carl Sandburg:

"Fog"
The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.


----------



## Aliena (Jan 10, 2007)

Another favorite poem of mine is one that brought out the child in me. It is a perfect poem for the campfire on a camping trip and I had a friend that could do the perfect voice for this poem by Lewis Carroll. It's called the 'Jabberwoky'. 

Now some might think that the 'Jabberwoky' is a mythical creature from the depths of Carroll's mind, but there has been recent discovery in the south eastern area that this creature is a cousin to the 'Jabberwoky'. It was subsequentially named the Jabbernappy. The Jabbernappy is a more docile creature from the 'Jabberwoky' and here in this picture you can see her being tamed by a simple teddy. 

The Jabbernappy:









And now without further ado...

Jabberwoky 
By, Lewis Carroll.



'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


----------



## mejix (Mar 10, 2007)

*before spring there are days like these*
anna akhmatova

before spring there are days like these:
under the dense snow the meadow rests
the trees merrily, drily rustle, 
and the warm wind is tender and supple. 
and the body marvels at its lightness, 
and you don't recognize your own house, 
and that song that you were tired of before, 
you sing like a new one, with deep emotion. 



*


----------



## sean7 (Mar 10, 2007)

Aliena said:


> My most favorite poem was penned by Theodore Roethke.



As is mine. It's called 'In a Dark Time'. 

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.


A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.


Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear. 
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 10, 2007)

mejix said:


> *before spring there are days like these*
> anna akhmatova
> 
> before spring there are days like these:
> ...



I remember it from the beginning. I meant to add my 2 cents worth but, in searching through my own favorites for one that I wasn't ashamed of posting in such erudite company, I nodded off and the thread disappeared.

Your post gives me the perfect opportunity to post a link to some visual poetry which was just forwarded to me. The website was forwarded to me by a lifelong friend. We grew up together in Duluth, Minnesota (site of the snowstorm portrayed on the website) but he has lived in California for many decades, chiding me occasionally for sticking it out in what he considers to be a frozen wasteland. However, even at it's worst, it has a mesmerizing beauty - a visual poem. I hope you will agree with me.

From "The Mikado"
Katisha.
There is beauty in the bellow of the blast,
There is grandeur in the growling of the gale,
There is eloquent outpouring
When the lion is a-roaring,
And the tiger is a-lashing of his tail!

Just as true of a rattling good blizzard too!

I offer two links to the different portions of the same site. The first shows shots of ice formations on Lake Superior. The second is a slide show of the most recent snowstorm, one which buried much of the town, especially that projection into the lake known as Minnesota Point, connected to the city of Duluth by the famous Aerial Bridge. The buried car, and hopelessly mired snowplow, are situated on the only road leading the length of the Point - in the summertime, a beautiful, flat five mile bike ride.

I include a bit of correspondence that I had with my friend.

*************************************************

-------------- Original message ----------------------

From Roger:

> So, it looks like heavy snowfall in Duluth didn't end in the 50's afterall. 
> Almost makes a fellow want to start folding and delivering newspapers, eh?
> Roger

On Top of picture click on next. These are really some good pictures. What a mess down there. 
> 
> To view pictures of the March blizzard on Park Point, log on to this URL... 
> 
> http://www.northernimages.com/blizzard07/content/SW_2272_large.html 



Yeah, Rog -

About time that Duluth got a bit of respect again! Actually, we had thought of holing up in our condo for the duration of the blizzard, but [Mrs Ho Ho] couldn't get the time off. Great set of pix! How did you come across them? There are other neat pix there also. See
http://northernimages.com/lakesuperior/index.php




If you look closely at some of those Minn. Point shots, you can see the polar 
bears who wandered down from the spa-like temps of the ice-free arctic.

I think that MN Point got most of the snow, which is a shame. It will just melt and run back into the lake. It would have been more useful if it had fallen farther inland. Apparently, it was one of those 'perfect storms', with a low pressure cyclonic bringing up moisture from the gulf, but also sitting just right so that the counterclockwise winds blew straight down the lake, from Whitefish Bay all the way to Duluth, a fetch of maybe 300 miles. It picked up a lot more moisture SINCE, BECAUSE OF GLOBAL WARMING, MOST OF THE LAKE HAD NOT YET FROZEN AND THE WATER WAS STILL RELATIVELY WARM. SO TAKE THAT, YOU SKEPTIC!


----------



## mejix (Mar 10, 2007)

nice poem ho ho tai. i should pay more attention to gilbert and sullivan lyrics. those are quite nice. and the pics are surreal, quite spectacular, like gaudi architecture. thnx for the link!


*


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 10, 2007)

mejix said:


> nice poem ho ho tai. i should pay more attention to gilbert and sullivan lyrics. those are quite nice. and the pics are surreal, quite spectacular, like gaudi architecture. thnx for the link!
> 
> 
> *



. . . but I think that it does me no credit to be able to recall some lines from Gilbert & Sullivan. In fact, I quite agree with the words that they put into the mouth of one of their own characters, the Major General ("I am the very model of the modern major general") who went on to say, 

"I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies
I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore

And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinapinafore"

Sometimes very clever and entertaining, but certainly nothing that one would hold one's head up high while proclaiming. I threw it in just because those words seemed to bridge the gap between your poem and the Duluth slides.

Glad you enjoyed them, by the way. If it wasn't obvious, that is my home town, though I wasn't actually born there. But I did go all the way through school and college there, and had a paper route for six years as a kid. That is what my friend was referring to.

I do hope that this thread stays lit, and I have a few favorites which I may offer in support of that - though nothing on the scholarly level of most of the preceding.


----------



## Butterbelly (Mar 11, 2007)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



I love that poem as well...I'm a big T.S. Eliot fan


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 13, 2007)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



It was 1950, or '51. I still had five years to go before I would graduate from high school. A very impressionable young man who didn't care much for the world around him. At every opportunity, his head was either in the stars, or his nose in a book of sci-fi. 

Ray Bradbury's "Martian Chronicles" had just been published, and I think I practically walked into walls, as I walked along reading it, absorbing every scene, every word of a Mars which existed only in Bradbury's imagination.

Spender. Biggs. Wilder. Spender, the poet and archeologist, trying to save the remains of the old Martian civilization. Biggs, determined to trash it with his beer bottles and vomit. Wilder, the captain, caught in between and bound by duty. As I read it, I was Spender, of course. In later times, this would have been interpreted very differently - the stuff that led to Columbine.

But in the middle of that turmoil, Spender quoted a poem to Wilder, calling it the epitaph of that beautiful, and dead, civilization. It was, of course, 

We'll Go No More A-roving

So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

Lord Byron (George Gordon)
(1788-1824)

Not, perhaps, poetry to stand against the many deep and beautiful poems already posted in this thread, but, at that age (12?) I had never read - and EXPERIENCED - a poem in quite that way. The elements of the story, and my life, combined to impress it on my heart and mind forever.

I have had many - too many - occasions to recollect it over the years, and to quote it, to others, to myself, at times of loss - of a friend, a relationship - someone who had walked with me beneath the moon and stars, and did so no longer.

And someday, in the far future I hope, when the ashes of Ho Ho and Mrs Ho Ho rest in repose beneath their tree, perhaps we will have that poem posted nearby. We will still be under that moon, but no longer roving.

We will be home.


----------



## swamptoad (Mar 13, 2007)

*Reincarnation

Wallace McRae*



_"What does reincarnation mean?"

A cowpoke ast his friend.

His pal replied, "It happens when

Yer life has reached its end.

They comb yer hair, and warsh yer neck,

And clean yer fingernails,

And lay you in a padded box

Away from life's travails.



"The box and you goes in a hole,

That's been dyg into the ground.

Reincarnation starts in when

Yore planted 'neath a mound.

Them clods melt down, just like yer box,

And you who is inside.

And then yore just beginnin' on

Yer transformation ride.



"In a while the grass'll grow

Upon yer rendered mound.

Till some day on yer moldered grave

A lonely flower is found.

And say a hoss should wander by

And graze upon this flower

That once wuz you, but now's become

Yer vegetative bower.



"The posey that the hoss done ate

Up, with his other feed,

Makes bone, and fat, and muscle

Essential to the steed.

But some is left that he can't use

And so it passes through,

And finally lays upon the ground.

This thing, that once wuz you.



"Then say, by chance, I wanders by

And sees this upon the ground,

And I ponders, and I wonders at,

This object that I found.

I thinks of reincarnation,

Of life, and death, and such,

And come away concludin': Slim,

You ain't changed, all that much."_


----------



## swamptoad (Mar 13, 2007)

-- I like the narration "as told by Shel Silverstein" ---

*
Peanut-Butter Sandwich
by Shel Silverstein (1932-1999)*


Ill sing you a story of a silly young king
Who played with the world at the end of a string,
But he only loved one single thing --
And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich.

His scepter and his royal gowns,
His regal throne and golden crowns
Were brown and sticky from the mounds
And drippings from each peanut-butter sandwich.

His subjects all were silly fools
For he had passed a royal rule
That all that they could learn in school
Was how to make a peanut-butter sandwich.

He would not eat his sovereign steak,
He scorned his soup and kingly cake,
And told his courtly cook to bake
An extra-sticky peanut-butter sandwich.

And then one day he took a bite
And started chewing with delight,
But found his mouth was stuck quite tight
From that last bite of peanut-butter sandwich.

His brother pulled, his sister pried,
The wizard pushed, his mother cried,
My boys committed suicide
From eating his last peanut-butter sandwich!

The dentist came, and the royal doc.
The royal plumber banged and knocked,
But still those jaws stayed tightly locked.
Oh darn that sticky peanut-butter sandwich!

The carpenter, he tried with pliers,
The telephone man tried with wires,
The firemen, they tried with fire,
But couldnt melt that peanut-butter sandwich.

With ropes and pulleys, drills and coil,
With steam and lubricating oil --
For twenty years of tears and toil --
They fought that awful peanut-butter sandwich.

Then all his royal subjects came.
They hooked his jaws with grapplin chains
And pulled both ways with might and main
Against that stubborn peanut-butter sandwich.

Each man and woman, girl and boy
Put down their ploughs and pots and toys
And pulled until kerack! Oh, joy --
They broke right through that peanut-butter sandwich.

A puff of dust, a screech, a squeak --
The kings jaw opened with a creak.
And then in voice so faint and weak --
The first words that they heard him speak
Were, How about a peanut-butter sandwich?


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 13, 2007)

swamptoad said:


> -- I like the narration "as told by Shel Silverstein" ---
> 
> *
> Peanut-Butter Sandwich
> by Shel Silverstein (1932-1999)*



Thanks for the warning! My old dad lived on sardines, popcorn and peanut butter sandwiches. The poor fellow died a few years ago at age 99. Just think. He might still be alive today, if he had just heeded the advice of those around him and steered clear of those horrible things. But all his advisors were dust decades before that filthy habit finally took him to his grave.

Unfortunately, the habit continues in his progeny. I have broken numerous bad habits in my life - sometimes for long days at a time - but peanut butter just sticks to me.

Do we need a Peanut Butter Anonymous? I know all the best brands.


----------



## swamptoad (Mar 14, 2007)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Thanks for the warning! My old dad lived on sardines, popcorn and peanut butter sandwiches. The poor fellow died a few years ago at age 99. Just think. He might still be alive today, if he had just heeded the advice of those around him and steered clear of those horrible things. But all his advisors were dust decades before that filthy habit finally took him to his grave.
> 
> Unfortunately, the habit continues in his progeny. I have broken numerous bad habits in my life - sometimes for long days at a time - but peanut butter just sticks to me.
> 
> Do we need a Peanut Butter Anonymous? I know all the best brands.



But Peanut Butter Sandwiches are oh so good! :doh:  :eat2:


----------



## swamptoad (Mar 14, 2007)

Oh yeah!

e.e. cummings is another poet I like. And this poem is awesome!  

*"may i feel said he"
by e. e. cummings*


(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she 

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she) 

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she 

may i move said he
it is love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she 

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she 

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she 

(cccome?said he
ummm said she
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)


----------



## bbwsweetheart (Mar 14, 2007)

My True Love Has My Heart
by Philip Sidney 

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given;
I hold his dear and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

His heart in me keeps him and me in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 14, 2007)

swamptoad said:


> Oh yeah!
> 
> e.e. cummings is another poet I like. And this poem is awesome!
> 
> ...



I guess we could daisy chain on e.e. just about forever!

While I was aware of him earlier in my life, it was during our (Mrs Ho Ho and I) courtship and early years of marriage that we became acquainted with some of his poetry through the old TV series, "Beauty and the Beast" (Linda Hamilton, Ron Perlman, et al). Gad! I don't know yet what it was about that program, but we hung on every episode, song, glance - and found some way to project ourselves into it. We still do, but not quite with that urgency - that was nearly 20 years ago.

We didn't have the internet in those days, but I recorded the cummings poem and also the song by Melanie (The first time I loved forever) and played them over and over AND OVER again, until I was pretty sure that I had copied them out correctly.

This cummings poem was uttered by 'Vincent' as part of the intro to each episode.

To this day, we're still not quite sure of the meaning of every word and line, nor why they seemed to apply to us. But the fragments we did understand, we will carry with us forever.


the voice of her eyes

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will enclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your with be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-e.e.cummings


----------



## swamptoad (Mar 14, 2007)

--- I like these poetic lyrics from Run DMC ---

*RUN DMC LYRICS

"It's Like That*"

_[Run] _
Unemployment at a record highs 
People coming, people going, people born to die 
Don't ask me, because I don't know why 
But it's like that, and that's the way it is 

_[D.M.C.] _
People in the world tryin to make ends meet 
You try to ride car, train, bus, or feet 
I said you got to work hard, you want to compete 
It's like that, and that's the way it is 
Huh! 

_[Run & D.M.C. alternate lines for the remainder of the song] _
Money is the key to end all your woes 
Your ups, your downs, your highs and your lows 
Won't you tell me the last time that love bought you clothes? 
It's like that, and that's the way it is 

Bills rise higher every day 
We receive much lower pay 
I'd rather stay young, go out and play 
It's like that, and that's the way it is 
Huh! 

Wars going on across the sea 
Street soldiers killing the elderly 
Whatever happened to unity? 
It's like that, and that's the way it is 

Disillusion is the word 
That's used by me when I'm not heard 
I just go through life with my glasses blurred 
It's like that, and that's the way it is 
Huh! 

You can see a lot in this lifespan 
Like a bum eating out of a garbage can 
You noticed one time he was your man 
It's like that (what?) and that's the way it is 

You should have gone to school, you could've learned a trade 
But you laid in the bed where the bums have laid 
Now all the time you're crying that you're underpaid 
It's like that (what?) and that's the way it is 
Huh! 

One thing I know is that life is short 
So listen up homeboy, give this a thought 
The next time someone's teaching why don't you get taught? 
It's like that (what?) and that's the way it is 

If you really think about it times aren't that bad 
The one that flexes with successes will make you glad 
Stop playing start praying, you won't be sad 
It's like that (what?) and that's the way it is 
Huh! 

When you feel you fail sometimes it hurts 
For a meaning in life is why you search 
Take the bus or the train, drive to school or the church 
It's like that, and that's the way it is 

Here's another point in life you should not miss 
Do not be a fool who's prejudiced
Because we're all written down on the same list 
It's like that (what?) and that's the way it is 
Huh!

You know it's like that, and that's the way it is 
Because it's like that, and that's the way it is


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 22, 2007)

Esme said:


> What a great idea Eightyseven! You DO dare disturb the universe it seems.
> 
> My, all-time, favorite poem is "The Journey" by Mary Oliver.
> 
> ...



Thank you, Esme!

There are many fine and meaningful poems in this thread - many with which I was unacquainted. Part of my ignorance lie in never having heard of Mary Oliver. But the portion of "The Journey" which you quoted is the story of so many lives, especially those which, after much turmoil and uncertainty, end well, or come to a place of integrity and peace with one's self. It certainly describes mine.

I Google it (how many great adventures begin with that phrase) and the first website offered to me was this one.
http://www.allspirit.co.uk/maryoliver.html
It is a rich website - one to which I will have to return for further exploration.

Mrs Ho Ho and I are currently involved with scholarship funds at the university from which I graduated. In my late years, it is an act of meaning, a bridge from the past to the future, and a way of giving back to a source upon which my current happiness is based. That poem, "The Journey", I intend to forward to the development person we work with. I think that many of the students - scholarship recipients - would take courage and hope from it, as they recognize and take possession of their own paths through life.

Other poems by Mary Oliver listed on that website are these:
* Mockingbirds
* The Buddha's Last Instruction
* The Summer Day
* Moccasin Flowers
* Wild Geese
* When Death Comes
* The Journey

Others here touch my life as well.

In "Mockingbirds", she references a legend which I'm sure is an alternate version of the "Philemon & Baucis" story, first described in Ovid's 'Metamorphoses'. In the version with which we are familiar, the old couple does make a wish, which is honored by the gods by turning the old couple, at the time of their death, into a pair of embracing trees. Our plans for the disposal of our remains (at a point far into the future) are based on this story.

"Buddha's Last Instruction" begins with these words:
"Make of yourself a light "
said the Buddha,
before he died.

Again, our association with scholarship funds could be said to follow this principle, not so much in being the light, or carrying the torch, but in passing on the torch.

From "When Death Comes", I quote the following:

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
. . . . .

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Even before I read the poem that you quote, your entry caught my attention because "The Journey" is also the title of a poem by Edward Field which, in an odd way, describes something similar. I was unable to find an on-line version of it, so will type it out here.

From "Stand Up, Friend, With Me" copyright 1963
"The Journey"
by Edward Field

"When he got up that morning everything was different:
He enjoyed the bright spring day
But he did not realize it exactly, he just enjoyed it.

And walking down the street to the railway station
Past magnolia trees with dying flowers like old socks
It was a long time since he had breathed so simply.

Tears filled his eyes and it felt good
But he held them back
Because men didn't walk around crying in that town.

And waiting on the platform at the station
The fear came over him of something terrible about to happen:
The train was late and he recited the alphabet to keep hold.

And in its time it came screeching in
And as it went on making its usual stops,
People coming and going, telephone poles passing,

He hid his head behind a newspaper
No longer able to hold back the sobs, and willed his eyes
To follow the rational weavings of the seat fabric.

He didn't do anything violent as he had imagines.
He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down
A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,

And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:
And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on
He walked, himself at last, a man among men,
With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered."

I first heard this poem on one of Garrison Keillor's programs, probably in the '70s. I knew nothing about Edward Field at the time. I have never seen any scholarly interpretation, but I think it is a description of the process by which Mr. Field admitted to himself that he was gay (well confirmed in biographies.) I myself was in transition at the time (though not that one), and the poem resonated with that process.

Whether one is 'coming out' as gay, or coming to terms with almost any major life issue, the first step in the process is 'coming out' to one's self - taking possession and ownership of whatever it is that your introspection has revealed. In this sense, it is a journey we all must take; else we live a lie.

And it really is the same journey that Mary Oliver describes, isn't it. Your own voice comes to the fore, finally drowning out the fears, the hesitations, the lies we tell ourselves, and becomes the voice of a leader; ourselves, leading ourselves.


----------



## GeorgeNL (Mar 22, 2007)

I must admit, when reading these poems, I do fear death. 

Maybe one day, we discover that our life, 
was just a dream within a dream, within a dream. 
And you my friends, dream this dream with me.

George


----------



## Lovelyone (Mar 22, 2007)

One of my favorites is...

*Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou*​Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.


----------



## Lovelyone (Mar 22, 2007)

*Two more favorites of mine... *

*[IF]* 

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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,​
And lose, and start again at your beginnings​
And never breath 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! _--Rudyard Kipling_ ​*Count That Day Lost by George Eliot*​If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard, 
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face--
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost --
Then count that day as worse than lost.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 23, 2007)

Lovelyone said:


> One of my favorites is...
> 
> *Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou*​Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
> I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
> ...



An amazing woman! And she states perfectly (and elaborates) that the best possible accesory that a woman (or a man) can wear, is a big, honest, self-confident, welcoming smile.

A lady who reminds me of MS Angelou graced our city for a time, as superintendant of the Minneapolis school system. She accomplished great things in a relatively short time, but stepped on a lot of overly-tender pink toes in the process, and their owners eased her out. Even though they were members of the school board, I doubt if they really learned much - certainly not the lessons she had to teach.

But she too had the stride, the span, the lips, the hips, the click. I hope that she is doing well, wherever she is.




*
Thandiwe Peebles​*


----------



## PhillyFA (Mar 23, 2007)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



Mine too. I read it in college.


----------



## BLUEeyedBanshee (Mar 23, 2007)

Mine, and I can't find a copy of it right now...is Brooklyn Narcissus by Paul Blackburn.

Straight Rye Whiskey
100 Proof

Do you need a better friend?


Yes Myself.

The lights
The lights

The lonely, lovely [email protected]#king lights
And the bridge on a rainy Tuesday night.





I probably have the layout wrong, and may have missed a word or two...but I love that poem...It has so much feeling...most of it a deep sadness, but it actually touched me in a way no poem ever has before, or has again.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 24, 2007)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



One more poem, though I won't promise that it will be the last.

Many of you may know this poem. I believe that it is a standard in many courses of Freshman English. That's where I encountered it.

I was still painfully shy in those days and struggling to create some sort of identity and links to my classmates and the rest of the world. I had a vivid imagination in those days (now somewhat tarnished by the years) and, as overtures to connect met repeatedly with failure, it was no trouble to see myself in the position of poor Mr. Flood in my later years, and perhaps not even with memories of friendship and accomplishments to comfort me.

Well, life didn't turn out that way. I did make friends, married, had (and have) children - now adults - grandkids, a good career, and now, a happy retirement with the wonderful Mrs Ho Ho. Yet, somehow, the ghost of Mr. Flood still looms just around the next bend in the road. Things do fall apart, and it is yet possible that I may find myself friendless and alone at last. But, like Mr. Flood, I'll have endless stories and memories to comfort me - some of which I tell you from time to time, dear reader.

Now, here's the poem.

_Edwin Arlington Robinson

Mr. Flood's Party

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."

Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.

Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.

"Only a very little, Mr. Flood--
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang--

"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below--
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago._


----------



## moore2me (Mar 24, 2007)

I find the following poem to be inspirational and has helped me and others direct their lives. 

Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
*I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.*

William Ernest Henley. 18491903​


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 24, 2007)

moore2me said:


> I find the following poem to be inspirational and has helped me and others direct their lives.
> 
> Invictus
> 
> ...




Yes. "I AM the master of MY fate . . ." I was first introduced to this poem well over half a century ago, by a family physician who was also a friend, fellow astronomer, and mentor. I have interpreted it in evolving ways over the years, but the core of it is, not that I have control over my fate, but that ultimately, it is mine to accept, to own, and to deal with as best I can. "Ya get lemons; make lemonade." I think that this interpretation is in keeping with Henley's own life. I took this quote from Bartleby's: "Although crippled by tuberculosis of the bone, he led an active, vigorous life." 

Some might interpret the poem as a paean to atheism. I would interpret more as a rejection of a god-concept who is expected to intervene benevolently in human affairs, standing by to bail one out of whatever mess one finds one's self in. That is my position too.

About ten years ago, Union Bank of Switzerland ran a series of commercials featuring various actors presenting various poems and literary passages in declamatory form. Alan Bates was chosen to read Invictus. You can find that reading at the link, below.

My dad died, just over a year ago, at age 99. His funeral was held in the chapel of the Catholic nursing home, where he spent the last five years of his life. My sister and I both did short presentions of his life.

He had experienced many difficult times during his career, but somehow kept the family together and intact. I chose to represent that facet by quoting this section of Henley's poem:

"In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed."

"Invictus" might not quite fit the beliefs of most Catholics, but that portion certainly fit the moment.

Summary of UBS commercials
http://www.alanbates.com/abfeatures/ephemera.html

Video: Bates reading Invictus
http://www.alanbates.com/invictus.html


----------



## moore2me (Mar 25, 2007)

Very eloquently put Ho Ho Tai. I could not have said it better myself. I also believe the poem transcends many of our religious beliefs. 

Your father sounds like a he was a wise man (judging from his son). Thank you for the links.

Deborah Moore :bow:


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Apr 1, 2007)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



One more (though perhaps not the last) attempt to gather interest in what is becoming a moribund thread.

I quote the poem: 
"This is the theory that Jack built" 
from "The Space Child's Mother Goose"
by Frederick Winsor, illus. Marian Parry
Simon & Schuster, 1956
Reissued 2001 by Purple House Press

I graduated in Physics & Mathematics, 1959. This little book enjoyed a lot of hand-to-hand circulation amongst the students in science, engineering and mathematics, during the years when I was pursuing my degree.

I contend that it applies, not only to the scientific fields, but to any field of human endeavor which attempts to explain the universe around us, and the reason and purpose for our being here. The poem lays bare the dangers in depending on private or arcane knowledge, revealed truth, untested hypotheses masquerading as solid theories, reference to 'authority' who, in turn, reference other 'authority'. 

We, and all of our attempts at explanation, are in the position of The Blind Men and the Elephant, in how we grasp partial truths and extrapolate to what we consider the full explanation. In that sense, I believe that ALL of the major attempts at seeking such information - science & mathematics, philosophy, poetry and literature, and most particularly, theology, are all subcategories of mythology. There is probably some truth in all of them, but none have exclusive domain. Whether we believe that the universe rests on the back of a huge turtle, is constructed of particles which can only be hypothesized, or is the mental creation of a god, we are all partners in the search for truth - as long as we continue to observe, refine, challenge and test. If we continue only to assert our own beliefs, in increasingly loud and strident voices, we reach the point at which the world is today.

I challenge you. What if the "Space Child with Brow Serene" pushed the button on your machine?


This is the Theory Jack built.
This is the Flaw
That lay in the Theory Jack built.
This is the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Chaotic Confusion and Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Cybernetics and Stuff
That covered Chaotic Confusion and Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the button to Start the Machine
To make with the Cybernetics and Stuff
To cover Chaotic Confusion and Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Space Child with Brow Serene
Who Pushed the Button to Start the Machine
That made with the Cybernetics and Stuff
Without Confusion, exposing the Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
And, shredding the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
Wrecked the Summary
Based on Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
And Demolished the Theory that Jack built.


----------



## Falcon (Apr 3, 2007)

My Love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her;
For every season she hath dressing fit,
For Winter, Spring and Summer.

No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is
when all her robes are gone.

--Anonymous


----------



## bbwsweetheart (Apr 3, 2007)

But that pure light changeless and strong Cherished and watched and nursed so long That love that first its glory gave Shall be my pole star to the grave.

Emily Brönte


----------



## William (Apr 4, 2007)

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

~ William Blake, Songs of Experience (1794). A Poison Tree


William


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jun 26, 2007)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



From the days when REAL programmers programmed down to the bare metal, using punched cards, paper tape, assemblers, even 1s and 0s, comes this poem. I sent to a friend, admonishing him not to burn so much midnight oil. Bugs are just as visible by the light of day.

*The Last Bug

"But what does it matter?"
They said with a shrug.
"The customer's happy.
What's one little bug?"

But he was determined.
The others went home.
He spread out the program
Deserted....alone.

The cleaning man came.
The whole room was cluttered
With punch cards, core dumps,
"I'm close," he muttered.

His mumbling grew louder,
"Simple deduction!
I've got it! It's right!
Just change one instruction!"

It still wasn't right,
As year followed year,
And strangers would query,
"Is that nut still here?"

He died at his console
Of hunger and thirst.
They buried him next day
Face down - nine edge first.

The last bug in sight,
One small ant passing by,
Saluted his tombstone
And whispered, "Nice try."
​*


----------



## Ample Pie (Jun 26, 2007)

*Nikki-Rosa*

childhood remembrances are always a drag
if you're Black
you always remember things like living in Woodlawn
with no inside toilet
and if you become famous or something
they never talk about how happy you were to have your mother
all to yourself and how good the water felt when you got your bath from one of those
big tubs that folk in chicago barbecue in
and somehow when you talk about home
it never gets across how much you
understood their feelings
as the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
and even though you remember
your biographers never understand
your father's pain as he sells his stock
and another dream goes
and though you're poor it isn't poverty that
concerns you
and though they fought a lot
it isn't your father's drinking that makes any difference
but only that everybody is together and you
and your sister have happy birthdays and very good christmasses
and I really hope no white person ever has cause to write about me
because they never understand that Black love is Black wealth and
they'll probably talk about my hard childhood and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy.

by Nikki Giovanni

*Right Through The Heart*

and out the other side,
pumping like a bitch in heat,
beast with two backs, the
left and right ventricles.

It has to be love
when it goes straight through;
no bone can stop it,
no barb impede its journey.

When it happens you have to bleed,
you want to kiss and hold on

despite all the messy blood
you want to embrace it.

You want it to last forever,
you want to own it.
You want to take love's tiny life
in your hands

and crush it to death before it dies.

by Susan Musgrave

*Right To Live*
_(Saille)_

A woman is not a pear tree
thrusting her fruit in mindless fecundity
into the world. Even pear trees bear
heavily one year and rest and grow the next.
An orchard gone wild drops few warm rotting
fruit in the grass but the trees stretch
high and wiry gifting the birds forty
feet up among the inch long thorns
broken atavistically from the smooth wood.

A woman is not a basket you place
your buns in to keep them warm. Not a brood
hen you can slip duck eggs under.
Not the purse holding the coins of your
descendants till you spend them in wars.
Not a bank where your genes gather interest
and interesting mutations in the tainted
rain, any more than you are.

You plant corn and you harvest
it to eat or sell. You put the lamb
in the pasture to fatten and haul it in
to butcher for chops. You slice
the mountain in two for a road and gouge
the high plains for coal and the waters
run muddy for miles and years.
Fish die but you do not call them yours
unless you wished to eat them.

Now you legislate mineral rights in a woman.
You lay claim to her pastures for grazing,
fields for growing babies like iceberg
lettuce. You value children so dearly
that none ever go hungry, none weep
with no one to tend them when mothers
work, none lack fresh fruit,
none chew lead or cough to death and your
orphanages are empty. Every noon the best
restaurants serve poor children steaks.

At this moment at nine o'clock a partera
is performing a table top abortion on an
unwed mother in Texas who can't get Medicaid
any longer. In five days she will die
of tetanus and her little daughter will cry
and be taken away. Next door a husband
and wife are sticking pins in the son
they did not want. They will explain
for hours how wicked he is,
how he wants discipline.

We are all born of woman, in the rose
of the womb we suckled our mother's blood
and every baby born has a right to love
like a seedling to sun. Every baby born
unloved, unwanted is a bill that will come
due in twenty years with interest, an anger
that must find a target, a pain that will
beget pain. A decade downstream a child
screams, a woman falls, a synagogue is torched,
a firing squad is summoned, a button
is pushed and the world burns.

I will choose what enters me, what becomes
flesh of my flesh. Without choice, no politics,
no ethics lives. I am not your cornfield,
not your uranium mine, not your calf
for fattening, not your cow for milking.
You may not use me as your factory.
Priests and legislators do not hold
shares in my womb or my mind.
This is my body. If I give it to you
I want it back. My life
is a non-negotiable demand.

by Marge Piercy

*Thunder*

To say you play me like a violin
is a cliché, lover, and untrue
because what you do is blow me
like a tuba.
You lick me deliciously
like a lime popsicle on a July night
during a thunderstorm
where I am the wind howling
as your cool tongue meets
my very warm skin
and I crack into peels of thunder
for you.

by Mary Beth Mapstone


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jun 26, 2007)

Rebecca said:


> *Nikki-Rosa*
> 
> childhood remembrances are always a drag
> if you're Black. . . Black love is Black wealth and
> ...



Rebecca - I am relatively unschooled in poetry and the poetic mode of expression, so perhaps these comments won't carry much weight. Be that as it may, I have never read such concentrated and distilled anger, so much focussed passion, so articulately and so needfully expressed. I called attention to your post to some fellow Dimension folks, to other friends, and to Mrs Ho Ho, my wife. I made the comment that if there were ten poets as capable as these, they could save the world. My wife pointed out that there certainly were, and the world hasn't yet been saved.

But what would the world be without them?


----------



## Ample Pie (Jun 27, 2007)

I'm genuinely glad you were moved by these poems. They are, in addition to three or so others, my favorite poems ever written. Poetry is not my favorite form of expression, but I am moved by honesty, and struggle, and passion. 

Just a note, I did mistype the name of Marge Piercy's poem. It should be *Right To Life*. 



Ho Ho Tai said:


> Rebecca - I am relatively unschooled in poetry and the poetic mode of expression, so perhaps these comments won't carry much weight. Be that as it may, I have never read such concentrated and distilled anger, so much focused passion, so articulately and so needfully expressed. I called attention to your post to some fellow Dimension folks, to other friends, and to Mrs Ho Ho, my wife. I made the comment that if there were ten poets as capable as these, they could save the world. My wife pointed out that there certainly were, and the world hasn't yet been saved.
> 
> But what would the world be without them?


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jul 12, 2007)

I can't say that this poem is a favorite of mine, perhaps because it fits me altogether too well. But I had occasion to dig it up as a response to an old friend - someone whom I have known for 65 of my 70 years. From a couple of amiable nerds whose only interests were astronomy and chess, we have become Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum; two old curmudgeons, one on the right and one on the left. But we do come together in that last stanza - more or less.

The poem was hard to find on-line and hard to put together. I have long since lost the book in which I first came across it. Rather than lose it, I am posting it here.

I suspect that I'm not the only one here who finds some resonance with it.
_

The Voluble Wheel Chair

When you roll along admiring the view,
And everyone drives too fast but you;
When people not only ignore your advice,
But complain that youv'e given it to them twice;
When you babble of putts you nearly holed,
By gad, sir'
You are getting old.

When for novels you lose your appetite
Because writers don't write what they used to write.
When by current art you are unbeguiled
And pronounce it the work of an idiot child;
When cacophonous music leaves you cold,
By gad, sir,
You are getting old.

When you twist the sheets from night to morn
To recall when a cousin's daughter was born;
When youngsters mumble and won't speak up,
And your dog dodders, who was a pup;
When the modern girl seems a hussy bold,
By gad, sir,
You are getting old.

When you scoff at feminine fashion trends;
When strangers resemble absent friends;
When you start forgetting the neighbors names;
And remembering bygone football games;
When you only drop in at the club to scold;
By gad, sir,
You are getting old.

But when you roar at the income tax,
And the slippery bureaucratic hacks,
And the ancient political fishlike smell,
And assert that the world is going to hell,
Why, you are not old at all, at all;
By gad, sir,
You are on the ball!

Ogden Nash, The Voluble Wheel Chair​_


----------



## Admiral_Snackbar (Nov 30, 2007)

Love is a word that is constantly heard,
Hate is a word that is not.
Love, I am told, is more precious than gold.
Love, I have read, is hot.
But hate is the verb that to me is superb,
And Love but a drug on the mart.
Any kiddie in school can love like a fool,
But Hating, my boy, is an Art.

-- Ogden Nash (1902-1971)

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

- Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

and of course, one of my all-time faves:

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

- Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)


----------



## Count Zero (Nov 30, 2007)

This is such a great thread! I've picked up a couple poets to check out, and if no one minds, I'd like to share a couple of my own:

*AMERICA by Allen Ginsberg*

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
17, 1956. 
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks? 
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world. 
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister. 
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
joke? 
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder. 
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry. 
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet. 
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine? 
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore. 
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious. 
Everybody's serious but me. 
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable 
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour 
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions. 
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots 
under the light of five hundred suns. 
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go. 
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic. 
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
mood? 
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're 
all different sexes. 
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe 
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a 
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the 
speeches were free everybody was angelic and 
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin- 
cere you have no idea what a good thing the 
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand 
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me 
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody 
must have been a spy. 
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians. 
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our 
garages. 
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. 
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta- 
tions. 
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us 
all work sixteen hours a day. Help. 
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set. 
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and 
psychopathic anyway. 
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.


*GERONTION by T. S. Eliot*

Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.


Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.

I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.

Signs are taken for wonders. "We would see a sign":
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fraulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy knob.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What's not believed in, or if still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what's thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils.
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use it for your closer contact?

These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a sleepy corner.

Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.


Sadly, my favorite poem, T. S. Eliot's _The Waste Lands_, is just way too long to post here.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 3, 2007)

Count Zero said:


> This is such a great thread! I've picked up a couple poets to check out, and if no one minds, I'd like to share a couple of my own:
> 
> *AMERICA by Allen Ginsberg*
> 
> ...



I have one book of Ginsberg poetry on my shelf - Kaddish and Other Poems. It was given to me by a "friend of a friend" in 1977 - probably the most intense and angry young (at the time) woman I have ever met. She 'crashed' with us on her way to . . . somewhere. Later, she sent me that book, both, I think, out of gratitude and because she felt that my mind needed to be expanded.

While I am grateful to her, I'm afraid that her effort failed. My mind has never expanded to that degree. 

Rilke, in "Letters to a young poet" says, more or less, that it takes an entire lifetime of experience before a poet can produce even one meaningful line. I think that the same can be said of the poets' audiences. I find poets like Ginsberg and Eliot (at least, in your quotations) to be quite daunting. I think that this is because, while I have experienced a few bumps and bruises in my life, it is NOTHING like the lives of those who portray such hurt and anger in their poetry.

In one sense, I almost feel guilty about this - what business have I to be so happy, so late in life. However, I am also grateful that this was not my lot and if I had to choose again, I would probably choose the same way. I have a feeling that I had led that kind of life, I would have died long ago. 

There is much in the writings of others that I do resonate to, and I hope that the same can be said of others reading my own offerings.

But, as I read the poetic quotes, above, this comes to mind.

Behold! There goes a moron.
He is a happy man.
I'm glad I'm not a moron.
My God! Perhaps I am!

I think maybe I'm the person in this old poem, one of those semi-onomatopoeic things which people used to chant to the rhythm of railroad car wheels - and I'm grateful.


----------



## Bafta1 (Dec 3, 2007)

Little known is the fact that Thomas Hardy's primary literary passion was poetry, not novel writing. He wrote novels to earn a living, yet he is better known for his books than for his verse. This isn't one of my favorite poems, at all, in fact. I could never choose a favorite poem. I just think that the image is very beautiful. Hardy loved a girl in his village, from afar, and this is a poem, long after he had moved away, in time and space, from her and his childhood life. 

I also think it relevant to Dimensions. It's for the men who have admired fat women from afar, but never been able to share or talk about the way they feel. It's for those times when you've loved someone and been ridiculed by everyone else around you. For those people you'll never forget, even though you know that, to them, you face is merely a faded memory. 

View attachment Untitled.jpg


----------



## Bafta1 (Dec 3, 2007)

Oh, I can't resist this bloody thread!

Don't berate me for choosing this one. It's a cliché for a reason...

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats


----------



## BlondeAmbition (Dec 3, 2007)

bbwsweetheart said:


> Robert Frost's Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
> 
> "...The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
> But I have promises to keep,
> ...



That last stanza always gives me a bit of a rush. Profound stuff. Simply beautiful.



candygodiva said:


> The Road Not Taken
> Robert Frost 1920
> 
> "..Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
> ...



This has allllllllways been one of my favourite poems. Seriously, how could you not relate to it? Excellent choice m'dear!





Okay, you cannot laugh... When I was a quite young my aunt & uncle gave me this book called _Garbage Delight_. This was my favourite and I can still recite it by heart!


I Eat Kids: Yum Yum! _Dennis Lee_

_A child went out one day.
She only went to play.
A mighty monster came along
And sang its mighty monster song:

I EAT KIDS YUM YUM!
I STUFF THEM DOWN MY TUM.
I ONLY LEAVE THE TEETH AND CLOTHES.
(I ESPECIALLY LIKE THE TOES.)

The child was not amused.
She stood there and refused.
Then with a skip and a little twirl
She sang the song of a hungry girl:

"I EAT MONSTERS BURP!
THEY MAKE ME SQUEAL AND SLURP.
IT'S TIME TO CHOMP AND TAKE A CHEW--
AND WHAT I'LL CHEW IS YOU!"

The monster ran like that!
It didn't stop to chat.
(The child went skipping home again
And ate her brother's model train.)_



It's a wonderful kids book, full of silly little stories and poems. I still have it packed carefully away with all of my other favourite childhood books, poems and nursery rhymes. I've been saving them to pass onto my children one day.


----------



## liz (di-va) (Dec 3, 2007)

Okay, all into the pool with our paws clasped in nerdful literary ecstasy, because it's so VERY hard not to think about Philip Larkin if you're going to cite Yeats and Hardy, those being (in reverse chron order) his biggest influences. So if you're going to quote those two lovely poems, Bafta, then I might suggest this one, which seems relevant in this world, with its discussion of looking and distance, and faint prurience, I hope it ruins nothing to say! ("The Theft of This One of You Bathing" is not a bad possible title for Dims.  ) O pomes pomes!

*Lines on a Young Lady's Photograph Album*
_Philip Larkin_

At last you yielded up the album, which
Once open, sent me distracted. All your ages
Matt and glossy on the thick black pages!
Too much confectionery, too rich:
I choke on such nutritious images.

My swivel eye hungers from pose to pose --
In pigtails, clutching a reluctant cat;
Or furred yourself, a sweet girl-graduate;
Or lifting a heavy-headed rose
Beneath a trellis, or in a trilby-hat

(Faintly disturbing, that, in several ways) --
From every side you strike at my control,
Not least through those these disquieting chaps who loll
At ease about your earlier days:
Not quite your class, I'd say, dear, on the whole.

But o, photography! as no art is,
Faithful and disappointing! that records
Dull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds,
And will not censor blemishes
Like washing-lines, and Hall's-Distemper boards,

But shows a cat as disinclined, and shades
A chin as doubled when it is, what grace
Your candour thus confers upon her face!
How overwhelmingly persuades
That this is a real girl in a real place,

In every sense empirically true!
Or is it just the past? Those flowers, that gate,
These misty parks and motors, lacerate
Simply by being you; you
Contract my heart by looking out of date.

Yes, true; but in the end, surely, we cry
Not only at exclusion, but because
It leaves us free to cry. We know what was
Won't call on us to justify
Our grief, however hard we yowl across

The gap from eye to page. So I am left
To mourn (without a chance of consequence)
You, balanced on a bike against a fence;
To wonder if you'd spot the theft
Of this one of you bathing; to condense,

In short, a past that no one now can share,
No matter whose your future; calm and dry,
It holds you like a heaven, and you lie
Unvariably lovely there,
Smaller and clearer as the years go by.


----------



## Bafta1 (Dec 3, 2007)

BlondeAmbition said:


> That last stanza always gives me a bit of a rush. Profound stuff. Simply beautiful.



Absolutely!


----------



## BlondeAmbition (Dec 3, 2007)

Here's another one that I've loved for years:

If I Really Cared  _Ruth Senter_ 

_Id look you in the eyes when you talk to me; 
Id think about what youre saying rather than what Im going to say next; 
Id hear your feelings as well as your words. 

If I really cared...
Id listen without defending; 
Id hear without deciding whether youre right or wrong; 
Id ask you why, not just how and when and where. 

If I really cared...
Id allow you inside of me; 
Id tell you my hopes, my dreams, my fears, my hurts; 
Id tell you where Ive blown it and when Ive made it. 

If I really cared... 
Id laugh with you but not at you; 
Id talk with you and not to you; 
And Id know when its time to do neither. 

If I really cared...
I wouldnt climb over your walls; 
Id hang around until you let me in the gate. 
I wouldnt unlock your secrets; 
Id wait until you handed me the key. 

If I really cared... 
Id love you anyhow; 
But Id ask for the best that you can give
And gently draw it from you. 

If I really cared... 
Id put my scripts away, 
And leave my solutions at home. 
The performances would end. 
Wed be ourselves. _



Rules to live by.


----------



## Fletcher Harrison (Dec 3, 2007)

Bafta - Thomas Hardy is one of my favorite poets; particularly the stuff from his first collection...as a young undergrad suffering from a rough breakup (my first BBW!) I was obsessed with "Her Dilemma"

HE TWO were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,
And wasted carvings passed antique research;
And nothing broke the clocks dull monotones.

Leaning against a wormy poppy-head,
So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,
--For he was soon to die,--he softly said,
Tell me you love me!--holding hard her hand.

She would have given a world to breathe yes truly,
So much his life seemed hanging on her mind,
And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly,
Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.

But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,
So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize
A world conditioned thus, or care for breath
Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.


I loved the "mocked humanity" line. Still do I guess, but now that I'm reading it again it feels a little Lifetime movie-ish. Course, they would call it "Her Dilemma: The Real Life Story of Some Woman I've Never Heard Of" (starring Meredith Baxter Bierny)


----------



## Count Zero (Dec 3, 2007)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> I have one book of Ginsberg poetry on my shelf - Kaddish and Other Poems. It was given to me by a "friend of a friend" in 1977 - probably the most intense and angry young (at the time) woman I have ever met. She 'crashed' with us on her way to . . . somewhere. Later, she sent me that book, both, I think, out of gratitude and because she felt that my mind needed to be expanded.
> 
> While I am grateful to her, I'm afraid that her effort failed. My mind has never expanded to that degree.
> 
> ...



That's a very good observation. Although there is a lot of anger is some of the works of both poets, I enjoy them primarily for the imagery they both invoke. To tell the honest truth, my favorite work by Eliot is _Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats_. 

P.S. - That's quite a nice verse at the end. I'll have to remember it.


----------



## Ernest Nagel (Dec 3, 2007)

I have far too many favorite poems to choose only one but the favorite message of all I've ever read is from this well known and simple verse.

*Abou Ben Adhem*
Poem lyrics of Abou Ben Adhem by Leigh Hunt.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight of his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
'What writest thou?' - The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered 'The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said 'I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names who love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.


----------



## themadhatter (Dec 3, 2007)

Now, I am admittedly not a poetry expert or even an aficionado (though I used to try and write, poorly, haha). Anyway, being a history buff I come across a few examples of war poetry, which always kind of get me. So here are my favorites (links):

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Parable_of_the_Old_Man_and_the_Young

http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/flanders.htm

Maybe they all seem a bit morbid to be interested in, but that they relate, in a very real way, such a watershed, catastrophic time that they just grab me. 
Ha, that explanation doesn't really make any sense, but whatever.


----------



## themadhatter (Dec 4, 2007)

Oh, I forgot to add:

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge if that one counts.


----------



## liz (di-va) (Dec 5, 2007)

Things seem rather fractious and crankypuss, so I reach for soothing poetry! My dad used to really like reading this poem aloud around Christmas time (fun repetition!). Sorry about the length, but it goes fast:


*King John's Christmas*
A.A. Milne


_King John was not a good man --
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him, 
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air --
And bad King John stood dumbly there, 
Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon...
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December, 
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They'd given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,
He lived his live aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
"TO ALL AND SUNDRY - NEAR AND FAR -
F. Christmas in particular."
And signed it not "Johannes R."
But very humbly, "Jack."

"I want some crackers,
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I don't mind oranges,
I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!"

King John was not a good man --
He wrote this message out, 
And gat him to this room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there, 
A prey to hopes and fears.
"I think that's him a-coming now!"
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
"He'll bring one present, anyhow --
The first I had for years."

"Forget about the crackers,
And forget the candy;
I'm sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don't like oranges,
I don't want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!"

King John was not a good man,
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly: "As I feared,
Nothing again for me!"

"I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts!
And, oh! if Father Christmas, had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red, 
india-rubber ball!"

King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all ...
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!

AND, OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM
A BIG, RED,
INDIA-RUBBER
BALL!_


----------



## Fascinita (Dec 5, 2007)

My favorite little-known poem in English. For it is so adorable.

_For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry_
by Christopher Smart

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry. 
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually--Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.


----------



## Chuggernut (Dec 5, 2007)

(1st reader):"Simple Simon met a pieman, going to the fair. Said Simple Simon to the pieman 'Let me taste your ware'"

(2nd reader):"Let me taste your what?"

"No, not your _what_, your _ware_"

"Why?"

" Why what?"

"Why would someone want to taste my _where_?"

"I was unaware you would make this such an issue"

"Someone wants to tast my _unaware_ :huh:?"


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 5, 2007)

Fascinita said:


> My favorite little-known poem in English. For it is so adorable.
> 
> _For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry_
> by Christopher Smart
> ...



You probably know that Benjamin Britten included a small portion of this poem in "A Ceremony of Carols", but until you posted this, I hadn't known that there was more to it. Somewhere, lost in the fragments of my life, is a vinyl record of this piece. I seem to recall that Christopher Smart was described as "devout" and "half-mad". Reading it through, I can see why reviewers had that impression, but, compared to other cat lovers I have known, he seems quite normal. In his whimsy, he reminds me of Charles Ives.

Thanks for bringing it to my attention.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 6, 2007)

Ernest Nagel said:


> I have far too many favorite poems to choose only one but the favorite message of all I've ever read is from this well known and simple verse.
> 
> *Abou Ben Adhem*
> Poem lyrics of Abou Ben Adhem by Leigh Hunt.
> ...



This reminds me of our favorite myth. The mythical (as far as I know!) story of Philemon & Baucis is very precious to Mrs. Ho Ho and me. It is a thread that winds it's way through our lives, linking seemingly disparate experiences together. The old couple loved each other very much and extended that love to all around them - including the gods who, in disguise, came knocking one day.

If you care to read an abbreviated version of this story, this link, while not the best synopsis, does have a lovely photo of a double-trunked olive tree at the bottom of the page. Such trees my wife and I call "kissin' trees" and, when walking or biking through the woods, stop and kiss as many times as there are trunks.

After a long walk, it may take our lips days to recover.

http://homepage.mac.com/cparada/GML/Philemon.html


----------



## liz (di-va) (Dec 6, 2007)

Wilfred Owen's great, madhattah. I think there really is something about WWI poets, you are right, and yeah about Coleridge! (although it's Rime, not Rhyme, and it's obnoxious to correct that, do scuse, but I thought you might want to know if not then *do* forgive). I luv that poem. About once a day about the "could not choose but hear" line pops in my head.



Fascinita said:


> My favorite little-known poem in English. For it is so adorable. _For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry_
> by Christopher Smart



I luv that poem! My roommate named her cat, well, Jeffrey (no O), in honor of it. He knew his cats!!


----------



## Bafta1 (Dec 6, 2007)

What's with all the cats?!

Now for the dogs...

There's a tomb in the grounds of Lord Byron's house at Newstead which the poet built for his dog. Byron had lots of dogs, but somehow this one meant more to him than any other. The dog's name was Boatswain. This poem is inscribed on Boatswain's tomb and was written for him, in love of his memory and loyalty. 

*****

When some proud son of man returns to earth,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,

And storied urns record who rest below:

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his master's own,

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:

While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,

Pass on --- it honours none you wish to mourn:

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;

I never knew but one, --- and here he lies.


----------



## mejix (Dec 30, 2007)

i find this song eerie

*Future Lovers*- Chico Buarque

Don’t rush, don’t
It doesn’t have to be right now 
Love has no hurry 
It can wait in silence 
At the bottom of the cabinet 
In the chest 
Millennia, millenia
On air 
And who knows, maybe then 
Rio will be 
Some city submerged at the bottom of the sea
The divers will 
Explore your home 
Your room, your things 
Your soul, your hiding places 
Wise men in vain 
Will try to decipher 
The echo of old words 
Fragments of letters, poems 
Lies, pictures 
Traces of a strange civilization 
Don’t rush, don’t
Nothing is for right now 
Lovers will always be kind.
Future lovers, perhaps 
will love one another without knowing 
They are using the love that one day 
I had saved for you




*


----------



## Britannia (Dec 30, 2007)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



OMFG

yes

Yes

YES.

That poem has changed my life in so many ways. I love it more than any other single piece of literary/poetic work known to man.

And you, by association, are now in my top list of Favorite People Ever.


----------



## bexy (Dec 30, 2007)

*does it have to be a poem or can it be song lyrics, as to me thats poetry.

Mine is I Know Its Over, by the smiths.

Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
And as I climb into an empty bed
Oh well. Enough said.
I know it's over - still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Oh ...
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
See, the sea wants to take me
The knife wants to slit me
Do you think you can help me ?
Sad veiled bride, please be happy
Handsome groom, give her room
Loud, loutish lover, treat her kindly
(Though she needs you
More than she loves you)
And I know it's over - still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Over and over and over and over
Over and over, la ...
I know it's over
And it never really began
But in my heart it was so real
And you even spoke to me, and said :
"If you're so funny
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
And if you're so clever
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very entertaining
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very good-looking
Why do you sleep alone tonight ?
I know ...
'Cause tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms..."
It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes strength to be gentle and kind
Over, over, over, over
It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes guts to be gentle and kind
Over, over
Love is Natural and Real
But not for you, my love
Not tonight, my love
Love is Natural and Real
But not for such as you and I, my love
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head.*


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 30, 2007)

mejix said:


> i find this song eerie
> 
> *Future Lovers*- Chico Buarque
> 
> ...


I read it - and read it - and then showed it to Mrs Ho Ho. It comes close to our own philosophy about love - not the unrequited sort as sung by Mr.Buarque, but the fully realized, reciprocated, fulfilled love, built by old lovers, over a lifetime shared. We 'believe' (or would like to think it true) that people generating love are like trees generating oxygen. Once generated, it floats out into the general milieu to be shared by all. Even when the trees, or the people in love, die, their gift remains, to benefit all who encounter it. However, we would not deny that unrequited love is same sort of gift.

The reference to Rio made me think that the author/singer was Brazilian, and speaking Portuguese, a language I don't understand. I did a bit of Googling and came up with the following (Google translation from Portuguese). It is the comments of Mr. Buarque on how the song came to be written. For those of you versed in the language, the original may be found here:
http://www.interney.net/blogs/inagaki/2007/09/20/chico_buarque_falando_de_futuros_amantes/

" "I tava stirring in the guitar, starting to make a melody, and the first image that appeared was exactly that: a city submerged, isolated from everything. Because cantarolando, it seemed that the music mean it. I had to go behind the explanation that city submerged. Then I put the escafandristas and emerged the story of a love postponed, a love that is forever. This idea of love as something that can be used later, which is not wasted. Moves is the time, now Up millennia, and that love will do under water. A love that will be used by other people, a love that was not used because it was not matched, and then it is odd, hovering ... Waiting for someone to take and complete its function of love. " 

Uma bela explicação para uma música que dá o consolo definitivo a todos aqueles que um dia sofreram com sentimentos não-correspondidos: " futuros amantes quiçá se amarão, sem saber, com o amor que eu um dia deixei pra você ". A beautiful explanation for a song that gives the final consolation to those who suffered one day with feelings non-matched: "Maybe if future lovers love, without knowing, with the love that I one day left to you." Devo confessar que já houve dias em que ouvi esta canção com os olhos tremeluzentes de lágrimas... I must confess that there have been days when I heard this song with eyes tremeluzentes of tears ... 

I praise you for bringing this to my attention, and I damn you for exposing yet another chasm of my ignorance.


----------



## mejix (Dec 31, 2007)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> I read it - and read it - and then showed it to Mrs Ho Ho. It comes close to our own philosophy about love -
> ...
> I praise you for bringing this to my attention, and I damn you for exposing yet another chasm of my ignorance.



so glad you liked the lyric. my first language is spanish and i can understand a fair amount of portuguese. i've always loved the melody of this song and the parts of the lyrics that i understood had always been very intriguing. yesterday i decided to try to translate it. i love that central image of the city submerged and this sort sci-fi/ wizard book feel. (the arrangement feels very 50's at some points and that in itself is very interesting). it was only when i started working on the translation that i understood that idea of future lovers using the love that was unrequited, which is the whole point of the song. thanks so much for the buarque interview quote. really interesting. 

i thought about posting the song in one of the favorite song threads but i thought the lyric would be better appreciated by people that read this thread. brazilian music has a tradition of extraordinary lyrics that i think you might want to explore. people like vinicius de moraes, chico buarque, gilberto gil, and -above all- caetano veloso, among many others. 

and hey, we are all ignorant, its just that we are ignorant about different things.


----------



## Fascinita (Dec 31, 2007)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> You probably know that Benjamin Britten included a small portion of this poem in "A Ceremony of Carols", but until you posted this, I hadn't known that there was more to it. Somewhere, lost in the fragments of my life, is a vinyl record of this piece. I seem to recall that Christopher Smart was described as "devout" and "half-mad". Reading it through, I can see why reviewers had that impression, but, compared to other cat lovers I have known, he seems quite normal. In his whimsy, he reminds me of Charles Ives.
> 
> Thanks for bringing it to my attention.



Don't mention it. Here is my favorite line in it:

"For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eye."

But the stuff about the cat being an enemy of Satan is up there, too.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 31, 2007)

mejix said:


> it was only when i started working on the translation that i understood that idea of future lovers using the love that was unrequited, which is the whole point of the song. thanks so much for the buarque interview quote. really interesting.
> . . .
> 
> i thought about posting the song in one of the favorite song threads but i thought the lyric would be better appreciated by people that read this thread. brazilian music has a tradition of extraordinary lyrics that i think you might want to explore. people like vinicius de moraes, chico buarque, gilberto gil, and -above all- caetano veloso, among many others.
> ...



mejix - I think that the quote which started this thread is appropriate here:
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

"Mornings, evenings, afternoons
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons..."

Not sure of the exact meaning of these lines, but for me, it represents the constricted pipeline between the world's knowledge and my brain. With so much wonder in the world, and so little time to appreciate it all, my one request would be for more bandwidth. I swim in an ocean of knowledge and can drink it in only through a soda straw - or dip in up in coffee spoons.

And now, you come along, with a few more oceans to explore!

It is only in recent years that I have become aware of people like Pablo Neruda and Osvaldo Golijov, from Chile and Argentina, respectively, and primarily for music associated with them; secondarily for the poetry. But from what I have seen so far, there is truly a sense of more heart and less art - more genuine passion and less artiness (not art, but artifice.)

I have posted before on the Neruda Songs, written by Peter Lieberson for, and for performance by, his dying wife, Lorraine Hunt Lieberson. Coincidentally, Performance Today (NPR) features an interview with Lieberson:

Peter Lieberson
The Grawemeyer Award is among the most lucrative honors in music composition. And the 2008 award has been presented to Peter Lieberson for his "Neruda Songs." He wrote them for his late wife, mezzo-soprano Lorraine Hunt Lieberson, who premiered and recorded them. Fred Child talked to Peter Lieberson about the piece and the award.

You can listen it it here http://performancetoday.publicradio.org/
or here, if the main page has been updated.
http://www.publicradio.org/tools/media/player/performance_today/features/2007/12/03_lieberson


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 31, 2007)

Fascinita said:


> Don't mention it. Here is my favorite line in it:
> 
> "For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eye."
> 
> But the stuff about the cat being an enemy of Satan is up there, too.



Cats: either friends of witches or enemies of Satan. Kinda play both sides of the street, don't they?

My sister in law is a cat lover. My wife printed up the poem for her, along with a little cat figurine, as a Christmas gift.

Thanks again for the complete version.


----------



## Dhaunae (Dec 31, 2007)

I have always been rather fond of the rain and dreary, cloudy weather.. So while perusing the internet for anything rain related, I stumbled upon this poem and I just love it.


O Great Rain! 
by

Shant Norashkharian
O great rain,
What would my wilderness be
Without your sweet company?
O greatest music of all,
The sky's kiss on the warm soil,
O blesser of thirsty lips,
Heaven's tears when nature weeps...
O greatest lover of all,
You give without asking more,
Abundantly to all fields,
And the mountains and all hills...
Stay a little... 
O great rain,
What would my deep sorrow be
Without your sweet melody?
Come and soothe my lonely soul,
Which smolders like burning coal,
Come and blow your cooling breeze,
For my wounds and pain to ease...
O greatest seeker of all,
With each drop you reveal more
Than a thousand mysteries,
The wisdom of centuries...
Stay a little... 

O great rain,
What would my confused mind be
Without your sweet harmony?
Every vein of every tree,
Every heart has prayed to see
Your beauty and glory,
O you great rain so holy,
You bring angels piety,
Widowed mothers dignity,
Music that gods themselves seek
And everything strong and weak...
Stay a little... 

O great rain,
What would my victory be
Without the strength you gave me?
You move rocks with tenderness,
You give warriors happiness,
Inspiration to poets,
And deep passion to the braves...
You give faith to the faithless,
To the peasants warm kindness,
You put the child to sound sleep,
And in sound health crops you keep...
Stay a little... 

O great rain,
What would my patience be
Without all that you taught me?
To honor the winter wind,
For the spring that it will bring,
To respect the lowly seed,
Life even in grass and weed,
To persevere, to believe
In the smile that follows grief,
In the good of everyone
That the bad will soon be gone...
Stay a little... 

Come rain,
Come sweet rain,
What would my solitude be
Without a friend to visit me?
If I could not share my dreams,
Whisper secrets in your ears,
If I could not forget those
Who told me their tales of woes,
Those once loved and abandoned,
Forever gone yet now sought,
Those hopes for respect I thought, 
Was now long due to my work...
Stay a little... 

O rain,
O great rain,
O sweet rain,
Stay a little...
Stay a little...
Stay a little... 

Creal Springs,
Illinois, 1992

And then a short one by Robert Frost.

Lodged

The rain to the wind said,
'You push and I'll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.


----------



## GrowingBoy (Jan 2, 2008)

Hugh Selwyn Mauberly, by Ezra Pound. Written about WW I, but as timely today: 

IV. 

These fought, in any case,
and some believing, pro domo, in any case ..

Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later ...

some in fear, learning love of slaughter;
Died some pro patria, non dulce non et decor" ..

walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;

usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before 

frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.

V. 

There died a myriad,
And of the best, among them,
For an old bitch gone in the teeth,
For a botched civilization.

Charm, smiling at the good mouth,
Quick eyes gone under earth's lid,

For two gross of broken statues,
For a few thousand battered books.


----------



## GrowingBoy (Jan 2, 2008)

Asphodel that Greeny Flower, by William Carlos Williams:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15541

Captain Carpenter, by John Crowe Ransom:
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/captain-carpenter/

The Dreamsongs, by John Berryman:
http://www.poemhunter.com/john-berryman/

From Dream Song 76: Henry's Confession:

Nothin very bad happen to me lately.
How you explain that? I explain that, Mr Bones,
terms o' your bafflin odd sobriety.
Sober as man can get, no girls, no telephones,
what could happen bad to Mr Bones?


----------



## liz (di-va) (Jan 3, 2008)

_I am in the mood for a classic! A classic, but ever-new! Soggy...but beautiful._

 *Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning*

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jan 3, 2008)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet



This ending fragment is from "Ulysses", by Alfred Lord Tennyson. It was yet another of the poems and declamations used in a brilliant series of ads by the Union Bank of Switzerland. I've been able to find some of these at UTube and elsewhere, but not this.

I am 70 years old. Many a morning, I breathe these lines to myself, like a morning prayer.

"Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are"

I never moved heaven, though the heavens have revolved around me all my life. The only earth I moved was a shovel at a time. I have never strove with Gods, but with a lot of god-concepts. Yet, I have had my share of accomplishments.

Now, "though much is taken" - I do have a number of trying physical issues - still "much abides". I have considerable strength for my age, a wonderful and loving wife, the excitement and comfort of children and grandchildren.

We love to bike (the kind you have to pedal.) Last year was our best so far, riding about 300 miles over the summer and 70 miles in the several days surrounding my birthday.

"There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:" Our vessels - our bikes - are put away until next season, but "My mariners (my wife), a Soul that has toiled, and wrought, and thought with me -" is eager to feel the wind blowing through her hair, and to feel her mighty heart pumping blood through her body again. Though "We are not now that strength which in old days" could go on forever, yet there is the Willard Munger Trail, stretching some 70 miles from Hinkley to Duluth, and as soon as the snow is gone, we will be off once more "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. "


"Ulysses", by Alfred Lord Tennyson
. . . . .
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me -
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads -you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


----------



## Wagimawr (Jan 3, 2008)

Selected works of John Lennon:


> *Good Dog Nigel*
> 
> Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight,
> Our little hairy friend,
> ...



Lennon, John. “Good Dog Nigel.” In His Own Write. London: Simon & Schuster, 1964, 1992.



> *"BE WERE WOLF OF LIMITATIONS," or . . . "THE SPIRIT OF BOOGIE BE UPON YOU"*
> 
> Esoteric clapton, the spot reporter, denies riff raff... rumor monger spreads word in private ear... 'ear, what's all this then'... repeats allegations (re alligator handbag) at the school of motoring... ring goes da belle france et sons mercy me how you've grown.
> 
> ...


Lennon, John. “'BE WERE WOLF OF LIMITATIONS,' or . . . 'THE SPIRIT OF BOOGIE BE UPON YOU'.” Skywriting By Word Of Mouth. New York: HarperCollins, 1986.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jan 4, 2008)

Dhaunae said:


> I have always been rather fond of the rain and dreary, cloudy weather.. So while perusing the internet for anything rain related, I stumbled upon this poem and I just love it.
> 
> 
> O Great Rain!
> ...



Or maybe my old home town - Duluth, Minnesota. Through a constant interplay of sun, land breezes and winds off Lake Superior, Duluth has just about every species of precipitation there is - sometimes, all at once. I have driven there in a combination of thick fog and snow - so thick that you couldn't see to your own hood ornament. Last summer, we were up there, standing by the Aerial Bridge in the canal area. We had heavy fog, rain, a thunder and lightning storm, and a bit of sun peeping through it all - ALL AT ONCE.

I'm posting a link to a webcam mounted in Canal Park, overlooking the harbor. To give you some orientation, the canal runs roughly North East. The webcam is on 24/7. I have saved a number of frames from this camera and from another one that we had mounted in the window of a condo up on the hill. When I can no longer ignore the clamor, I may post some of them here.

http://www.lsmma.com/webcam_large.htm


----------



## Lamia (Jan 5, 2008)

I picked this poem because my mother used to read it to me before bed. It's from Children's Garden Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson. I would ask her to read "Windy Nights" over and over. I would snuggle down under my blanky and get a delcious thrill when hearing her read it. She would read it in this low haunting voice. At that moment I became a reader, a writer and a lover of words and wind. I love storms; of words and weather. I love the romance of the sea. 


"Windy Night"
by
Robert Louis Stevenson

Whenever the moon and the stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.


People don't understand how powerful reading to your kids is. Don't just read them what you think they should hear, but find something they actually want to listen to. Find something that sparks their imagination. 

Thanks Mom


----------



## BigBeautifulMe (Jan 5, 2008)

A perennial favorite:

Emily Dickinson

Part Three: Love

*XXIX*

THE ROSE did caper on her cheek,	
Her bodice rose and fell,	
Her pretty speech, like drunken men,	
Did stagger pitiful.	

Her fingers fumbled at her work,— 
Her needle would not go;	
What ailed so smart a little maid	
It puzzled me to know,	

Till opposite I spied a cheek	
That bore another rose; 
Just opposite, another speech	
That like the drunkard goes;	

A vest that, like the bodice, danced	
To the immortal tune,—	
Till those two troubled little clocks 
Ticked softly into one.

Another favorite:

Pablo Neruda
*
No te amo*

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño. 

And *my translation of the above*, a final project which garnered me an A in my translation class at Smith:

I do not love you as though you were a tea rose, topaz
or an arrow of carnations unleashed by the fire:
I love you as one loves certain dark things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you like the plant that does not bloom and bears
inside itself, hidden, the light of unborn flowers,
and thanks to your love lives shrouded in my body
the unifying scent that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, nor when, nor from where,
I love you simply, without doubt or self-importance,
I love you like this because I cannot love in any other way.

Instead, I love you in such a way that neither I nor you exist,
So close that your hand on my breast is mine,
So close that your eyes close with my sleep.


----------



## texasdreamer (Jan 5, 2008)

*Paris *

never 
even in calmer times 
have I ever 
dreamed of 
bicycling through that 
city 
wearing a 
beret 

and 
Camus 
always 
pissed 
me 
off. 

_Charles Bukowski_


----------



## butch (Jan 13, 2008)

liz (di-va) said:


> _I am in the mood for a classic! A classic, but ever-new! Soggy...but beautiful._
> 
> *Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning*
> 
> ...



I love this poem, Liz. Tried to rep ya, but couldn't.


----------



## Wild Zero (Jan 13, 2008)

The Wanderer

Oft the lonely one experiences compassion,

the Creator's kindness; though he with sorrowing mind,

o'er the watery way, must long

agitate with his hands the rime-cold sea,

go in exile tracks; his fate is full decreed.'-- (5)

So said a wanderer, of his hardships mindful,

of hostile slaughters, his dear friends' fall.--

' Oft I must alone, each morn,

my care bewail: there is now none living,

to whom my thoughts I dare (10)

tell openly. I in sooth know,

that it is in man a noble quality,

that he his soul's coffer fast bind,

hold his treasure. Strive as he will,

the weary-minded cannot fate withstand, (15)

nor the rugged soul'd help effect;

even the ambitious a sad one oft

in their breast's coffer fast bind.

So I my thoughts must,

oft miserable, from country separated, (20)

far from my friends, in fetters bind,

since that long ago my bounteous patron

earth's cavern cover'd, and I abject thence

went, stricken with years, over the billowy mass;

sad sought the hall of some munificent lord, (25)

where I far or near might find

one who in the mead-hall my ** might know,

or me friendless would comfort,

allure with pleasure. He knows who tries,

how hapless is care as a comrade (30)

to him who little has of faithful friends;

him an exile's track awaits, not twisted gold;

a trembling body, not earth's riches:

he remembers the hall-retainers, and receipt of treasure;

how him in youth his bounteous patron (35)

train'd to the feast;  but pleasure all has fall'n;

for he knows who must his dear lord's,

his lov'd master's lessons long be depriv'd of,

when sorrow and sleep at once together

a poor solitary often bind, (40)

that seems to him in mind, that he his lord

embraces and kisses, and on his knee lays

hands and head, as when he ere at times,

in former days, his gifts enjoy'd;

then wakes again the friendless mortal, (45)

sees before him fallow ways,

ocean fowls bathing, spreading their wings,

rime and snow descending with hail mingled;

then are the heavier his wounds of heart,

painful after dreaming; sorrow is renewd, (50)

when his friends' remembrance through his mind passes;

when he greets with songs, earnestly surveys

the seats of men, swims again away.

The spirit of seafarers, brings there not many

known songs: but care is renew'd (55)

to him who must send very abundantly

over the billowy mass his weary spirit;

therefore I cannot think, throughout this world,

why my mind it saddens,

when I the chieftains' life all consider; (60)

how they suddenly their halls resign'd,

the proud kinsmen. So this mid-earth

every day declines and falls;

therefore may not become wise a man, ere he has pass'd

his share of winters in the world. The sagacious must be patient,

must not be too ardent, nor too hurrying of fortune,

nor too faint a soldier, nor too reckless, (67)

nor too fearful, nor too elate, nor too greedy of money,

nor ever too vaunting, ere he be well experienced.

a man must wait, when he a promise utters,

till that he, bold of spirit, well know (71)

to what his breast's thoughts shall lead.

The prudent man should understand, how ghastly it will be,

when all this world's wealth shall stand waste,

as now divers, over this mid-earth, (75)

with wind shaken walls stand,

with rime bedeck'd: tottering the chambers,

disturb'd are the joyous halls, the powerful lie

of joy bereft, the noble all have fall'n,

the proud ones by the wall. Some hath war destroy'd,

borne on their journey hence; one the fowl hath borne away

o'er the deep ocean; one the hoar wolf (82)

by death hath separated; one with gory countenance,

in an earth-grave a man hath hidden.

So o'erwhelm'd this world the Creator of men,

till that of the inhabitants, in the briefest moment,

the old works of giants stood desolate. (87)

But he who this wall'd place wisely devis'd,

and this dark life profoundly contemplates,

wise in spirit, afar oft remembers (90)

his many battles, and these words utters:

Where is horse, where is man? where is the treasure-giver ?

where are the festive sittings ? where are the joys of the hall?

Alas bright cup ! alas mail'd warrior ! (94)

alas chieftain's splendour ! how the time has pass'd,

has darken'd under veil of night, as if it had not been.

Stands now behind the beloved warriors

the wall of wonderous height, with worm carcases foul.

The men has swept away the spearmen's band, (99)

the slaughter-greedy weapon, and fate omnipotent

and these stone shelters storms dash,

fierce-rushing; binds the earth

the winter's violence; then comes dusky,

darkens, the shade of night, from the north sends

the rough hail-shower, to men's grievance. (105)

Irksome is all the realm of earth,

the fates' decrees change the world under heaven:

here is wealth transient, here is a friend transient,

here is man transient, here is a kinsman transient;

all this place of earth hall become desolate.'-- (110)

so spake a sage in mind, sat apart in meditation.

Good is he who holds his faith. Never his affliction too quickly should

a man from his breast make known, unless he ere the remedy can

vigorously forward. Well it is for him who seeketh mercy,

comfort, at the Father in heaven, where all our fastness standeth.


----------



## PeacefulGem (Jan 20, 2008)

This has been my favorite poem since I was about 15.


Comes the Dawn


After a while you learn 
the subtle difference between 
holding a hand and chaining a soul,
and you learn that 
love doesn't mean leaning 
and company doesn't mean security,
and you begin to learn 
that kisses aren't contracts 
and presents aren't promises, 
and you begin to accept your defeats 
with your head up 
and your eyes ahead,
with the grace of a woman, 
not the grief of a child,
and you learn to build all of your roads 
on today because tomorrow's ground 
is too uncertain for plans,
and futures have a way of 
falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn that 
even sunshine burns 
if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden 
and decorate your own soul,
instead of waiting for someone 
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that 
you really can endure... 
That you really do have worth. 
And you learn and you learn...
With every goodbye you learn.

by Veronica A. Shoffstall
​


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jan 24, 2008)

Dhaunae said:


> I have always been rather fond of the rain and dreary, cloudy weather.. So while perusing the internet for anything rain related, I stumbled upon this poem and I just love it.
> 
> 
> O Great Rain!
> ...



Dhaunae - 

I took the liberty of quoting only a section of your first offering because those words reminded me of another poem - and a time in my life - one of deep emotion and desperate yearnings. I was mourning the passing of a relationship which slid the more away from me the tighter I tried to grasp it, like rain from a grasping hand. I encountered the Apollinaire poem at that time and, as with yours, took away only what my heart needed at the time, leaving a whole universe of meaning behind, unrecognized.

I'm taking the poem in the original and a translation from the website listed below. There is a great deal of erudite analysis there which eludes me now as the poem did then.

I no longer need the message it sent then, but I still love it for the memory.

_"Here is Apollinaires poem Il Pleut, first in the original and then in Roger Shattucks linear translation:"

Il Pleut







Its Raining

Its raining womens voices as if they had died even in memory
And its raining you as well marvellous encounters of my life O little
drops
Those rearing clouds begin to neigh a whole universe of auricular cities
Listen if it rains while regret and disdain weep to an ancient music
Listen to the bonds fall off which hold you above and below

"The slanting lines of Apollinaires poem create the sensation of rain running downward across a windowpane. Graphic form and verbal music come together as each long vertical line becomes a rhythmic unit of meaning. The sound of the unpunctuated lines in French creates an incantatory murmuring that evokes the sadness and melancholy of a rainy day in Paris."_

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/feature.guidebook.html?id=177216


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jan 24, 2008)

PeacefulGem said:


> This has been my favorite poem since I was about 15.
> 
> 
> Comes the Dawn
> ...



Gem -

This is one of those poems which was handed around during the '70s - copies of copies of copies, often stained from labors in the communal garden, or by tears. I never knew the title, or the author, until reading it in your post.

The '70s were pretty tumultuous, as many of you remember. Much hope, many promises, a few victories, many more defeats, many relationships and far too many goodbyes. And the learning - almost more than the heart could bear.

I'm grateful for having lived it, having survived it, mostly because it led to the life I have now. To all the comrades of those days, I wish you well.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jan 25, 2008)

BigBeautifulMe said:


> Another favorite:
> 
> Pablo Neruda
> *
> ...



BigBeautifulMe -

The title of the Neruda poem seemed so familiar. I was sure that it was part of some song cycle, if not the Lieberson Neruda Songs, then something else, surely. But I couldn't find it anywhere.

I showed your translation to Mrs Ho Ho, especially the last six lines. Of those, the first three are very much like something we have said to each other a million times: "I love you for a million reasons, but especially, I love you for no reason at all."

The last three are so much like those incredible cuddle sessions, where arms and hands and legs and lips are so intertwined that it's hard to tell what belongs to whom - and as you fall asleep thus entangled, who cares anyway?

And on that translation, may I give you another

*"A"​*


----------



## NoraBadora (Jan 25, 2008)

One of my favorite poems has to be this one, I love the imagery: 


"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

- William Wordsworth 

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.


----------



## BigBeautifulMe (Jan 25, 2008)

Thanks for that, Ho Ho.  I was starting to wonder if anyone would ever comment on it.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jan 25, 2008)

BigBeautifulMe said:


> Thanks for that, Ho Ho.  I was starting to wonder if anyone would ever comment on it.



You're very welcome, BBM. Believe me, I have days (and many posts!) like that.


----------



## Fascinita (Jan 27, 2008)

To the Apollinaire poster above: nice!

*EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH*
by Alexander Pope

Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool:
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.


----------



## mejix (Jan 27, 2008)

*The Pope's Penis*
Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.


*


----------



## liz (di-va) (Jan 27, 2008)

mejix said:


> *The Pope's Penis*
> Sharon Olds
> 
> It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
> ...



okay, I don't know what deserves rep, if not that--


----------



## daddyoh70 (Jan 27, 2008)

*At Last*
_Elizabeth Akers Allen_

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them closeat lastat last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth,
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,
Though fled is every girlish grace
Might win or hold a lover's vow,
Despite my sad and faded face,
And darkened heart, you love me now!

I count no more my wasted tears;
They left no echo of their fall;
I mourn no more my lonesome years;
This blessed hour atones for all.
I fear not all that Time or Fate
May bring to burden heart or brow,
Strong in the love that came so late,
Our souls shall keep it always now!


----------



## ThikJerseyChik (Jan 27, 2008)

Splendor In The Grass

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

William Wordsworth


----------



## mejix (Jan 27, 2008)

liz (di-va) said:


> okay, I don't know what deserves rep, if not that--



hey thanks, glad you liked!



*


----------



## marmaLady (Mar 4, 2008)

For Desire (Kim Addonizio)

Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the love who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are left off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look

****************************************

'As our bloods separate' (David Constantine)

As our bloods separate the clock resumes,
I hear the wind again as our hearts quieten.
We were a ring: the clock ticked round us
For that time and the wind was deflected. 

The clock pecks everything to the bone.
The wind enters through the broken eyes
Of houses and through their wide mouths
And scatters the ashes from the hearth. 

Sleep. Do not let go my hand. 

*************************************

The Highwayman (Alfred Noyes)

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness,
and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.


----------



## marmaLady (Mar 4, 2008)

ok just one more then I'm done. Could post any nick cave lyrics really, but at the moment I find the hard-won wisdom he displays in the following song particularly moving.

As I Sat Sadly By Her Side

As I sat sadly by her side 
At the window, through the glass 
She stroked a kitten in her lap 
And we watched the world as it fell past 
Softly she spoke these words to me 
And with brand new eyes, open wide 
We pressed our faces to the glass 
As I sat sadly by her side 

She said, "Father, mother, sister, brother, 
Uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, 
Soldier, sailor, physician, labourer, 
Actor, scientist, mechanic, priest 
Earth and moon and sun and stars 
Planets and comets with tails blazing 
All are there forever falling 
Falling lovely and amazing" 

Then she smiled and turned to me 
And waited for me to reply 
Her hair was falling down her shoulders 
As I sat sadly by her side 

As I sat sadly by her side 
The kitten she did gently pass 
Over to me and again we pressed 
Our different faces to the glass 
"That may be very well", I said 
"But watch the one falling in the street 
See him gesture to his neighbours 
See him trampled beneath their feet 
All outward motion connects to nothing 
For each is concerned with their immediate need 
Witness the man reaching up from the gutter 
See the other one stumbling on who can not see" 

With trembling hand I turned toward her 
And pushed the hair out of her eyes 
The kitten jumped back to her lap 
As I sat sadly by her side 

Then she drew the curtains down 
And said, "When will you ever learn 
That what happens there beyond the glass 
Is simply none of your concern? 
God has given you but one heart 
You are not a home for the hearts of your brothers 

And God does not care for your benevolence 
Anymore than he cares for the lack of it in others 
Nor does he care for you to sit 
At windows in judgement of the world He created 
While sorrows pile up around you 
Ugly, useless and over-inflated" 

At which she turned her head away 
Great tears leaping from her eyes 
I could not wipe the smile from my face 
As I sat sadly by her side


----------



## goldilocks829 (Mar 5, 2008)

When I was single, I always carried a copy of this poem. It really helped when a relationship ended.

After A While ... 
... Veronica Shoffstall

After a while you learn the subtle difference 
Between holding a hand and sharing a life 
And you learn that love doesn't mean possession 
And company doesn't mean security 
And loneliness is universal. 
And you learn that kisses aren't contracts 
And presents aren't promises 
And you begin to accept your defeats 
With your head up and your eyes open 
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child. 
And you learn to build your hope on today 
As the future has a way of falling apart in mid-flight 
Because tomorrow's ground can be too uncertain for plans 
Yet, each step taken in a new direction creates a path 
Toward the promise of a brighter dawn. 
And you learn that even sunshine burns 
If you get too much 
So you plant your own garden and nourish your own soul 
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. 
And you learn that love, 
True love, 
Always has joys and sorrows 
Seems ever present, yet is never quite the same 
Becoming more than love and less than love 
So difficult to define. 
And you learn that through it all 
You really can endure 
That you really are strong 
That you do have value 
And you learn and grow 
With every goodbye 
You learn.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 23, 2008)

We lost a dear friend and neighbor to cancer, just days ago. We have been neighbors for seven years; it took no time at all to become friends. As I thought about her, an old poem came back to me. It can be found on the internet in numerous forms. I offer this version, which has been in my files for nearly forty years.

*Fairy Tales

It seems wherever I go People come into my life or go out of it,
Touching me where I can feel, then leaving me only a memory,
Like the gossamer tales of children, easily forgotten . . .

 And I wasn't through knowing them! 

How do I know when I am seeing you for the last time?
How do you stop your life to gather and keep with you all those you love?
How do you keep fairy tales from losing their magic? 

Come . . . brush up against the walls of my life, 
And stay long enough for us to know each other . . .
The longer you stay, The more I'll want you back when you are gone. 
But come anyway, for fairy tales are the happiest stories we know.
And good books are made up of little chapters... 

Anonymous

Thank you, Jean!​*


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jul 19, 2008)

*Bump!​*
I was looking for a particular poem to send to a friend and stayed to read most of the thread. I see many that deserved replies, for which I had not the words at the time. I see many that deserve to be read again - and again - and brought to the attention of those here who may have missed it.

I hope there will be many more - as many as first contributed - who will add their own favorites here, or their comments on the favorites of others.

To all of you who have enlarged my appreciation for this artform, and therefore enlarged my ability to see, to sense, to interpret the world -
*
Thank You!​*


----------



## Fascinita (Jul 19, 2008)

OOOOH, I'm glad this thread was bumped.

Lately I've been revisiting some of my favorite poems of all. These are the Tang Dynasty poems from China (ca. 600-900 CE). Lovely, lovely little gems, all of them. Here are three.

Seng Jiaoran
NOT FINDING LU HONGXIAN AT HOME

To find you, moved beyond the city, 
A wide path led me, by mulberry and hemp, 
To a new-set hedge of chrysanthemums -- 
Not yet blooming although autumn had come. 
...I knocked; no answer, not even a dog. 
I waited to ask your western neighbour; 
But he told me that daily you climb the mountain, 
Never returning until sunset.

Wang Wei
A GREEN STREAM

I have sailed the River of Yellow Flowers, 
Borne by the channel of a green stream, 
Rounding ten thousand turns through the mountains 
On a journey of less than thirty miles.... 
Rapids hum over heaped rocks; 
But where light grows dim in the thick pines, 
The surface of an inlet sways with nut-horns 
And weeds are lush along the banks. 
...Down in my heart I have always been as pure 
As this limpid water is.... 
Oh, to remain on a broad flat rock 
And to cast a fishing-line forever!

Chang Jian
AT WANG CHANGLIN' S RETREAT

Here, beside a clear deep lake, 
You live accompanied by clouds; 
Or soft through the pine the moon arrives 
To be your own pure-hearted friend. 
You rest under thatch in the shadow of your flowers, 
Your dewy herbs flourish in their bed of moss. 
Let me leave the world. Let me stay, like you, 
On your western mountain with phoenixes and cranes.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jul 22, 2008)

Fascinita said:


> OOOOH, I'm glad this thread was bumped.
> 
> Lately I've been revisiting some of my favorite poems of all. These are the Tang Dynasty poems from China (ca. 600-900 CE). Lovely, lovely little gems, all of them. Here are three. [ I have selected one of them: Ho Ho Tai ]
> 
> ...



Fascinita, that is a poem - an imagery - that you could crawl inside and dream of. I showed your post to Mrs Ho Ho and we both had the same idea: what wonderful children's books they would make, perhaps with water color illustrations. We collect, in a minor way, children's books, for our own pleasure and sharing, and in the hope that my grandchildren will become interested in them also. 

I know that there must be thousands of scholarly tombs dedicated to the analysis of content, interpretation and construction of these poems, but to us, they are gateways to places in our minds not otherwise easily reached.

We knew that others must have had the same notion, so Google and I went exploring. Among other things, we found this:

"Ho, Minfong. Maples in the Mist: childrens poems from the Tang Dynasty. Translated by Minfong Ho. Illustrated by Jean and Mou-sien Tseng. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard, 1996. ISBN 0-688-12044-X. 32 pages. (6-12) Poetry.

This book contains an elegant collection of sixteen one verse poems from the Tang Dynasty written over 1,000 years ago. Magnificent realistic watercolor spreads in classic Chinese style provide the backdrop for the nature theme resounding throughout the oversized volume. Chinese frames the illustrations creating a perfect blend of culture." There is more at this site.

In the third poem that you quoted, I love this line in particular: 
"Or soft through the pine the moon arrives 
To be your own pure-hearted friend."

Who, in their alone-ness, has not claimed the moon as a friend and companion? What loving couple has not invited the innocent moon to join them in a joyful Ménage à trois?

In fact, even as I write this, the moon is shining through the trees and on to our dark and private deck . . .


----------



## Flyin Lilac (Jul 22, 2008)

 *Untitled* (Jim Morrison)

I am troubled 
Immeasurably
By your eyes

I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply

The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain

And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain


 *Modern Declaration* (Edna St. Vincent Millay)

I, having loved ever since I was a child a few things, never 
having wavered
In these affections; never through shyness in the houses of
the rich or in the presence of clergymen having denied
these loves;
Never when worked upon by cynics like chiropractors having
grunted or clicked a vertebra to the discredit of 
these loves;
Never when anxious to land a job having diminished them
by a conniving smile; or when befuddled by drink
Jeered at them through heartache or lazily fondled the
fingers of their alert enemies; declare

That I shall love you always.
No matter what party is in power;
No matter what temporarily expedient combination of allied
interests wins the war;
Shall love you always.


 "Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find." (Walt Whitman)


----------



## Fascinita (Jul 23, 2008)

Thanks for your lovely reply, Ho Ho Tai. Enjoyed reading it.

The existence of poetry for children from the Tang Dynasty is a nice surprise, as is the existence of that book. I will check it out some.

I am a big fan of children's books in general, although I find that the quality varies. But the best are fantastic, often touching in magical ways that other books are not.

It's interesting: I think children tend to love poetry, yet there are few "serious" poets who write for children these days.

Happy nights under a silver moon to you and yours.


----------



## thatgirl08 (Jul 25, 2008)

I absolutely love this poem:

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
'T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,--you're straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
EMILY DICKINSON


----------



## ~nai'a~ (Jul 25, 2008)

This is not from a poem but I would like to share it with you...

It's from Romeo and Juliet:

" Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs."

-William Shakespeare-


----------



## Waxwing (Jul 25, 2008)

I've probably posted this before (and any of you who've met me in person have read a line of it on my forearm):

Out of night and alarm,
Out of darkness and dread,
Out of old hate, grudge and distrust,
Sin and remorse, passion and blindness,
Shall come dawn and the birds,
Shall come slacking of greed, snapping of fear.
Love shall fold warm like a cloak round the shuddering earth, till its woes cease.

After terrible dreams,
After crying in sleep,
Grief beyond thought, twisting of hands,
Tears from shut lids wetting the pillow,
Shall come sun on the wall,
Shall come sounds from the street, children at play.
Bubbles too big blown, and dreams filled too heavy with horror shall burst
and in mist fall.

Sing then, you who were dumb!
Shout then, into the dark!
Are we not one?
Are not our hearts hot from one fire, and in one mold cast?
Out of night and alarm,
Out of terrible dreams,
Reach me your hand!
This is the meaning of all that we suffered in sleep:
The white peace of the waking.


---Edna St. Vincent Millay


----------



## Specter (Jul 27, 2008)

Greater Love
by Wilfred Owen

Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.

Your voice sings not so soft,-
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,-
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear,
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

Heart, you were never hot
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.


----------



## Gingembre (Jul 27, 2008)

I'm not a great poetry fan, but I studied this poem at school and really liked it. It's "Valentine" by Carol Ann Duffy:

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here. 
It will blind you with tears 
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.


----------



## goofy girl (Jul 27, 2008)

I'm not a huge poetry fan, but I do have some that I like. This is one that we were forced to learn and recite in English class in 6th grade and of course at the time I HATED it. But I cannot seem to get it out of my mind lately and right now feel like it's poignant to me, I really love it now. 


Robert Frost (18741963). Mountain Interval. 1920.
*
*The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,	
And sorry I could not travel both	
And be one traveler, long I stood	
And looked down one as far as I could	
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair,	
And having perhaps the better claim,	
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;	
Though as for that the passing there	
Had worn them really about the same, 

And both that morning equally lay	
In leaves no step had trodden black.	
Oh, I kept the first for another day!	
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,	
I doubted if I should ever come back. 

I shall be telling this with a sigh	
Somewhere ages and ages hence:	
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I	
I took the one less traveled by,	
And that has made all the difference.


----------



## mejix (Jul 27, 2008)

*Writing a Resume*
Wislawa Szymborska

What needs to be done? 
Fill out the application 
and enclose a resume.

Regardless of the length of life
a resume is best kept short.

Concise, well-chosen facts are de rigueur.
Landscapes are replaced by addresses
shaky memories give way to unshakeable dates.

Of all your loves, mention only the marriage;
of all your children, only those who were born.

Whom knows you matters more than whom you know.
Trips only if taken abroad.
Memberships in what but without why. 
Honors, but not how they were earned. 

Write as if you'd never talk to yourself, 
and always kept yourself at arm's length. 

Pass over in silence your dogs, cats, birds,
dusty keepsakes, friends and dreams. 

Price, not worth,
and title, not whats inside. 
His shoe size, not where he is off to, 
that one you pass off as yourself.
In addition, a photograph with one ear showing. 
What matters is its shape, not what it hears. 
What is there to hear, anyway?
The clatter of paper shredders.


_*Bonus!*_
The Country by Billy Collins (animated poetry)


----------



## Ulfhedinn (Jul 27, 2008)

*Invictus by William Ernest Henley*

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of Circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of Chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


----------



## The Fez (Jul 27, 2008)

_although it's a song, I'm counting Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pips' 'Letter from God to Man' as a poem, because it reads like poetry and is just awesome_

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KnGNOiFll4

Hey There, how, hows it going?
Long time no see.
I know I havent been around much lately 
Butit didnt seem like you wanted me to be
The last time I sent down a message you nailed it to the cross
So I figured Id just leave you to it, let you be your own boss

But Ive been keeping an eye on you, I have, and its amazing how youve grown.
With your technological advances and the problems youve overthrown,
And all the beautiful art youve created with such grace and such finesse,
But I admit there are a few things Im afraid have impressed me less.

So Im writing to apologize for all the horrors committed in my name,
Although that was never what I intended, I feel I should take my share of the blame.
All the good I tried to do was corrupted when all the religion got into full swing,
What I thought were quite clear messages were taken to unusual extremes.
My teachings taken out of context to meet the agendas of others,
Interpretations taken to many different ways and hidden meanings discovered

Religion became a tool, for the weak to control the strong
With all these new morals and ethics, survival of the fittest was gone
No longer could the biggest man simply take whatever he needed
cause damnation was the price if certain rules were not heeded

Some of the deeds committed in my name just made me wonder were I went wrong.
Back at the start when I created this, the foundation seemed so strong.
See all the elements were already here, long before I began, I just kind of put it all together
I didnt really think out a long-term plan.

I made the sun an appropriate distance and laid the stars across the sky
So you could navigate the globe or simply watch the sun rise
I covered the earth with plants and fruits, 
Some for sustenance and some for beauty
I made the sun shine and the clouds rain so their maintenance wasnt your duty
I tried to give each creature its own attributes without making them enveloped
I gave you all you all your own space to grow and in your own way space to develop

I didnt know such development would cause rifts and jealousy
Cause you to war against each other and leave marks on this planet indelibly 
You see, I wasnt really the creater, I was just the curator of nature
I want to get something straight with homosexuals right now: I dont hate ya
I was a simple being that happened to be the first to wield such powers
I just laid the ground, it was You that built the towers

It was You that invented bombs, and the fear that comes with them
And it was You that invented money, and the corrupt economic systems
You invented terms like just-war and terms like friendly fire
And it was You that didnt know when to stop digging deeper, when to stop building higher
It was You that exhausted the resources I carefully laid out on this earth,
And it was You that even saw these problems coming but accredited them little worth
It was You that used my teachings for your own personal gain
And it was You that committed such tragedies, even though they were in my name

So I apologize for any mistakes I made, and when my words misconstrued
But this apologys to mother nature, cause I created YOU


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jul 27, 2008)

Ulfhedinn said:


> *Invictus by William Ernest Henley*
> 
> Out of the night that covers me,
> Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
> ...



Ulfhedinn - you may enjoy some of the previous comment on this poem, some of which I blushingly admit, is mine. This has gotten to be a long thread and you may have missed the earlier reference. No matter - it's worth repetition.
http://www.dimensionsmagazine.com/forums/showpost.php?p=392354&postcount=81


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jul 27, 2008)

Freestyle Fez said:


> _although it's a song, I'm counting Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pips' 'Letter from God to Man' as a poem, because it reads like poetry and is just awesome_
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KnGNOiFll4
> 
> ...



It just goes to show. . .maybe God did create the universe - maybe - but Murphy's Law got there first.


----------



## swordchick (Jul 29, 2008)

Mr. Ho Ho Tai, I just remember that I needed to post this poem. Thank you.

[FONT=Georgia, Helvetica]*[FONT=Georgia, Helvetica]Mark Gonzalez[/FONT]** is a wonderful poet that I saw a few years ago on Def Poetry Jam. And this poem moved me:*[/FONT]
[FONT=Georgia, Helvetica][/FONT]
[FONT=Georgia, Helvetica]*AS WITH MOST MEN*
[/FONT]
[FONT=Georgia, Helvetica]As with most men, it is easier for me to give hugs than to accept them,
Let the truth be known that men are nothing more than emotional skyscrapers,
built with glass infrastructures, spray painted the color of steel and nicknamed "Strength"

Strange, isn't it?

What walking contradictions are we called men...

Men are taught to colonize at the age of 5 through games like cops and robbers,
cowboys and indians
At the age of 8 we are given helmets and told to hit each other on the head with it,
Bleed but do not bleed, 
Cut but do not cry,
Be a man, join the military,
Die for your country, and if death comes to you,
Look it in the eye and say:
Bring it on, mother-fucker, I fear nothing but intimacy.

When it comes to intimacy men quiver like fault lines, crumble like cities

What walking contradictions are we called men...

Men sign peace accords while abusing their wives,
Accept the Nobel Peace prizes while reducing health care,
Pledge to rid the world of terrorism while simultaneously denying government aid to any country that defends a woman's right to choose

During the 1970's the US government forcibly sterilized an estimated fifty percent
of the indigenous population of America's Mid-West telling them the process was reversible

Can you say biological terrorism?

In a global war against terror, maybe testosterone is the real terrorist
And if so, how many of these Star Spangled singing, flag waving citizens would 
continue to do so If terror was not racialized, but gendered?

Would the US military turn its guns on itself for a sex trap across Southeast
Asia, Africa and the Americas?
Would MTV be firebombed for its subjectification, hyper-sexualization of our women of colored bodies?
Would we stop looking towards the muslim world for misogyny and instead
turn our sights to Madrid, Montreal, New York, Los Angeles?

And I understand my sisters when they say every woman has a story that's been told a maxim of one soul, maybe less
And that is why you'll never hear me call a woman slut, bitch or a dyke,
No matter what she does, because I do not blame her
I blame the men who have emotionally and physically raped her,
I blame these corporations whose images tell them they hate her,
And I put my arms on her shoulder and tell her how great to life and 
to God that SHE created her

Men, take note, this is how you give love,
This is how you receive hugs.
Press flesh to flesh till breast crumple,
Like emotional origamy.[/FONT]


----------



## MetalGirl (Jul 30, 2008)

Here's one of my favorite poems, it's by E.E. Cummings


here's a little mouse)and
what does he think about, i
wonder as over this
floor(quietly with

bright eyes)drifts(nobody
can tell because
Nobody knows, or why
jerks Here &, here,
gr(oo)ving the room's Silence)this like
a littlest
poem a
(with wee ears and see?
tail frisks)
(gonE)
"mouse",
We are not the same you and
i, since here's a little he
or is
it It
? (or was something we saw in the mirror)?
therefore we'll kiss; for maybe
what was Disappeared
into ourselves
who (look). ,startled


----------



## Mishty (Jul 30, 2008)

My fave poem since grade school is Buffalo Bill by e e cummings.
I stole my user name from the lines.



Buffalo Bill's

defunct

who used to

ride a watersmooth-silver

stallion

and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat

Jesus



he was a handsome man

and what i want to know is

how do you like your blueeyed boy

Mister Death


-e e cummings


----------



## Ben from England (Jul 31, 2008)

Hadn't thought about it in years, but the other day something brought this one to mind. I remember my English teacher (one of those awesome Robin-Williams-In-Dead-Poets-Society style free spirits) reading us this and everyone being like 'Wow, did he just say the F-Word? Twice!?' . Always loved it. 

This Be The Verse
Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


----------



## Scrumptious_voluptuous (Jul 31, 2008)

I saw this in a book when I was a nipper, and decided to learn it off by heart. I don't know why, but since then I always end up reciting this when I'm nervous just to calm down. I think it's because it's got quite a soothing rythm..

Plus I loved Alice In Wonderland 

The Mouse's Tail

Fury said to a mouse,
That he met in the
house, 'Let us
both go to law:
I will prosecute
you.-- Come, I'll
take no denial;
We must have
a trial: For
really this
morning I've
nothing to do.'
Said the mouse
to the cur,
'Such a trial,
dear Sir, With
no jury or
judge, would
be wasting
our breath.'
'I'll be
judge, I'll
be jury,'
Said cunning
old Fury:
'I'll try
the whole
cause, and
condemn
you
to
death.'

- Lewis Carroll


And my Dad's favourite, which he recites whenever someone gets smitten with a kitten - 

'The problem with a Kitten is that
Eventually it becomes a Cat!'

- Ogden Nash (I think)


----------



## goofy girl (Jul 31, 2008)

I love this one. I only know this one because of Four Weddings and a Funeral, but it's so beautiful it makes me cry. 


*Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-- W.H. Auden*


----------



## ekmanifest (Jul 31, 2008)

This is my mom's favorite



Missblueyedeath said:


> My fave poem since grade school is Buffalo Bill by e e cummings.
> I stole my user name from the lines.
> 
> 
> ...


----------



## William (Jul 31, 2008)

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree."

---William Blake, Songs of Experience (1794). A Poison Tree







Jack Skellington said:


> The Tiger by William Blake
> 
> Tiger, tiger, burning bright
> In the forests of the night,
> ...


----------



## Scrumptious_voluptuous (Aug 1, 2008)

Freestyle Fez said:


> _although it's a song, I'm counting Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pips' 'Letter from God to Man' as a poem, because it reads like poetry and is just awesome_
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KnGNOiFll4
> 
> ...


----------



## LillyBBBW (Aug 1, 2008)

I've always hated poetry. There's one that has always stuck with me though.

Five humans trapped by happenstance
In bleak and bitter cold.
Each one posessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
The first man held his back;
For the faces gathered 'round the fire,
He noticed one was black.
The next man of this forlorn group
Saw one not of his church
And couldn't bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.
The rich man just sat back and thought
Of the wealth he had in store; 
And how to keep what he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man thought "Revenge"
As the fire flickered from his sight;
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this group did naught
For not except for gain;
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight in death's still hands
Was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without,
They died from the cold within.

Author Unknown


----------



## mariac1966 (Aug 2, 2008)

My Favorite poem is actually one that I wrote for my husband (RIP). 

*Your Love*

Your love has taken me to
Places I have never been
Oceans I have never sailed
Distances I have never dreamed of

Your love is unconditional
Never any doubts, questions, or regrets

Your love opens doors
Letting me see who I am
Aspiring to be who you see
Growing into who we are together

Your love inspires me
Giving me hope, laughter, and faith

Your love is to be cherished
Treated like gold, royalty, and a friend

Your love is mine
To keep forever and a day
And my love is yours
Today, tomorrow and always


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 2, 2008)

LillyBBBW said:


> I've always hated poetry. There's one that has always stuck with me though.
> 
> Five humans trapped by happenstance
> In bleak and bitter cold.
> ...



There you are! The same universal truth told in the tale of the Blind Men and the Elephant.
*
"And so these men of Indostan

Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,

And all were in the wrong!

Moral:

So oft in theologic wars,

The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance

Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant

Not one of them has seen!"​*




(Taken from this website.)

And on we go - science, religion, mythology, politics . . . is there an elephant in your life?


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 2, 2008)

mariac1966 said:


> My Favorite poem is actually one that I wrote for my husband (RIP).
> 
> *Your Love*
> 
> ...



Mariac -

Your poem is lovely and the depth of emotion behind the words even more so. You give the lie to your description of yourself "Angel in disguise". You're an Angel. Period. No disguising that!


----------



## mariac1966 (Aug 2, 2008)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Mariac -
> 
> Your poem is lovely and the depth of emotion behind the words even more so. You give the lie to your description of yourself "Angel in disguise". You're an Angel. Period. No disguising that!



Bless your heart!! thank you


----------



## Scorsese86 (Aug 6, 2008)

Edgar Allen Poe's _The Raven_ is, in my humble opinion, the most brilliant poem ever. Nevermore, nevermore.

Here's a link to the poem:
http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html


----------



## Christinabean27 (Aug 6, 2008)

untitled


I am afraid
For I am a frog.


----------



## Fascinita (Aug 8, 2008)

More e.e. cummings, for his fans, myself included:

"annie died the other day"

annie died the other day

never was there such a lay -- 
whom, among her dollies dad 
first ("don't tell your mother") had; 
making annie slightly mad 
but very wonderful in bed 
-- saints and satyrs, go your way 

youths and maidens: let us pray


----------



## William (Aug 8, 2008)

Theres no words to say
No words to convey
This feeling inside I have for you
Deep in my heart
Safe from the guards
Of intellect and reason
Leaving me at a loss
For words to express my feeling.

Look at me losing control
Thinking I had a hold
But with feelings this strong
Im no longer the master
Of my emotions.	

---Tracy Chapman


----------



## SpecialK (Aug 8, 2008)

This is a great thread! So many wonderful poems have been shared.... Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou, The Highwayman, T.S Eliot, and Poe and Robert Frost.... great stuff!

I'm surprised I have a few of my favourites to add that aren't repeats.

The first is, to me, the 15th century version of an unrequited love poem to a BBW from her admiring FA. I love the laughable melodrama of his exaggerations. I've included the translation below for those of you who aren't up on your middle English. 

_To Rosemounde - Geoffrey Chaucer

Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oynement unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Your semy voys that ye so smal out twyne
Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.
So curtaysly I go with love bounde
That to myself I sey in my penaunce,
" Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. "

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love am walwed and ywounde,
For which ful ofte I of myself devyne
That I am trewe Tristam the secounde.
My love may not refreyde nor affounde,
I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce.
Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce._

Modern translation (don't mind my paraphrasing)....

Madame you're like a shrine of beauty,
As far encircled as a globe of the world.
You shine as glorious as a crystal,
And your cheeks are like round rubies.
You're always so merry and so joyful,
And when I see you dance at a party,
It's like an ointment into my wounds
Though you don't even notice me.

For though I weep a tub full of tears
In the hopes of unburdoning my heart,
Your seemly voice, so soft-spoken
Make my thoughts in joy and bliss abound.
So courteously I go, bound in love
And in my penance I say to myself
"It's enough to love you, Rosemounde
Though you don't even notice me."

There was never a fish, pickled in wine sauce
That is as pickled, and infatuated as I am with you.
For which I often deign,
That I am truly Tristam the second
My love may not be cooled nor sunk,
I burn in a amourous pleasure.
Do what you will, I hope you find your way
Though you don't even notice me.


----------



## SpecialK (Aug 8, 2008)

Okay, my next choice is a bit lighter language-wise, yet heavier subject-wise than the Chaucer poem.

And I confess, I post it here incomplete. It was written by someone I knew through a friend and while I had a copy of it once, it's since been lost and I can't remember the whole poem. It's about a guy who commits suicide and finds it's not all he thought it would be after death.

_Untitled - Anonymous

The heavy gun is lifted,
With shaking hand to head.
The only thought within my mind
Is hold on, you'll soon be dead.

No one here will miss me,
No one here will care.
When I am gone, it will be as if
I was simply never there.

If you shed a tear for me,
And think of me again
Close your eyes and ignore the thought,
You should have loved me then.

(missing stanzas)

A shot rings out and cuts the silence
Of this lonely night.
I'm on the other side now
My heart is full of fright.

It's cold and dark and lonely here
I was wrong about the pain.
I thought that when my life was through
I'd never feel again.

(missing stanzas)

(missing lines)
I realize now you must have cared
I see it in your eyes.

(missing stanzas)_


----------



## SpecialK (Aug 8, 2008)

Okay last one. 

This poem is pure fun. It's a poem called the Pot and the Potatoes and told from the perspective of the pot. The poem, when read, is supposed to sound like a boiling pot of potatoes.

If anyone can read Finnsh, I encourage you to give it a shot. (Ho Ho Tai, being from Duluth, you should know some Suomalainens, I'd wager! I'm originally from Thunder Bay, myself.)

_KATTILA JA PERUNAT	
Kirsi Kunnas

Oi olen aivan höyrypäinen,
ihan kiehun ja sihisen
kuin sähikäinen,
sanoi kattila
ja nosti hattua
pshiih


ihan kiehun ja kihisen
ja puhisen, pihisen
syljen, sihisen
sähisen, kähisen
ja kiukusta rähisen,
sanoi kattila
ja nosti hattua
pshiih

Voi tätä hoppua hoppua hoppua
huusivat perunat, voi tätä hoppua
ei tule loppua loppua loppua
polkata täytyy polkkaa, polkata polkkaa
kiireistä aikaa, tulta on kengissä
laukata täytyy laukkaa, laukata laukkaa
ei ole tolkkua millään, ei ole tolkun tolkkua
kolkata täytyy kolkkaa, kolkata kolkkaa
hyvä jos pysymme hengissä, hengissä, hengissä
voi tätä hoppua hoppua hoppua
ei tule loppua.

THE POT AND THE POTATOES
Translation by Herbert Lomas

I'm sweating and steaming
I feel like screaming
I'm bubbling and seething
I'm rattling like tea-things
the pan said -
took his hat off his head - and
Phew!

I'm absolutely boiling
I'm bristling and whistling
and hustling and moiling
and all hot and sizzling
it's a mad mad bustle
the pan said -
took its hat off his head - and
Phew!

Ouch this hoppity, hoppity, hoppity
shouted the potatoes, popping up fit to split
no way of stopping it, dropping it, swapping it
dancing a polka, have to, dance, dancing a polka
got to go higher now, shoes are on fire now
galloping, galloping, off at a lollop
jumping and jumping and off at a wallop
turning and thumping, thumping and turning
oh this knocking and bumping and socking
off again copping it, hopping it, whopping it
makes me spit -
no way of stopping it_


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 11, 2008)

SpecialK said:


> Okay last one.
> 
> This poem is pure fun. It's a poem called the Pot and the Potatoes and told from the perspective of the pot. The poem, when read, is supposed to sound like a boiling pot of potatoes.
> 
> ...


_

OKay, SpecialK - I have relayed your poem to a local Finn of my acquaintance, a Finnish lady who owns and operates a catering service, and who has a whopping sense of humor. I'm sure she will respond with all the candor that Finns are noted for and I will ask her permission to print such of her comments as are appropriate to this forum.

Meanwhile, I offer this tidbit from our own beloved Garrison Keillor who, while not Finnish (as far as I know) is very good at portraying the foibles of all of us in a humorous and sensitive way. I post his poem with a link to the source, below.

The Finn Who Would Not Take a Sauna - by Garrison Keillor

In northeast Minnesota , what they call the Iron Range ,
where a woman is a woman and some things never change,
where winter lasts nine months a year, there is no spring or fall,
where it gets so cold the mercury cannot be seen at all.
and you and 1, we normal folk, would shiver, shake, and chatter,
and if we used an outhouse, we would grow an extra bladder,
but even when it's coldest, when our feet would have no feeling,
those Iron Rangers get dressed up and go out snowmobiling.

Out across the frozen land and make a couple stops
at Gino's Lounge and Rudy's Bar for whiskey, beer, and schnapps
and then they go into a shack that's filled with boiling rocks
hot enough to sterilize an Iron Ranger's socks
and sit there till they steam out every sin and every foible
and then jump into a frozen lake and claim that it's enjoible.

But there was one, a shy young man, and although he was Finnish,
the joys of winter had, for him, long started to diminish.
HE WAS A FINN, THE ONLY FINN,
WHO WOULD NOT TAKE A SAUNA "
It isn't that I can't," he said, "I simply do not wanna.
To jump into a frozen lake is not my fondest wish,
for just because I am a Finn don't mean that I'm a fish."

His friends said, "Com on, Toivo! Let's go out to Sunfish Lake !
A Finn who don't take saunas? Why, there must be some mistake."
But Toivo said, "There's no mistake. I know that I would freeze
In water colder than myself (98.6degrees')."
And so he stayed close by a stove for nine months of the year
because he was so sensitive to change of temperature.

One night he went to Eveleth to attend the Miners' Ball.
(If you have not danced in Eveleth, you've never danced at all.)
He met a Finnish beauty there who turned his head around.
She was broad of beam and when she danced she shook the frozen ground.
She took that shy young man in hand and swept him off his feet
and bounced him up and down until he learned the polka beat.
She was fair as she was tall, as tall as she was wide,
and when the dance was over, he asked her to be his bride.
She looked him over carefully. She said, 'You're kinda thin.
but you must have some courage if it's true you are a Finn.
I ain't particular 'bout men. I am no prima donna
but I would never marry one who would not take a sauna."

They got into her pickup, and down the road they drove,
and fifteen minutes later they were stoking up the stove.
She had a flask of whiskey. They took a couple toots
and went into the shack and got into their birthday suits.
She steamed him and she boiled him until his skin turned red;
she poured it on until his brains were bubbling in his head.
To improve his circulation and to soften up his hide,
she took a couple birch boughs and beat him till he cried,
"Oh, couldn't you just love me now? Oh, don't you think you can?"
She said, "It's time to step outside and show you are a man."

Straightway (because he loved her so, he thought his heart would break),
he jumped right up and out the door and ran down to the lake,
and though he paused a moment when he saw the lake was frozen
and tried to think just which snowbank his love had put his clothes in 
when he thought of Tina, Lord---that man did not think twice
but just picked up his size 12 feet and loped across the ice ---
and coming to the hole that they had cut there with an ax ---
putting common sense aside, ignoring all the facts ---
he leaped! Oh, what a leap! And as he dove beneath the surface,
it thrilled him to his very soul, and also made him surface!
And it wasn't just the tingling he felt in every limb,
he cried: "My love! I'm finished! I forgot! I cannot swim!"

She fished him out and stood him up and gave him an embrace
to warm a Viking's heart and make the blood rush to his face.
"I love you, darling dear!" she cried. "I love you with all my might!"
and she drove him to Biwabik and married him that night
and took him down the road to Carl's Tourist Cabins
and spent a sleepless night and in the morning, as it happens,
though it was only April, it was absolutely spring,
birds, flowers, people put away their parkas and everything.
They bought a couple acres around Hibbing , up near Chisholm,
and began a life of gardening and love and Lutheranism.

And they live happily to this day, although they sometimes quarrel.
and there, I guess, the story ends, except for this, the moral.
Marriage, friends, is a lifelong feast, love is no light lunch.
You cannot dabble round the edge, but each must take the plunch.
And though marriage, like that frozen lake, may sometimes make us colder,
it has its pleasures, too, as you may find out when you're older.

--- Finis ---

http://www.coloradofinns.com/Finnwhowouldnotsauna.htm


Those of you having a sharp eye and some knowledge of Iron Range lore may note one small exaggeration:
"hot enough to sterilize an Iron Ranger's socks"

I don't think that Hell itself is hot enough for that job!_


----------



## Ernest Nagel (Aug 11, 2008)

Okay, I know it's banal and simplistic but this somehow never fails to move me.

*Abou Ben Adhem*

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.


James Henry Leigh Hunt


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 11, 2008)

Ernest Nagel said:


> Okay, I know it's banal and simplistic but this somehow never fails to move me.
> 
> *Abou Ben Adhem*
> 
> ...



Ernest -

Your entire message and poem are quoted in my reply. You, modestly, described it as "banal and simplistic". In my experience, such words are used to describe truths so ancient, so basic, so self-evident and so often repeated that those who, for the sake of convenience, no longer wish to hear them, disparage them. As Al Gore would say, "An Inconvenient Truth".

Mrs Ho Ho and I have adopted an ancient myth, both because it describes our lives together, and because it guides us in other choices and ways. It is the myth of Philemon & Baucis, first enunciated by Ovid in the Metamorphoses. Apparently, all subsequent references are based on this one. The message is very much like that of Abu Ben Adhem.

You can find the tale told in numerous ways. We like this one, not so much for the telling, but for the image of the dual trees at the end. We call this "kissin' trees". When we are out walking or biking and see such trees, we stop and kiss (or sometimes hoard them up for later.)

Here's a link to the myth.







*And here's that wonderful tree.*​


----------



## Ernest Nagel (Aug 11, 2008)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Ernest -
> 
> Your entire message and poem are quoted in my reply. You, modestly, described it as "banal and simplistic". In my experience, such words are used to describe truths so ancient, so basic, so self-evident and so often repeated that those who, for the sake of convenience, no longer wish to hear them, disparage them. As Al Gore would say, "An Inconvenient Truth".
> 
> ...



Thank you very much for that, Robert!  I often find myself embarrassed that I am such a simple soul at heart. I wish I had a more sophisticated or complex world view, but it's just not in me. The tree image is indeed beautiful. I think the notion of growing together, sharing shade and roots is lovely. You and Mrs. Ho Ho are very blessed. :bow:


----------



## LillyBBBW (Aug 13, 2008)

*"The End of the Raven" *
By: Edgar Allen Poe's cat

On a night quite unenchanting, 
When the rain was downward slanting, 
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for. 
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, 
In a tone I found quite craven, 
Poe sat talking to a raven perched upon the chamber door. 
"Ravens very tasty," thought I, 
As I tiptoed o'er the floor.
There's nothing I like more.

Soft upon the rug I treaded, 
Calm and carefully I headed, 
Toward his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore. 
While the bard and birdie chattered, 
I made sure that nothing clattered, 
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, 
As I crossed the corridor floor. 
For his house is crammed with trinkets, 
curios, and weird decor - - 
Bric-a-brac and junk galore. 

Still the Raven fluttered, 
Standing stock still as he uttered, 
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, 
His two cents worth - - "Nevermore." 
While this dirge the bird brain kept up, 
Oh so silently I crept up. 
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, 
pouncing on the feathered bore. 
Soon he was a heap of plumage, 
And a little blood and gore - - 
Only this and nothing more.

"Ohh!" my pickled poet cried out, 
"Pussycat, it's time I dried out! 
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before. 
How I've wallowed in self pity, 
While my gallant, valiant kitty, 
Put an end to that danged ditty," 
Then I heard him start to snore. 
Back atop the door I clambered, 
Eyed that statue I abhor, 
Jumped - - and smashed it to the floor.


----------



## SpecialK (Aug 13, 2008)

The End of the Raven! I love it! hahaha!


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 13, 2008)

LillyBBBW said:


> *"The End of the Raven" *
> By: Edgar Allen Poe's cat
> 
> On a night quite unenchanting,
> ...



Lilly - I always suspected that you were a raven' maniac. Did you write that, or was it by a kitty litterary?


----------



## Admiral_Snackbar (Aug 13, 2008)

My sons are way into Dr. Seuss, and I remember a poem written during Monicagate that describes how to teach your kids about the Starr Report using Geiselverse:

The Bubba of Scuz 
And the Bimbo of Loo
were sharing a pizza
with nothing to do. 

They sat and they talked 
Although little was said.
So they dabbled in 
bumblefunumpus instead.

(which cannot be explained
and is never polite.
Whether done in the daylight
or darkness of night. )

But the Bubba of Scuz 
was a Loyalty Scout
which meant that with Bimbos,
funumping was out.

The Loyalty Scouts 
(an unusual breed) 
thought that telling the truth
was the best of good deeds. 

If ever you slipped
into trouble so deep 
that you thought that a lie 
was the best way to keep 

your brains in your head 
and your seat in your pants,
a Loyalty Scout would say 
"don't take the chance!" 

A Splonger named Ken
had been watching the glade
where the Bubba and Bimbo
funumped in the shade 

"At last" said the Splong
(a responsible guy) 
I now have what I need 
to entice him to lie. 

The Bubba of Scuz 
was then pressured to tell 
of the things he had done
in the glade by the dell.

"Did you yert with palookas? 
Or miff some goopats? 
I heard that you fleegered
a blooper with gnats!" 

"I have done no such thing"
said the Bubba of Scuz
"those things aren't the things
that a Scuz Bubba does."

"But what about Bimbos?"
Inquired the Splong. 
"Funumping with Bimbos 
is equally wrong!"

"I never funumped 
with the Bimbo of Loo." 
"If you say that I did, 
what you say isn't true." 

Except that it was, 
bringing Bubba up short
when the Splonger named Ken
made his final report. 

So take this advice 
when you're feeling ashamed.
Stick to the truth 
or you'll wind up defamed.

The Loyalty Scouts
will muster you out
your good friends will wonder 
what you are about 

And history's scribes,
remembering you 
will skip all the good 
you endeavored to do.

Like the Bubba of Scuz 
who, 'til history's end 
will be linked to his Bimbo 
and the Splonger named Ken.

*Copyright © Dale Connelly, 1998*

BTW, "Bumblefunumpus" is my secret special word for having fun with the naughty bits.


----------



## intraultra (Aug 13, 2008)

http://mp3.dawnanddrew.podshow.com/intros/DNDS-owl-and-the-pussycat.mp3


----------



## LillyBBBW (Aug 13, 2008)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Lilly - I always suspected that you were a raven' maniac. Did you write that, or was it by a kitty litterary?



I'm not certain Ho Ho Tai. I've known this poem for a long time but never knew the author. A quick search online turned it up on this writer's website with a line missing and a word changed, but I'm not certain if it's naming her as the author or merely the poster of the poem so I was reluctant to post her name here. Her name is Athena Darkwolfe. The name alone should be a dead givaway but I erred on the side of caution.


----------



## LJ Rock (Aug 19, 2008)

Here's a little poem I wrote back in college. It comes back to me now and again, at certain moments of my life. It gives me a bit of a lift when I need it, a bit of inspiration to keep pushing on. Maybe it will do the same for you.... 

*Tired* 

*I am so tired
Of being
Tired. 
*


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 25, 2008)

I noticed a photography thread and wanted to post something of my early (1950s) astrophotography experience. Decided to use part of this poem as an intro, pointing out that I don't go back quite THAT far. Thought some of you poetry fans might enjoy this, if you are not already familiar with it.

Ho Ho Tai

Lewis Carroll parody of Hiawatha

Windmill

Hiawatha's Photographing

From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the second book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod,
And the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures.
Mystic, awful, was the process.
First, a piece of glass he coated
With Collodion, and plunged it
In a bath of Lunar Caustic
Carefully dissolved in water.
There he left it certain minutes.
Secondly, my Hiawatha
Made with cunning hand a mixture
Of the acid Pyro-gallic,
And of Glacial Acetic,
And of Alcohol and water:
This developed all the picture.
Finally, he fixed each picture,
With a saturate solution
Of a certain salt of Soda--
Chemists call it Hyposulphite.
(Very difficult the name is
For a metre like the present
But periphrasis has done it.)
All the family in order,
Sat before him for their pictures.
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His invaluable suggestions.
First, the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely;
Failed, because he moved a little,
moved because he couldn't help it.
Next his better half took courage;
She would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin,
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a nosegay
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was taking,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the nosegay higher?
Will it come into the picture?"
And the picture failed completely.
Next the son, the Stunning-Cantab
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Cenntered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learned it all from Ruskin,
(Author of "The Stones of Venice",
"Seven Lamps of Architecture",
"Modern Painters" and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.
Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little;
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of "passive beauty".
Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left-eye,
Was a drooping of the right-eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils.
Hiawatha, when she asked him,
Took no notice of the question,
Looked as if he hadn't heard it;
But, when pointedly appealed to,
Smiled in his peculiar manner,
Coughed, and said it "didn't matter,"
Bit his lip, and changed the subject.
Nor in this was he mistaken,
As the picture failed completely.
So in turn, the other sisters.
Last the youngest son was taken:
Very rough and thick his hair was,
Very round and red his face was,
Very dusty was his jacket,
Very fidgetty his manner.
And his overbearing sisters
Called him names he disapproved of:
Called him Johnny, "Daddy's Darling,"
Called him Jacky, "Scrubby Schoolboy."
And, so awful was the picture,
In comparison the others
Might be thought to have succeeded--
To have partially succeeded.
Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
("grouped" is not the right expression,)
And, as happy chance would have it,
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As "the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.
Giving one such strange expressions!
Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness!
Really any one would take us
(Anyone that did not know us)
For the most unpleasant people!"
(Hiawatha seemed to think so,
Seemed to think it not unlikely.)
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.
But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation
Which photographers aspire to:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry
Vowing that he would not stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes;
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes;
Hurriedly he took his ticket;
Hurriedly the train received him;
Thus departed Hiawatha.


----------



## Fascinita (Aug 26, 2008)

"The City"
Constantine P. Cavafy (1910) 

You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, better than this.
Every effort of mine is condemned by fate;
and my heart is -- like a corpse -- buried.
How long in this wasteland will my mind remain.
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look
I see the black ruins of my life here,
where I spent so many years, and ruined and wasted."

New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods;
in these same houses you will grow gray.
Always you will arrive in this city. To another land -- do not hope --
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you have ruined your life here
in this little corner, you have destroyed it in the whole world.


----------



## William (Aug 26, 2008)

"...........Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, 
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere 
The ceremony of innocence is drowned; 
The best lack all convictions, while the worst 
Are full of passionate intensity"	

THE SECOND COMING 
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)


A regular reading after a bad day at work 

William


----------



## Fascinita (Aug 27, 2008)

Yet another favorite:

"Inversnaid"
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1918)

This darksome burn, horseback brown,	
His rollrock highroad roaring down,	
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam	
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.	

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth 
Turns and twindles over the broth	
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,	
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.	

Degged with dew, dappled with dew	
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,	
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.	

What would the world be, once bereft	
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,	
O let them be left, wildness and wet; 
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.


----------



## Ernest Nagel (Aug 28, 2008)

FOR FEAR YOU WILL BE ALONE
by Richard Brautigan

For fear you will be alone
you do so many things
that arent you at all 

From "Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork"


----------



## ThikJerseyChik (Aug 28, 2008)

Ernest Nagel said:


> FOR FEAR YOU WILL BE ALONE
> by Richard Brautigan
> 
> For fear you will be alone
> ...



Cool stuff, EN!


----------



## Krazykush (Aug 28, 2008)

I'm not the biggest fan of poetry however, I don't know who the author of this poem is but I am in awe of it.

*Will you be my friend?*
Will you be my friend?
There are so many reasons why you never should:
I'm sometimes sullen, often shy, acutely sensitive.
My fear erupts as anger, I find it hard to give.
I talk about myself when I'm afraid.
And often spend the day without anything to say.
But I will make you laugh
And hold you when you're sad.
I cry a little almost every day
Because I'm more caring than strangers ever know.
And, if at times, I show my tender side
(The soft and warmer part I hide)
I wonder,
Will you be my friend?
A friend
Who far beyond the feebleness of any vow or tie
Will touch the secret place where I am really I,
To know the pain of lips that plead and eyes that weep,
Who will not run away when you find me in the street
Alone and lying mangled by my quota of defeats
But will stop and stay to tell me of another day
When I was beautiful.
Will you be my friend
There are so many reasons why you never should:
Often I'm too serious, seldom predictably the same,
Sometimes cold and distant, probably I'll always change.
I bluster and brag, seek attention like a child,
I brood and pout, my anger can be wild. 
But I will make you laugh
And love you quite a bit
And be near when you're afraid.
I shake a little almost every day
Because I'm more frightened than the strangers ever know
And if at times I show my trembling side
(the anxious, fearful part I hide)
I wonder,
Will you be my friend?
A friend
Who, when I fear your closeness, feels me push away
And stubbornly will stay to share what's left on such a day,
Who, when no one knows my name or calls me on the phone,
When there's no concern for me what I have or haven't done
And those I've helped and counted on have, or so deftly, run,
Who, when there's nothing left but me, stripped of charm and subtlety,
Will nonetheless remain.
Will you be my friend?
For no reason that I know
Except I want you so.


----------



## SpecialK (Aug 28, 2008)

Krazykush, I really like that! I'm going to have to save that one.


----------



## MetalGirl (Aug 28, 2008)

Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson

Wild nights. Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile be the winds
To a heart in port
Done with the compass
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden.
Ah, the sea.
Might that I moor
Tonight with thee!


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Sep 1, 2008)

Krazykush said:


> I'm not the biggest fan of poetry however, I don't know who the author of this poem is but I am in awe of it.
> 
> *Will you be my friend?*
> Will you be my friend?
> ...


Krazykush -

The author of that poem is Dr. James Kavanaugh, formerly a Catholic Priest, ordained and practicing in the '60s. His departure from that active role, and subsequent career as a poet, writer, and philosopher is described here on his website.

The title "Will you be my friend?" is the title of two poems, which serve as bookends in his book of the same name. I have copied the second poem into this message.

I first learned of the man and his poems in the early '70s. A woman friend gave me (for reasons which I won't elaborate here) a copy of his first book by the title "There Are Men Too Gentle To Live Among Wolves". Yes, there was a message there for me, but his next book, "Will you be my friend?" really expressed my own search, and yearnings, trying to find that one very special friend.

It would take another decade, but that friend turned out to be Mrs Ho Ho.

So enchanted was I with that book that I bought several dozen copies of it. I gave them out, one at a time, to people to whom I wanted to express my affection and hope for continuing friendship. One of these people was she who (much) later became Mrs Ho Ho. My original, tattered, copy sits side by side on one of our shelves with the copy I gave to her.

I had the pleasure of attending a reading by James Kavanaugh at the old Cafe Extempore in the Cedar-Riverside area of Minneapolis. This was in the mid-70s, when the whole area throbbed with hippie fervor, peace movements, and back to the land folks. A wonderful era! I have the two copies that he signed for me - "Wolves" and "Friend".

There is a lovely exposition of the poem you quoted at a personal website called Christeen's Place.


*Will you Be My Friend?

Once I was a rabbit's grave and a basket hoop on the garage, A cucumber patch, lilac trees and peonies crawling with ants. I was a Stepping stone and a mysterious cistern, grass fires, water fights and a ping pong table in the basement. I Was a picket fence, a bed and a maple drawer I shared with My sister, a dog named sandy who danced. Friends were Easy to find. We climbed trees, built grass huts, caught Snakes..................and we dreamed alot........
Will you be my friend? (Beyond Childhood)


Who am I? I am not sure........ Once I was predictable, I was educated, trained, loved.... Not as I was, but as I seemed to be. My role was my safe way Of hiding. There was no reason to change. I was approved, I pleased. Then suddenly, I changed. Now I am less sure, more Myself. My role has almost disappeared. My roots are not my church, my job, my city.........even my world. They are in me. Friends are not easy to find....................i dream alot.

Will you be my friend?? (Beyond Roles)


Who am i? I am not sure.......... I am more alone than before........part animal...but not protected by my Instincts or restricted by my vision. I am Part spirit as well, yet scarcely free, limited by taste and Touch and time........yearning for all of life. There is no Security. Security is sameness and fear, the postponing Of life. Security is expectations and commitments and premature death. I live with uncertainty. There are mountains to climb, Clouds to ride, stars to explore and Friends to find...........there is only me.........and I dream Alot......

Will you be my friend? (Beyond Security)


Who am i? I am not sure.......... I do not search in emptiness and need, but in increasing Fullness and desire. Emptiness seeks any voice to fill a Void, any face to dispel darkness. Emptiness brings crowds And shadows easy to replace. Fullness brings a friend, Unique, irreplaceable. I am not empty as I was. There are the Wind and the ocean, music, strength and joys within .....and The night........... Friendship is less than a request than a celebration, less a Ritual than a reality, less a need than a want............ Friendship is you and me.....................and I dream alot........

Will you be my friend?? (Beyond Need)


Who am I?? I am not sure.... Who are you? I want to know...... We didn't sell kool aid together or go to school together. We're not from the same town...the same god, hardly the Same world. There is no role to play, no security to provide No commitments to make. I expect no answers save your Presence, your eyes, your self....... Friendship is freedom, is flowing, is rare. It does not need stimulation, it stimulates itself. It trusts, understands, grows, explores. It smiles and weeps. It does not exhaust or cling, expect or demand.

It IS..............and that's enough.........and it dreams alot........
Will you be MY FRIEND?

James Kavanaugh​*


----------



## Fascinita (Sep 3, 2008)

unknown author:

"Oh Western Wind, when wilt thou blow,
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, if my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again."


----------



## JoyJoy (Sep 8, 2008)

Mr Ho-Ho, Kavanaugh has long been one of my favorites. Here's my favorite of his, one that has a lot of meaning behind it for me:

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.

There are men too gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant's profit and gain.

There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheels
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who devour them with eager appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.

There are men too gentle for an accountant's world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant's world,
Unless they have a gentle one to love.

And a couple of others:

Into My Own

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should eer turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew
Only more sure of all I thought was true.

- Robert Frost


[SIZE=+2]* On Love *[/SIZE] _ When love beckons to you, follow him, 
Though his ways are hard and steep, 
And when his wings enfold you yield to him, 
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. 
And when he speaks to you believe in him, 
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. 

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. 
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. 
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, 
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. 

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. 
He threshes you to make you naked. 
He sifts you to free you from your husks. 
He grinds you to whiteness. 
He kneads you until you are pliant; 
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, 
that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. 

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, 
and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. 

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, 
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor, 
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. 

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. 
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; 
For love is sufficient unto love. 

When you love you should not say, 
'God is in my heart,' but rather, 
'I am in the heart of God.' 
And think not you can direct the course of love, 
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. 

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. 
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: 
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night, 
To know the pain of too much tenderness. 
To be wounded by your own understanding of love; 
And to bleed willingly and joyfully. 
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; 
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; 
To return home at eventide with gratitude; 
And to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips. _

- Kahlil Gibran


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Sep 8, 2008)

JoyJoy said:


> Mr Ho-Ho, Kavanaugh has long been one of my favorites. Here's my favorite of his, one that has a lot of meaning behind it for me:
> 
> There are men too gentle to live among wolves
> Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
> ...



JoyJoy -

I've never been able to figure out this multi-quote thing, so am doing my best.

The "Wolves" poem (and the title of the book as well) is the one which my friend meant for me. She knew that I would survive, but not thrive, in the corporate world of hack and slash. (But I did pretty well anyway.) We have long gone our separate ways, but I loved her then, and she still shares a bit of space in my heart.

On the Frost poem: I hope that is surety is the result of a lifetime of experiences, slowly coalescing into wisdom, and not the utterings of flint-faced New Englander, convinced at birth that he is right, and as certain of it as the rest of us are that he is wrong. Still, any person who loves trees as Frost did can't be all bad.

I have certainly experienced both the growth and the pruning to which Gibran refers. But how wonderful the growth, and how painless the pruning!

And his final lines - Yes! Oh, yes!


----------



## The Fez (Sep 8, 2008)

*Lucy*

I travelled among unknown men
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for I still seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

By mornings showed, by nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eye surveyed.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave and, oh
The difference to me

A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears.
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly eyes.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks,
and stones,
and trees.

I forget who wrote the poem originally, but The Divine Comedy implemented it into a song, which is the form I heard it in first.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Sep 8, 2008)

Freestyle Fez said:


> *Lucy*
> 
> She dwelt among the untrodden ways
> Beside the springs of Dove,
> ...



I highlighted this section because, oddly, it reminds me of the closing chapter of Peer Gynt. The wastrel Peer, having abandoned Solveig to seek his fortune (and various lascivious activities) at last returns home to find a now blind and aging Solveig still living in her little cottage, singing her song, knitting away, still awaiting the return of the rascally Peer.

It always gives me a catch in my throat to think of it because Mrs Ho Ho is that kind of woman - not that I would ever think of abandoning HER!


----------



## Fascinita (Sep 8, 2008)

It's so nice to have a place to talk about poetry on Dimensions  

Here is one from Carl Sandburg:

*Limited*

I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains
of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air
go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men
and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall
pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he
answers: "Omaha."


----------



## Ashlynne (Sep 8, 2008)

*God Says Yes To Me*

by Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly 
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes


----------



## mejix (Sep 8, 2008)

not really a fan of billy collins but i do enjoy the videos on his work that you can find on youtube. like this one: 

man in space


----------



## Fascinita (Sep 8, 2008)

Three snaps, mejix. Enjoyed it.

<snap snap snap>


----------



## mejix (Sep 9, 2008)

glad you liked. snap right back atcha for the cavafy poem.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Oct 19, 2008)

While not my favorite poem, I resurrect this thread once again to present this expression of pique and rage by Ezra Pound:

Winter is icumin in
Lhude sing Goddamn,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing; Goddamn.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham
Damn you, Sing, Goddamn.
Goddamn, Goddamn, tis why I am,
So gainst the winters balm.
Sing goddamn, damn, sing goddamn,
Sing goddamn, sing goddamn, DAMM

-Ezra Pound (1915)

If Ezra Pound were still around, he might have expressed his disgust thus:

Bail-outs are icumin in
Lhude sing Goddamn,
The little guys pay their lives away,
And the Fat Cats get the jamm!
Sing; Goddamn.
Graft and Greed leave the rest in need,
Thanks, you bastard Uncle Sam!
Damn you, Sing, Goddamn.
Goddamn, Goddamn, tis why I am,
So gainst the Wall Street balm.
Sing goddamn, damn, sing goddamn,
Sing goddamn, sing goddamn, DAMM


----------



## mejix (Oct 19, 2008)

lets make this thread really depressing!

*Autumn*
_Rainier Maria Rilke_

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by. 
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows, 
and on the meadows let the wind go free. 

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days, 
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine. 

Whoever has no house now, will never have one. 
Whoever is alone will stay alone, 
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, 
and wander on the boulevards, up and down, 
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.


----------



## Fascinita (Oct 20, 2008)

mejix said:


> lets make this thread really depressing!



Have I quoted the Carl Sandburg above? Oh, yeah. Yes, I have.

Well, here's another little downbeat ditty:

*The Belltower*
Diane Di Prima

the weighing is done in autumn
and the sifting
what is to be threshed
is threshed in autumn
what is to be gathered is taken

the wind does not die in autumn
the moon
shifts endlessly thru flying clouds
in autumn the sea is high

& a golden light plays everywhere
making it harder
to go one's way.
all leavetaking is in autumn
where there is leavetaking
it is always autumn
& the sun is a crystal ball
on a golden stand
& the wind
cannot make the spruce scream
loud enough


----------



## luscious_lulu (Oct 20, 2008)

I know this is suppose to be about your favorite poem, but I'm going to post the poem I wrote for my mom's funeral... It's not my favorite, but ....

Legacy

The sun shines upon this day,
It does not know the sadness we have faced.

A friend has passed.
A sister is missed. 
A true love was lost.
A mother has gone.

Today we remember the life you lived.
The legacy that you left.

Your light shone bright. 
Your spirit soared.
Your courage inspired. 
Your life was lived full and strong.

Memories are shared,
Stories passed on.

We remember your wisdom.
We cherish your love.
We honour your faith.
We find in you, the strength to carry on.

Today we do not grieve, 
We celebrate a life well lived.


----------



## frankman (Oct 20, 2008)

My favorite poem is The Waste Land, by TS Eliot. Posting it here entirely would be a bit ridiculous, so a link to the annotated hypertext: eliotswasteland.tripod.com/

It's very a rewarding poem once you've got the hang of it, but even if there are bits that are weird and tricky, it's still pretty. I especially like the fact that protagonists are distant and compassionate at the same time and the cathartic effect of Death By Water.

And on a lighter note, I'm a big fan of "The Red Wheelbarrow" and Carlos Williams in general. His views on what makes a text poetry are as funny as they are right. Here is one of his sobering poems:

*Landscape With the Fall of Icarus*
_-William Carlos Williams_

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned 
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning


----------



## mejix (Oct 27, 2008)

Pity the flowers in the corners of formal gardens.
They look as if they fear the police.
But such goodness is theirs that they bloom just the same
and they wear the same ancient smile 
they wore before the first look of that first man
who, seeing them emerge, touched them lightly
to see if they could talk.

_Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa) _


----------



## Fascinita (Oct 28, 2008)

Can we handle just a little more poetry tonight? Yeah?

How about a fun one?

"Adventures Of Isabel"
Ogden Nash

Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.

Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.

Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forehead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.

Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.


----------



## garbled (Oct 28, 2008)

MetalGirl said:


> Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson
> 
> Wild nights. Wild nights!
> Were I with thee,
> ...



Thats one of my favorites too, its so evocavive aqnd full of longing. I read quite a lot of poetry, at the moment Philip Larkin is one of my favorie poets but at other times its Walt Whitman or Yeats or Auden, depends on my mood.
anyway this is my favorite Philip larkin poem,

The Whitsun Weddings


That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river's level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles island,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displace the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn't notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what's happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewelry-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochers that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
Yes, from cafes
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed abroad: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;
The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots. and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say
I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
-An Odeon went past, a cooling tower,
And someone running up to bowl -and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Traveling coincidence; and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.


----------



## mejix (Nov 6, 2008)

*Forty Acres*
_Derek Walcott_

Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving 
a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls,
an emblem of impossible prophecy, a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,
parting for their president: a field of snow-flecked
cotton
forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens
that the young ploughman ignores for his unforgotten
cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch, is
a tense
court of bespectacled owls and, on the field's
receding rim 
a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him.
The small plough continues on this lined page
beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado's
black vengeance,
and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins,
heart, muscles, tendons,
till the land lies open like a flag as dawn's sure
light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.


----------



## Fascinita (Nov 9, 2008)

This reminds me that the good fight is never over. 

:bow:



mejix said:


> *Forty Acres*
> _Derek Walcott_
> 
> Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving 
> ...


----------



## Ernest Nagel (Nov 10, 2008)

My grandfather started a tradition in 1945 of reading this poem every Veteran's Day. 

*In Flanders Fields *
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) 
Canadian Army 
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow 
Between the crosses row on row, 
That mark our place; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the Dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw 
The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders fields. 


A website with the history of the poem:

http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/flanders.htm


----------



## garbled (Nov 10, 2008)

As yesterday was remembrance sunday, this is my favorite war poem by wilfred owen who died on the last day of the war.

Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.


Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,-
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.


With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.


'I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now....'


----------



## Fascinita (Nov 19, 2008)

*Super-Bird-Song
*by Kurt Schwitters

Ji
Uii
Aa
P'gikk
P'p'gikk
Beekidikee
Lampedigaal
P'p'beckedikee
P'p'lampedigaal
Ji üü Oo Aa
Brr Bredikekke
Ji üü Oo Aa
Nz' dott Nz' dott
Doll
Ee P' gikk
Lampedikrr
Sjaal
Briiniiaan
Ba baa


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Feb 17, 2009)

While this is not my favorite poem, it is my best effort, written to my best friend, partner and lover on this Valentine's Day just passed. I posted it in the middle of another thread, where it sank without a ripple. Perhaps other poetry lovers will give it a glance.

By the way, the event described did occur, Mrs Ho Ho was both surprised and delighted, with both tears and laughter in abundance.

We must have loved before.​


----------



## hollyfo (Feb 17, 2009)

i like slam poetry a lot...

Vanessa Hidary "Fling Gone Awry"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6T5X8SXpx8

"I said he fucked me like Brooklyn
hard and cozy, clean and dirty
like lampposts adorned with sneakers
like brownstone banisters
like big fat turkey in basting pans
I said, he fucked me like Brooklyn"


Rachel McKibbins "Multi Tasking" 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPaFigB9BLw

"there's nothing like the patience it takes to raise children, to resemble the men that fucked you over 


Suheir Hammad "First Writing Since"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNfec7Fa2Cc

"thank you to the woman who saw me brinking my cool and blinking back tears. she opened her arms before she asked "do you want a hug?" a big white woman, and her embrace was the kind only people with the warmth of flesh can offer."

also, this is cute...

LONG -LEG LOU AND SHORT-LEG SUE
Shel Silverstein 

Long-Leg Lou and Short-Leg Sue
Went for a walk down the avenue,
Laughin' and jokin' like good friends do,
Long-Leg Lou and Short-Leg Sue.

Says Long-Leg Lou to Short-Leg Sue,
"Can't you walk any faster than you do?
It really drives me out of my mind
That I'm always in front, and you're always behind."

Says Short-Leg Sue to Long-Leg Lou,
"I walk as fast as I'm meant to do."
"Then I'll go walking with someone new,"
Says Long-Leg Lou to Short-Leg Sue.

Now Long-Leg Lou, he walks alone,
Looking for someone with legs like his own,
And sometimes he thinks of those warm afternoons
Back when he went walkin' with Short-Leg Sue.

And Short-Leg Sue strolls down the street
Hand in hand with Slow-Foot Pete,
And they take small steps and they do just fine,
And no one's in front and no one's behind.


----------



## Ernest Nagel (Feb 17, 2009)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> While this is not my favorite poem, it is my best effort, written to my best friend, partner and lover on this Valentine's Day just passed. I posted it in the middle of another thread, where it sank without a ripple. Perhaps other poetry lovers will give it a glance.
> 
> By the way, the event described did occur, Mrs Ho Ho was both surprised and delighted, with both tears and laughter in abundance.
> 
> We must have loved before.​



This was quite beautiful Ho Ho. I'd say you're both very fortunate, now and through the ages, to be with one another. :bow:


----------



## OneWickedAngel (Feb 17, 2009)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> While this is not my favorite poem, it is my best effort, written to my best friend, partner and lover on this Valentine's Day just passed. I posted it in the middle of another thread, where it sank without a ripple. Perhaps other poetry lovers will give it a glance.
> 
> By the way, the event described did occur, Mrs Ho Ho was both surprised and delighted, with both tears and laughter in abundance.
> 
> We must have loved before.​



That was simply beautiful Ho Ho Tai. Love ethereal and eternal.:kiss2:


----------



## OneWickedAngel (Feb 17, 2009)

luscious_lulu said:


> I know this is suppose to be about your favorite poem, but I'm going to post the poem I wrote for my mom's funeral... It's not my favorite, but ....
> 
> Legacy
> 
> ...



Beautiful fitting words Luscious Lul. I'm glad you shared them.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Feb 17, 2009)

Ernest Nagel said:


> This was quite beautiful Ho Ho. I'd say you're both very fortunate, now and through the ages, to be with one another. :bow:



Ernest - I believe that you are well-versed in sci fi. Remember Bradbury's story "The Exiles" in "Illustrated Man"? Poe, Bierce and all the other old Masters of Horror have long vanished from the sterile-minded Earth. Their spirits live on amid the swirling dusts of Mars, but only for as long as someone, somewhere on the planet Earth is reading one of their few surviving books. Poe's existence may depend on having some teenage lad discover a copy of Pit and Pendulum in a dusty attic. When the last book is gone, so are they.

I admit that I was feeling a bit pale and wan myself until you posted a reply. I believe that I will survive the night. . .


----------



## MuleVariationsNYC (Feb 18, 2009)

Cino

Italian Campagna 1309, the open road

Bah! I have sung women in three cities,
But it is all the same;
And I will sing of the sun.

Lips, words, and you snare them,
Dreams, words, and they are as jewels,
Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.

Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes.
Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for wind-runeing
They dream us-toward and
Sighing, say, "Would Cino,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe.
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light,
Would Cino of the Luth were here!''

Once, twice a year---
Vaguely thus word they:

"Cino?'' "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi
The singer is't you mean?''
"Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . .
(Oh they are all one these vagabonds),
Peste! 'tis his own songs?
Or some other's that he sings?
But _you_, My Lord, how with your city?''

But you, "My Lord,'' God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you
Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
O Sinistro.

I have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . eh? . . . they mostly had grey eyes,
But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.

" 'Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you
Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us
Hath for boss thy lustre gay!

'Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare
Make thy laugh our wander-lied;
Bid thy 'flugence bear away care.
Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!

Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way
To the gardens of the sun . . .

* * *

I have sung women in three cities
But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea. 
-Ezra Pound


----------



## Ernest Nagel (Feb 18, 2009)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Ernest - I believe that you are well-versed in sci fi. Remember Bradbury's story "The Exiles" in "Illustrated Man"? Poe, Bierce and all the other old Masters of Horror have long vanished from the sterile-minded Earth. Their spirits live on amid the swirling dusts of Mars, but only for as long as someone, somewhere on the planet Earth is reading one of their few surviving books. Poe's existence may depend on having some teenage lad discover a copy of Pit and Pendulum in a dusty attic. When the last book is gone, so are they.
> 
> I admit that I was feeling a bit pale and wan myself until you posted a reply. I believe that I will survive the night. . .



Ho Ho, your poem actually reminded me more of the lyrical prose of Theodore Sturgeon; one of Bradbury's influences, as I recall. "More Than Human" was his best known and most widely read novel but so many of his works were about transcending the human condition via love and letting down barriers. I think he often used the future to frame the level of relationship that was possible when we let go of our past?

He lived in Tulsa in his later years and I sent him a fan letter. He invited me to meet for coffee! I've no recollection of what we talked about but I do recall thinking he seemed the most empathetic man I'd ever spoken to. 

This is something I stumbled across some time ago looking for stories of his I might have missed. Thought you and Mrs. Ho Ho might enjoy?

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.channel&ChannelID=323736806

See my current siggy for my thought as to the blessing of your marriage. Things do happen for reasons we can't understand and that seems to me to be the universe's version of poetry. :happy:


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Feb 18, 2009)

Ernest Nagel said:


> Ho Ho, your poem actually reminded me more of the lyrical prose of Theodore Sturgeon; one of Bradbury's influences, as I recall. "More Than Human" was his best known and most widely read novel but so many of his works were about transcending the human condition via love and letting down barriers. I think he often used the future to frame the level of relationship that was possible when we let go of our past?
> 
> He lived in Tulsa in his later years and I sent him a fan letter. He invited me to meet for coffee! I've no recollection of what we talked about but I do recall thinking he seemed the most empathetic man I'd ever spoken to.
> 
> ...



Ernest -

That's a fascinating story, and a fascinating story within a fascinating story. I never met any of the 'greats' - at least, not in the sci fi world. Neither had I read 'A Saucer of Loneliness', though I had read much (I would have said 'most', but now I'm not so sure) of Sturgeon's writings. I listened to (and watched most) of the Twilight Zone video. My sound card is on the fritz and I have to connect through my earphone jack. I couldn't hear it very well (and English accents defeat me anyway) but I found a synopsis which enabled me to follow the story.

"She paused. "Isn't it time you asked me what the saucer said?"

"I'll tell you," I blurted.

"There is in certain living souls
A quality of loneliness unspeakable,
So great it must be shared
As company is shared by lesser beings.
Such a loneliness is mine; so know by this
That in immensity
There is one lonelier than you"

Isn't wonderful what deeply human messages can be found hiding within the sugar coating of a technological story? As a kid, I read the stuff for the Gee Whiz parts, but those messages have stayed with me to this day.

Ernest, I'll tell you a secret. That flying saucer visited me in 1988. What a wonder it was to discover that The One was the one meant for me all along.

That immense inner loneliness lies at the core of all of us, whether we know it or not. Laughter, tears and adventure sometimes hide it, the way that soil, plants and animals hide the deep rocks of the earth. But sometimes the wind and water scour the surface clean and those rocks are revealed. Happens with people too. For me, in 1988, that rock was laid bare.

I didn't think then of either Mrs Ho Ho or myself as being that desperately lonely. We had each led rich, full lives up to that time. But the wind and water had taken their toll. After we re-connected, I wrote to her that we had erased our names from the pages of the lonely. Forever. And, so far, that has been true. 

But you know that the wind, the waves and the rocks are still out there, waiting . . .

.Your signature line is wonderful. I have added it to my list of famous quotations - close to the top.

PS: I blinked twice and had to do a bit of research. I was sure that the actress in the video was Emma Chambers (Alice in 'Vicar of Dibley') but turned out to be Shelley Duvall. I didn't think that there were two faces like that in the whole world.


----------



## mejix (Feb 19, 2009)

If all who have begged help
From me in this world, 
All the holy innocents, 
Broken wives, and cripples, 
The imprisoned, the suicidal--
If they had sent me one kopeck
I should have become 'richer 
Than all Egypt'...
But they did not send me kopecks, 
Instead they shared with me their strength, 
And so nothing in the world
Is stronger than I, 
And I can bear anything, even this.

Anna Akhmatova


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Feb 19, 2009)

mejix said:


> If all who have begged help
> From me in this world,
> All the holy innocents,
> Broken wives, and cripples,
> ...



Mejix - Once again, when I think I am eye to eye with you other lovers of poetry, I find that I am just staring at your boot laces. To borrow Butterbelly's sig. phrase (as I have many times before)
"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
- Anais Nin 

I googled Anna Akhmatova - and am faced with the prospect - both delightful and terrifying - that my stack of unread books is about to grow even higher. And, yet again, a new world is born.


----------



## mejix (Feb 19, 2009)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Mejix - Once again, when I think I am eye to eye with you other lovers of poetry, I find that I am just staring at your boot laces. To borrow Butterbelly's sig. phrase (as I have many times before)
> "Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
> - Anais Nin
> 
> I googled Anna Akhmatova - and am faced with the prospect - both delightful and terrifying - that my stack of unread books is about to grow even higher. And, yet again, a new world is born.




well mr.tai you may be staring from above at my bald head, who knows. glad you liked the poem.


----------



## mejix (Feb 20, 2009)

oh what the hell:

anna akhmatova before & after


----------



## Jigen (Feb 20, 2009)

This is a small portion of Dante's _Comedy_, Purgatorio, Canto VI. It has been written in 1319, more or less. Nontheless, it couldn't be more actual.

Ah, abject Italy, you inn of sorrows. 
you ship without a helmsman in harsh seas, 
no queen of provinces but of bordellos! 

That noble soul had such enthusiasm: 
his city’s sweet name was enough for him 
to welcome—there—his fellow-citizen; 

But those who are alive within you now 
can’t live without their warring—even those 
whom one same wall and one same moat enclose 

gnaw at each other. Squalid Italy, 
search round your shores and then look inland—see 
if any part of you delight in peace.

I submit the original: 

Ahi serva Italia, di dolore ostello,
nave sanza nocchiere in gran tempesta,
non donna di province, ma bordello!

Quell'anima gentil fu così presta,
sol per lo dolce suon de la sua terra,
di fare al cittadin suo quivi festa;

e ora in te non stanno sanza guerra
li vivi tuoi, e l'un l'altro si rode
di quei ch'un muro e una fossa serra.

Cerca, misera, intorno da le prode
le tue marine, e poi ti guarda in seno,
s'alcuna parte in te di pace gode.


----------



## mejix (Apr 11, 2009)

*Naming the Animals*
By Anthony Hecht

Having commanded Adam to bestow
Names upon all the creatures, God withdrew
To empyrean palaces of blue
That warm and windless morning long ago,
And seemed to take no notice of the vexed
Look on the young man's face as he took thought
Of all the miracles the Lord had wrought,
Now to be labelled, dubbed, yclept, indexed.

Before an addled mind and puddled brow,
The feathered nation and the finny prey
Passed by; there went biped and quadruped.
Adam looked forth with bottomless dismay
Into the tragic eyes of his first cow,
And shyly ventured, "Thou shalt be called 'Fred."'


----------



## QueenB (Apr 11, 2009)

one of them.

Walking Around by Neruda (translated by Bly)

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.


----------



## Fascinita (Apr 11, 2009)

Whoop! This thread is back.

We'll make it a Latin American night. Snap snap at Neruda. Here's some Roberto Bolano.

*GODZILLA IN MEXICO
*
Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You'd just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didnt tell you we were on deaths program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldnt be afraid.
When it left, death didnt even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
Were human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.


----------



## mejix (Apr 11, 2009)

Thanks for the Bolaño. I was reading the Savage Detectives and was enjoying it but I had to stop it to take care of "stuff." I shall return. I have always been amused by this poem by Drummond de Andrade. 


*In the middle of the road*
Carlos Drummond de Andrade

In the middle of the road there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
there was a stone
in the middle of the road there was a stone.

Never should I forget this event
in the life of my fatigued retinas.
Never should I forget that in the middle of the road
there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
in the middle of the road there was a stone.


----------



## alienlanes (Apr 12, 2009)

*Waiting For The Barbarians*
C.P Cavafy

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are due here today.

Why isn't anything going on in the senate?
Why are the senators sitting there without legislating?

Because the barbarians are coming today.
What's the point of senators making laws now?
Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating.

Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting enthroned at the city's main gate,
in state, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor's waiting to receive their leader.
He's even got a scroll to give him,
loaded with titles, with imposing names. 

Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians. 

Why don't our distinguished orators turn up as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking. 

Why this sudden bewilderment, this confusion?
(How serious people's faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home lost in thought?

Because night has fallen and the barbarians haven't come.
And some of our men who have just returned from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer. 

Now what's going to happen to us without barbarians?
Those people were a kind of solution.


----------



## mel (Apr 13, 2009)

My fav for over 20 years 

by e e cummings
......................

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Apr 13, 2009)

mel said:


> My fav for over 20 years
> 
> by e e cummings
> ......................
> ...



Thanks mel - This is a particularly good time for me to relay this to Mrs Ho Ho.


----------



## mejix (Apr 14, 2009)

mel said:


> My fav for over 20 years
> 
> by e e cummings
> ......................
> ...



didn't know this poem. thanks!


----------



## Fascinita (Apr 14, 2009)

I love it. Thanks.



mel said:


> My fav for over 20 years
> 
> by e e cummings
> ......................
> ...


----------



## superodalisque (Apr 14, 2009)

Le Geante (The Giantess) by Baudelaire

In times of old when Nature in her glad excess 
Brought forth such living marvels as no more are seen, 
I should have loved to dwell with a young giantess, 
Like a voluptuous cat about the feet of a queen;


To run and laugh beside her in her terrible games, 
And see her grow each day to a more fearful size, 
And see the flowering of her soul, and the first flames 
Of passionate longing in the misty depths of her eyes;


To scale the slopes of her huge knees, explore at will
The hollows and the heights of her  and when, oppressed
By the long afternoons of summer, cloudless and still,


She would stretch out across the countryside to rest, 
I should have loved to sleep in the shadow of her breast, 
Quietly as a village nestling under a hill.


 George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)


----------



## ladle (Apr 14, 2009)

There once was a girl from nantucket....
:doh:


----------



## superodalisque (Apr 14, 2009)

ladle said:


> There once was a girl from nantucket....
> :doh:


 why didn't i think of that one?


----------



## ladle (Apr 14, 2009)

superodalisque said:


> why didn't i think of that one?



Well it is a bit high-brow...very few people have read the works


----------



## luscious_lulu (Apr 14, 2009)

mel said:


> My fav for over 20 years
> 
> by e e cummings
> ......................
> ...



That is very beautiful and (for me) poignant.


----------



## Captain Save (Apr 14, 2009)

Ah, a thread which has captured my imagination! I haven't read a lot of poetry (certainly not recently!) outside of researching lyrics to songs I hear; 'blaming it on the alcohol' not only antagonizes the grammar policeman who resides in me, it lowers my expectations for the generation following my own. Enough of my tirade; this is my favorite poem.

Charge of the Light Brigade
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.



"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.



Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.



Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.



Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.



When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!


----------



## mejix (Apr 18, 2009)

*Love After Love*
_Derek Walcott_

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.


----------



## Bafta1 (Apr 18, 2009)

QueenB said:


> one of them.
> 
> Walking Around by Neruda (translated by Bly)



One of my favorites too. I really love this poem! Thank you!


----------



## Bafta1 (Apr 18, 2009)

Another favorite... A poem for a traveller...

From the last stanza of Ulysses by Tennyson

Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


----------



## Carrie (Apr 18, 2009)

My favorite poem tends to vary, but this one tends to occupy a piece of my mind with pretty regular frequency. 



Robert Frost, "Out, Out-"

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap--
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all--
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart--
He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off--
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then--the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little--less--nothing!--and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.


----------



## mejix (Apr 18, 2009)

Carrie said:


> At the word, the saw,
> As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
> Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap--
> He must have given the hand. However it was,
> Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!



aaack this poem makes me cringe. i have this thing about electric saws. it is good though. thank you


----------



## Carrie (Apr 18, 2009)

mejix said:


> aaack this poem makes me cringe. i have this thing about electric saws. it is good though. thank you


See, but it's supposed to make the reader cringe at the awfulness of it all, which makes the last two lines even more powerful. He vividly paints this incredibly painful, violent, sad picture of the last moments of a young boy's life, and it's absolutely terrible, and then... the world keeps spinning, and they all go on with their lives. Because what else can you do? 

Someone just left me a great rep comment for this poem, saying something to the effect of never knowing Robert Frost was this dark, and I think that's what drew me to this poem. I remember my 11th grade English teacher announcing we were going to read Robert Frost, and thinking, "oh, great, more miles to go before I sleep nonsense" (which is actually another great poem, but at that point I'd heard it ad nauseum and, truthfully, didn't really get it), and then reading this poem and being blown away and completely rethinking my take on Frost. Now he gives me a poetic boner.


----------



## mejix (Apr 19, 2009)

Carrie said:


> See, but it's supposed to make the reader cringe at the awfulness of it all, which makes the last two lines even more powerful. He vividly paints this incredibly painful, violent, sad picture of the last moments of a young boy's life, and it's absolutely terrible, and then... the world keeps spinning, and they all go on with their lives. Because what else can you do?
> 
> Someone just left me a great rep comment for this poem, saying something to the effect of never knowing Robert Frost was this dark, and I think that's what drew me to this poem. I remember my 11th grade English teacher announcing we were going to read Robert Frost, and thinking, "oh, great, more miles to go before I sleep nonsense" (which is actually another great poem, but at that point I'd heard it ad nauseum and, truthfully, didn't really get it), and then reading this poem and being blown away and completely rethinking my take on Frost. Now he gives me a poetic boner.



you know in the original version of "mending fences" one of the neighbors picks up a rock, smashes the other's face and leaves him dead in the forest. 

just joking. yeah frost is dark. i think people were confused by his appearance and all the picturesque scenery. glad he gives you poetic boner. that should be the title of this thread. who gives you poetic boner?


*


----------



## Fascinita (Apr 19, 2009)

mejix said:


> you know in the original version of "mending fences" one of the neighbors picks up a rock, smashes the other's face and leaves him dead in the forest.



He's rescued by dwarves and brought to live in a little house in the forest. Later he's rescued by another neighbor, who happens to be the mayor of the village. They marry (it's Massachusetts) and exact their revenge on the one homicidal neighbor. It's all very uplifting in the end.


----------



## mejix (Apr 20, 2009)

Fascinita said:


> He's rescued by dwarves and brought to live in a little house in the forest. Later he's rescued by another neighbor, who happens to be the mayor of the village. They marry (it's Massachusetts) and exact their revenge on the one homicidal neighbor. It's all very uplifting in the end.



all this in folksy and wise verses


----------



## liz (di-va) (Apr 21, 2009)

I'm always about the Larkin...this one bouncing around the head a lot these days, esp the last stanza.

_Church Going_

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.


----------



## MuleVariationsNYC (Apr 21, 2009)

Nice Larkin, Ms. Diva. I don't always love dear Philip, but that poem was great. It reminds me of my favorite one of his:

_High Windows_

When I see a couple of kids
And guess he's fucking her and she's 
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives - 
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, _That'll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark

About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He 
And his lot will all go down the long slide 
Like free bloody birds._ And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless

-Feb. 12th, 1967


----------



## MuleVariationsNYC (Apr 21, 2009)

And while we're on the theme of religiously conflicted poems, this one has always had the ability to put me in a state of stunned awe.

_Carrion Comfort_

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist -- slack they may be-- these last strands of man
In me or, most weary, cry _I can no more._ I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

But ah, but O thou terrible, why woudst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay, in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)


----------



## alienlanes (Apr 21, 2009)

If it's Larkin time, I can't avoid:

_A Study Of Reading Habits_

When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my coat and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.


----------



## liz (di-va) (Apr 22, 2009)

Nice Larkinz!  I love both of those poems. And the Hopkins...I've read that through a couple times and am letting it digest. Like it.


----------



## Uriel (Apr 22, 2009)

No contest for me... he created the word Chortled!!! And, it gave we Gamer nerds the most awesome magic item ever, the Vorpal Sword.

Lewis Carroll

'Jabberwocky'


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


----------



## Carrie (Apr 23, 2009)

*Days We Would Rather Know*, Michael Blumenthal

There are days we would rather know
than these, as there is always, later,
a wife we would rather have married
than whom we did, in that severe nowness
time pushed, imperfectly, to then. Whether,
standing in the museum before Rembrandt's "Juno,"
we stand before beauty, or only before a consensus
about beauty, is a question that makes all beauty
suspect ... and all marriages. Last night,
leaves circled the base of the ginkgo as if
the sun had shattered during the night
into a million gold coins no one had the sense
to claim. And now, there are days we would
rather know than these, days when to stand
before beauty and before "Juno" are, convincingly,
the same, days when the shattered sunlight
seeps through the trees and the women we marry
stay interesting and beautiful both at once,
and their men. And though there are days
we would rather know than now, I am,
at heart, a scared and simple man. So I tighten
my arms around the woman I love, now
and imperfectly, stand before "Juno" whispering
beautiful beautiful until I believe it, and --
when I come home at night -- I run out
into the day's pale dusk with my broom
and my dustpan, sweeping the coins from the base
of the ginkgo, something to keep for a better tomorrow:
days we would rather know that never come.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Apr 24, 2009)

Hello Friends -

I've been digging through some of my old archives of Very Special Stuff, and I found this. It was given to me, initially, by a teacher friend, who found it in a '70s NEA magazine. I'm copying this in from a copy which doesn't have the name of the young girl who wrote it. I'm sure I have the original somewhere. If it turns up, I'll give proper credit.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I have over the years.
*
The Noise that Makes Things

There is a time when, if you stop and listen just so,
You might be able to hear the noise which makes things
seem so very quiet. It is not meant for people to say,
"There is a noise", or "Listen to that queer sound!"
It is the sort of noise that was meant for people to say,
"How calm and silent and glorious the evening is!"
Not everyone can hear these noises. Some people don't hear them;
Some people feel them or taste them. But no matter how these noises
Come to you, they are always lovely, and happy, and beautiful and joyful.
Always.

When one of these noises comes to you, it is yours - no one
Else is hearing or feeling or tasting that noise, except for you.
Some people might pretend to take it from you, but
They can't, really, because it is yours.

It is not hard to find these noises, for they are always about.
The hard part is to be able to keep them clear and clean.
They are very active and playful little things and they may
Lead you about mischievously now and then. But you mustn't
Be angry, for they are really very good.

Every so often, you might misplace your noise, and you won't
Be able to hear it, or taste it, or feel it, and you might
Become very sad. But it will really be there all the time,
Even though you don't think so.
If this happens, you must search very well and quickly for it,
And really want it back.
And soon it will come back to you and you will be very glad.
And so will it.
But you must be very careful and try not to lose it because
It won't do any good lost.

So, the next time you are doing something beautiful, or nice,
Like walking in the warm golden sun, or giving someone a gift,
Because you love them,
Or helping someone who is sad and confused
Because you love them,
Or floating a boat you made on a clear stream,
Or rolling down a hill, laughing 'til your head is spinning with joy,
Or dancing with someone to beautiful music
Because you love them,

Stop -

And you will hear or taste or feel the noise and you will know -
But you must be ever so quiet and
It might be very silent or sweet or soft,
But if you are silent or sweet or soft,
It will come to you, and you will know -​*
Author known, but name misplaced​
Incidentally, while Mrs Ho Ho has seen this many times, I am sharing it with her again, because she is home, recuperating from surgery yesterday. She is fine, but wishes for a speedy recovery are gratefully accepted.

And, yes, she has her noise back.


----------



## mejix (Apr 25, 2009)

didn't know about much about larkin but all you people made me curious. now i'm not so larkin-deficient. thank you "favorite poem thread"!

*Home is so Sad* 
by Philip Larkin

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was: 
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.


----------



## WomanlyHips (Apr 26, 2009)

Advice to a Girl


No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed;
Lay that on your heart,
My young angry dear;
This truth, this hard and precious stone,
Lay it on your hot cheek,
Let it hide your tear.
Hold it like a crystal
When you are alone
And gaze in the depths of the icy stone.
Long, look long and you will be blessed:
No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed. 

Sara Teasdale


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Apr 26, 2009)

mejix said:


> didn't know about much about larkin but all you people made me curious. now i'm not so larkin-deficient. thank you "favorite poem thread"!
> 
> *Home is so Sad*
> by Philip Larkin
> ...



This poem reminds me of the poor mechanical house in Ray Bradbury's story *"There will come soft rains"*, based on this Sara Teasdale poem (and lo! I see that Womanly Hips has just posted another Teasdale poem. You can read the Bradbury story in it's entirety at the link. 

Here is a brief excerpt:
"Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired, 'Who goes there? What's the password?" and, getting no answer from the only foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.
It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!
The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants, big, small, servicing, attending, in choirs. But the gods had gone away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly."

Here's Teasdale's work:

*"There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, 
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, 
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire, 
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one 
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, 
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn 
Would scarcely know that we were gone."*​


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Apr 26, 2009)

WomanlyHips said:


> Advice to a Girl
> 
> 
> No one worth possessing
> ...



How very true! Mrs Ho Ho and I have known each other: as partners, for 28 years; as friends for 25, and as lovers for over 20 (and our 19th anniversary is coming up on May 25.) But here is the paradox. There has never been a thought of either of us possessing the other. Yet, our relationship enfolds and possesses us both. We both interact broadly with the external world; yet, we never really leave the shelter of each other's arms. That relationship is a chalice which doesn't bind us tightly, but expands to include as much of the world as we wish it to.

Paradox? Well, maybe not. There is this quote:

"He drew a circle that shut me out-
Heretic , rebel, a thing to flout.
But love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle and took him In!"

From the poem "Outwitted "
 Edwin Markham


----------



## troubadours (Apr 26, 2009)

There is a whore in my apartment building: her room smells like dirty sex There's a man next door who reads the Times: his idea of a hero is a handjob and a beer There's a dog in that man's room: his name is Asshole and he smells like piss There is also a woman in that man's room: she cleans and gets fucked Across the courtyard a couple lives: He's an actor, she's an actress.


----------



## WomanlyHips (Apr 26, 2009)

Ho Ho Tai,

Thankoo


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Nov 21, 2009)

"No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but tis enough; you ask for me tomorrow; and you shall find me a grave man."

No, not me. Poor Mercutio, in Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet spoke those words. It is as good an introduction as any to this interesting website. introduced in "For poetry lovers, and haters" and linked through "Poets' Graves".

And, by the way, a reason to bump the poetry thread.

Enjoy!


----------



## steely (Nov 21, 2009)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Paradox? Well, maybe not. There is this quote:
> 
> "He drew a circle that shut me out-
> Heretic , rebel, a thing to flout.
> ...



This was the poem we had at grief counseling last week. I'm not exactly sure how it was supposed to help but I found it to be meaningful.


----------



## Bafta1 (Nov 21, 2009)

By posting this poem, I'm putting my soul on the table a little. This is a poem by a Yiddish poet called Moyshe-Leyb Halpern. Anyone who has ever suffered from depression may appreciate it. It's personal to me because the translation is my own.

***

I Say to Myself

Moyshe-Leyb Halpern

Must you stand here by the window?
Go down into the street below!

The street is for merchants and those 
Who measure time with financial-grows;
The street is for trains that fly--
fly like birds--fast, low and high;
The street is for children and a feline duet
Who jump and leap like fish in a net;
The street is for drunkards
Who wobble grayly in herds,
Who throw days to the wind,
To be but buffoons--chagrined.

Shave yourself; Brush yourself down,
Get yourself to the coffee house in town.

And sit around with them, like a fool,
As though I were a Turk in a pool?
Each man climbing higher and higher,
Beating each other--all they do is perspire.
They sit--each with their own story threads--
With dusty brooms hanging over their heads.
And talking... all they do is talk...
About themselves, their wives, and of sex do they squawk.
And sleeping... All they do is sleep...
Their heads on a table, in all but a heap.

Buy flowers and knock on that door,
Where your hosts are now waiting, for sure!

What do I care for a privileged man's pride?
Those empty, wood faces--I cannot abide!
What do I care for such screaming riches?
For velvet? For silk? Or anything that flashes?
What do I care for that fire that burns
With a hand full of diamonds? ...These aren't my concerns.
What do I care for love, or for lust?
What's there to learn from a full naked bust?
What do I care for riches that snigger
at longing or thought.

The world is big, outside of this town,
Why don't you go and wander around?

I know that the world has wonders to yield,
And that rich is the forest, the woods, and the field,
But somehow I just can't put one step ahead
of the other towards all the wonders you've said.
But neither can I stay here all day long
because staying here is hard: I just don't belong.
Nu, I'll live... and a miracle I'll await,
But living I'll waste away and stagnate.
languishing, lost, mute and dumb,
in the hell that surrounds me, all darkness and glum.


----------



## Astarte (Nov 22, 2009)

* On Children*
_ Kahlil Gibran_

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.


--
I hope this is already posted in this thread (it should be here a dozen times) but sorry for the repetition.


----------



## MatthewB (Nov 22, 2009)

*This Be the Verse*
Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.​


----------



## Astarte (Nov 22, 2009)

This poem is one that defines what the nightless night of Finnish summer is all about. It's really beautiful piece, the translation doesn't make it justice. But still I have to post it 'cause I love poetry and the works I've read and loved aren't originally written in English. 

***

*Nocturne*
_Eino Leino_
_translated by Aina Swan Cutler_

I hear the evening cornbird calling.

Moonlight floods the fields of tasseled grain.

Wood smoke, drifting veils the distant valleys.

Summer evening's joy is here for me.

I'm not happy yet no sorrow shakes me,

but the dark woods stillness I would welcome.

Rosy clouds through which the day is falling,

sleepy breezes from the blue gray mountains,

shadows on the water, meadow flowers...

out of these my heart's own song I'll make!

I will sing it, summer hay-sweet maiden,

sing to you my deep serenity,

my own faith that sounds a swelling music,

oak-leaf garland ever fresh and green.

I'll no longer chase the will-o-wisp.

Happiness is here in my own keeping.

Day by day, life's circle narrows, closes.

Time stands still now ... weather cocks all sleeping.

Here before me lies a shadowy way

leading to a strange, an unknown place.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Nov 22, 2009)

Astarte said:


> This poem is one that defines what the nightless night of Finnish summer is all about. It's really beautiful piece, the translation doesn't make it justice. But still I have to post it 'cause I love poetry and the works I've read and loved aren't originally written in English.
> 
> ***
> 
> ...



Astarte -

Years ago, my oldest son - then 17, now in his 40s - went to Europe, just after his high school graduation. He worked on a tulip bulb farm, saved his money, bought a ten-speed bike and pedaled off. Traveling the northern tier of Europe, he eventually got to the Scandinavian countries. From there, he took a ferry to Finland, with the intent of pedaling to Northern Finland to see a girl he had known in high school.

Too cocky and proud to wire his parents for money, he ran flat out three days from his destination. Sweaty, dressed only in shorts and sneakers, he stopped at a Finnish gas station/restaurant, hoping to refill his water bottles. The woman who ran the place noticed him, saw him take out what was his last crust of bread, choking it down as he walked to the door.

He spoke no Finnish; she no English. But she sensed what was wrong, grabbed him by the shoulders, marched him to the counter, and made it clear that he was to sit there. She started bringing out food, food, and more food, which he gobbled up as fast as she could bring it out.

He was finally filled up, but that wasn't enough for the owner of the restaurant. She packed his panniers with even more robust Finnish goodies - enough to carry him the final three days to his destination.

He was, and is, a resourceful kid. He probably would have been OK, one way or another. But I personally feel a debt of gratitude to that woman. I will never meet her, so the only way I can repay it is to tell this story of Finnish hospitality to every Finn I meet.

For all I know, you may be that woman - or perhaps, the girl, now grown up, that he set out to meet. Did you ever go to school in Minnesota?


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Nov 30, 2009)

I was leafing through an old book of poetry last night and encountered this poem by Rudyard Kipling. By coincidence, my morning e-mail contained an open letter to President Obama, by Michael Moore. This was the incentive to send the following message, and poem, to the president.

Friends -


I just submitted this letter to President Obama, via the communication link at www.whitehouse.gov.


President Barack Obama

Dear President Obama


I am 72 years old. This poem was commonly taught - even memorized - when I was in school. Regrettably, I had forgotten about it until encountering it again, just last night.


Please read it. Then look deep into your own heart, consult with your dear wife, Michelle, listen to the hopes and dreams of the American People.


Then tell us of your decisions.


Sincerely,


[deleted for this post]


If

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!


----------



## cyrades86 (Nov 30, 2009)

My favorite poem is called "Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae" it is by Ernest Dowson... One of the lines in the poem is where Margret Mitchell got the title for "Gone with the wind".... Its a really beautiful poem 

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for thelips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee Cynara! in my fashion.


----------



## Astarte (Dec 3, 2009)

This is my most recent favorite poem. I'd like to hear your gentle opinions about it as it isn't written in my first language. :blush:

***

*I'd rather be moon*
_Astarte_

I'd rather be moon in the nightly sky
waxing and waning in the beholders eye
But what the gazer wouldn't know
through all these phases I'd always be whole.

I'd rather be moon in the nightly sky
tenderly guarding the world at night
Always distant, alone and adrift
still I would make all oceans to shift.

I'd rather be moon in the nightly sky
shying away in the morning tide
Never shining myself, but yet I'd be
reflecting the light of those greater then me.

***

(Yikes, this is quite scary... I'll hit the submit button before I get cold feet.)


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 3, 2009)

Astarte said:


> This is my most recent favorite poem. I'd like to hear your gentle opinions about it as it isn't written in my first language. :blush:
> 
> ***
> 
> ...



Astarte -
The system won't let me rep you - too soon since last time - so I'll have to do it the hard (and public) way.

If your feet are cold, just warm them up on this: the poem is absolutely lovely. The first thing I did was relay it to Mrs Ho Ho (though she hasn't seen it yet.)

We make a kind of big deal out of the moon at our house, partially because of my life-long interest in all things astronomical, partly because we are lovers and that's what lovers do, partially because the moon is so gorgeous and such a gift to the earth (born from the earth's own agonies, like Eve from Adam's rib, if current theories are correct.) We don't actually impute any mystic powers to the moon. The magic is the poetry it summons forth - in us, and in you.

We live in a townhouse, backing to the east into a wetlands. It is full of birches and poplars. I tell Mrs Ho Ho that the trees have a date to go dancing in the moonlight, whenever the moon is high over the swamp. (We sometimes 'go dancing' on our east-facing deck, when all the neighbors are asleep. 'Moonbaths' are good for the body and soul.)

We also have a condo, high over Lake Superior. On clear nights, we watch the moon's traverse over the waters, it's reflection taking on the character of the water, reveling in the beauty we find there, and in the beauty we find in each other.

With your permission, I will print your poem (along with your handle - lovely, by the way), frame it, and hang it near the window.

I'm sure that the moon will be pleased.

I hope your feet are now warm.






" MOONLIGHT EMBRACE "
JAMES LUMBERS​


----------



## minerva (Dec 3, 2009)

I agree with Ho Ho Tai - I think your poem is absolutely lovely. There are a couple of places where the syntax and/or rhythm pulls me back out of your gorgeous imagery just a touch - I think that's just a language thing. If you'd like, I can PM you my minor (hopefully constructive) critique - but, basically, I think you've managed to distill the contained mystery of the moon into verse. Well done!


----------



## Astarte (Dec 4, 2009)

minerva said:


> I agree with Ho Ho Tai - I think your poem is absolutely lovely. There are a couple of places where the syntax and/or rhythm pulls me back out of your gorgeous imagery just a touch - I think that's just a language thing. If you'd like, I can PM you my minor (hopefully constructive) critique - but, basically, I think you've managed to distill the contained mystery of the moon into verse. Well done!



Thank you, and thank you Ho Ho Tai for your kind words.  You have my permission to print it. You warmed my heart along with my feet.

If you would help me, I'd be thankful. I have little concept of English literature and poetry, so any help with the rhythm and such would be appreciated.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 4, 2009)

I have been exchanging e-mail with a group of friends 'of a certain age', planning a get-together, some day, some where. I decided that a section of my last reply would work here also.

*********************************************************

It occurred to me that we are right in the middle of an old song by Joni Mitchell, "Songs to Aging Children Come". I'll paste in the lyrics in just a moment, but first, a bit of explanation.

I first encountered the song when a group of close friends (all 'aging children' themselves) went off to see the newly released "Alice's Restaurant". I won't sketch out the plot - pretty sure you are familiar with it. But this group of hippies, living in an old church, loses one of their own in a motorcycle accident. Burying him on the cheap, they load his pine box into an old pick-up and take him to a burial grounds where they can dig the grave. They lower the box, then stand around tossing flowers onto the coffin, while one of them plays "Aging Children" on her guitar.

To this day, I don't understand all of the back story to the lyrics, but I didn't have to. I was sobbing by the time she finished, my 35 y.o self thoroughly identifying with the concept. I bought the record and played it over and over, until, finally, I could listen to it without breaking out in tears. (I'm still not entirely immune - my eyes are wet as I type this.) When we finally get together (place and time unspecified) you will probably have to tolerate a repetition or two. Goes best with wine, by the way.
*
Songs to Aging Children Come
Joni Mitchell


Through the windless wells of wonder
By the throbbing light machine
In a tea leaf trance or under
Orders from the king and queen

Songs to aging children come
Aging children, I am one

People hurry by so quickly
Don't they hear the melodies
In the chiming and the clicking
And the laughing harmonies

Songs to aging children come
Aging children, I am one

Some come dark and strange like dying
Crows and ravens whistling
Lines of weeping, strings of crying
So much said in listening

Songs to aging children come
Aging children, I am one

Does the moon play only silver
When it strums the galaxy
Dying roses will they will their
Perfumed rhapsodies to me

Songs to aging children came
This is one*​

In this last stanza, she substituted "This is one" for "Aging Children, I am one", playing a guitar bridge between lines, as she choked up. That was the point where I lost it.


----------



## mejix (Dec 5, 2009)

"he wishes for the cloths of heaven" the meh version

 "he wishes for the cloths of heaven" with a little bit of syrup 

"he wishes for the cloths of heaven" drowned in syrup and pushed over a cliff


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 13, 2009)

mejix said:


> "he wishes for the cloths of heaven" the meh version
> 
> "he wishes for the cloths of heaven" with a little bit of syrup
> 
> "he wishes for the cloths of heaven" drowned in syrup and pushed over a cliff



I'm a total sucker for anything Yeats. It is to my discredit that I was familiar only with the last two lines of the poem:

"I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. "

My sound card is kaput at the moment, so I was not able to do more than view the graphics. The first link gave me the image of a young woman of Yeats' time. Another gave me a hint of the back story - a long term, but unrequited, love affair. Reminded me of Leos Janacek (look up the book "Intimate Letters".)

Ah, the lengths that love will drive a man to! And that, even as I typed it, reminded me of some lines from the Star Trek episode "Requiem for Methusela". At the end, McCoy is attempting to explain Kirk's angst to Spock:
McCoy: [to Spock] You see, I feel sorrier for you than I do for him
[referring to Kirk]
McCoy: , because you'll never know the things that love can drive a man to. The ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures and the glorious victories. All of these things you'll never know, simply because the word "love" isn't written into your book. Good night, Spock. I do wish he could forget her."

This followed by what may be the most touching scene in all of S.T. and it's successors. After McCoy has said his piece, Spock moves to Kirk (who has his head on his hands in emotional turmoil) places his hands on Kirk's head and utters one word: "Forget".


----------



## MizzSnakeBite (Dec 13, 2009)

Some People Fly

Used to be a time
we held the world.
Wrapped 'round our finger tips
Laughing at what others missed. Someday, yesterday
The magic we felt went away.
Grow up somebody said... tell me where it's gone
so I can go find it now. I can't live your way.
Go ahead without me.
I'll find my own way

Some people fly... and some of us worry about touching
the sun with wings. I know if I try I'll get where I'm
going,
Keeping my eyes on the sky.

The box you live within is strong and it's up to you
to see beyond the comfort zone you've grown to love.
There's more to life than that. The expectations
that you hold will keep you down and make you old
If you can't see what I'm trying to say, maybe you just
need to wear my shoes for awhile. I can't live your way.
Go ahead without me.
I'll find my own way

Some people fly...and some of us worry
I'd risk it all to have wings.
I know if I try I'll get where I'm going,
Keeping my eyes on the sky.

While you sit there and think about it, there's another
unfolding their wings. I can tell you what it's like, but,
until you try, you'll never see what I mean.

Some people fly...and some of us worry
I'll touch the sky with my wings.
I know if I try I'll get where I'm going,
Keeping my eyes on the sky.
Keeping my eyes, keeping my eyes on the sky.

Author Unknown

I love all of this poem and on different days different lines are more meaningful or touch my heart more.
Mizz


----------



## mejix (Dec 17, 2009)

pioneers! o pioneers!


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 17, 2009)

MizzSnakeBite said:


> Some People Fly
> 
> 
> The box you live within is strong and it's up to you
> ...



"Come to the edge", he said.
They said "We are afraid."
"Come to the edge", he said.
They came.
He pushed them - and they flew!
Authorship disputed


----------



## MizzSnakeBite (Dec 17, 2009)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> "Come to the edge", he said.
> They said "We are afraid."
> "Come to the edge", he said.
> They came.
> ...



Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh...........I like............for some silly reason I have a thing for poems with flying and wings involved.


----------



## NancyGirl74 (Dec 17, 2009)

Here are two I love (I didn't want to search the whole thread so if they are repeats I apologize).

*i carry your heart with me *

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) 

*ee cummings*



*In and Out of Time*

The sun has come. 
The mist has gone. 
We see in the distance... 
our long way home. 
I was always yours to have. 
You were always mine. 
We have loved each other in and out of time. 
When the first stone looked up at the blazing sun 
and the first tree struggled up from the forest floor 
I had always loved you more. 
You freed your braids... 
gave your hair to the breeze. 
It hummed like a hive of honey bees. 
I reached in the mass for the sweet honey comb there.... 
God...how I love your hair. 
You saw me bludgeoned by circumstance. 
Lost, injured, hurt by chance. 
I screamed to the heavens....loudly screamed.... 
Trying to change our nightmares to dreams... 
The sun has come. 
The mist has gone. 
We see in the distance our long way home. 
I was always yours to have. 
You were always mine. 
We have loved each other in and out 
in and out 
in and out 
of time. 

*Maya Angelou*


----------



## Noir (Dec 18, 2009)

As cliche as it is. The City in the Sea by Edgar Allen Poe. I have always liked the pictures he paints with his words

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne 
In a strange city lying alone 
Far down within the dim West, 
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best 
Have gone to their eternal rest. 
There shrines and palaces and towers 
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) 
Resemble nothing that is ours. 
Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 
No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town; 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently- 
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free- 
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls- 
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls- 
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers- 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 
So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air, 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 

There open fanes and gaping graves 
Yawn level with the luminous waves; 
But not the riches there that lie 
In each idol's diamond eye- 
Not the gaily-jewelled dead 
Tempt the waters from their bed; 
For no ripples curl, alas! 
Along that wilderness of glass- 
No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far-off happier sea- 
No heavings hint that winds have been 
On seas less hideously serene. 

But lo, a stir is in the air! 
The wave- there is a movement there! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 
In slightly sinking, the dull tide- 
As if their tops had feebly given 
A void within the filmy Heaven. 
The waves have now a redder glow- 
The hours are breathing faint and low- 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 
Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
Shall do it reverence.


----------



## Carrie (Dec 18, 2009)

I love this thread. I can't be the only complete word-nerd here who reads some of these poems and gets goosebumps and/or tears up a little, right?


*Love's Secret*, by William Blake

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.


----------



## PYT_bigandbeautiful (Dec 18, 2009)

"Planet Earth, my home, my place
A capricious anomaly in the sea of space
Planet Earth, are you just
Floating by, a cloud of dust
A minor globe, about to bust
A piece of metal bound to rust
A speck of matter in a mindless void
A lonely spaceship, a large asteroid

Cold as a rock without a hue
Held together with a bit of glue
Something tells me this isn't true
You are my sweetheart, soft and blue
Do you care, have you a part
In the deepest emotions of my own heart
Tender with breezes, caressing and whole
Alive with music, haunting my soul.

In my veins I've felt the mystery
Of corridors of time, books of history
Life songs of ages throbbing in my blood
Have danced the rhythm of the tide and flood
Your misty clouds, your electric storm

Were turbulent tempests in my own form
I've licked the salt, the bitter, the sweet
Of every encounter, of passion, of heat
Your riotous color, your fragrance, your taste
Have thrilled my senses beyond all haste

In your beauty I've known the how
Of timeless bliss, this moment of now.

Planet Earth, are you just
Floating by, a cloud of dust
A minor globe, about to bust
A piece of metal bound to rust
A speck of matter in a mindless void
A lonely spaceship, a large asteroid

Cold as a rock without a hue
Held together with a bit of glue
Something tells me this isn't true
You are my sweetheart, soft and blue
Do you care, have you a part
In the deepest emotions of my own heart
Tender with breezes, caressing and whole
Alive with music, haunting my soul.

Planet Earth, gentle and blue
With all my heart, I love you."


----------



## mergirl (Dec 18, 2009)

Oh what a great thread!! 

I love Plath and this verse in particular from 'Elm':

"Is it the sea you hear in me? 
Its dissatisfactions? 
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?"


I Love Anne sexton-Who said Of Sylvia Plath that she "stole her death".. This is one of her poems that i love:

The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator

The end of the affair is always death. 
She's my workshop. Slippery eye, 
out of the tribe of myself my breath 
finds you gone. I horrify 
those who stand by. I am fed. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 

Finger to finger, now she's mine. 
She's not too far. She's my encounter. 
I beat her like a bell. I recline 
in the bower where you used to mount her. 
You borrowed me on the flowered spread. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 

Take for instance this night, my love, 
that every single couple puts together 
with a joint overturning, beneath, above, 
the abundant two on sponge and feather, 
kneeling and pushing, head to head. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 

I break out of my body this way, 
an annoying miracle. Could I 
put the dream market on display? 
I am spread out. I crucify. 
My little plum is what you said. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 

Then my black-eyed rival came. 
The lady of water, rising on the beach, 
a piano at her fingertips, shame 
on her lips and a flute's speech. 
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 

She took you the way a women takes 
a bargain dress off the rack 
and I broke the way a stone breaks. 
I give back your books and fishing tack. 
Today's paper says that you are wed. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 

The boys and girls are one tonight. 
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. 
They take off shoes. They turn off the light. 
The glimmering creatures are full of lies. 
They are eating each other. They are overfed. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed.


----------



## PhatChk (Dec 18, 2009)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost


Whose woods these are I think I know. 
His house is in the village, though; 
He will not see me stopping here 
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer 
To stop without a farmhouse near 
Between the woods and frozen lake 
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake 
To ask if there's some mistake. 
The only other sound's the sweep 
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 
But I have promises to keep, 
And miles to go before I sleep, 
And miles to go before I sleep.​
Its funny I first heared this poem in the show Rosewell. But I fell in love with it. And when things get tough I always recite the last verse over and over to keep my self going and moving forward.


----------



## JoyJoy (Dec 18, 2009)

I know this poem ranks up there as one of the most often to have a cheesy webpage created for it, but I grew up with it hanging on my grandmother's wall, and now have the same wood plaque hanging on my wall. I've read it so many times over the years that sometimes I forget how wonderful and timeless it's message is, in spite of the cheesiness and cliche attached to it:

*Desiderata*
(translation: Things to be desired)

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.


----------



## smithnwesson (Dec 18, 2009)

PhatChk said:


> Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
> Robert Frost
> 
> 
> ...



Great choice!

My favorite is _Dust of Snow_ also by Robert Frost

*The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part 
Of a day I had rued. *

- Jim


----------



## ThatFatGirl (Dec 18, 2009)

My lovefest with the husband-wife duo Ellery is hugely based on singer/songwriter Tasha Golden's gift of words. They're song lyrics, but poetry to me. These are two favorites.


Lay Your Head Down

Lay your head down dear
There's no sorrow here
Only time for letting go
And room for landing light as snow
The gentle daylight fading slow
My murmur soft and whisper low
So lay your head down
So lay your head down

Lay your head down dear
There's no sorrow here
Only time for starry skies
And room for long and languid sighs
A gentle dream to close your eyes
A night to fall, a moon to rise
So lay your head down
So lay your head down

Lay your head down dear
There's no sorrow here
Only time for falling in
And room for shadows dark and dim
A gentle song to soft begin
Your breathing out, your breathing in
So lay your head down
So lay your head down


Darling Don't Be Frightened

Darling, don't be frightened
There are beacons in your bones
And when they shine it's warm and light
Like summer days back home
You're worried that you might be
Left as dull and dark as stone
But if you are, then darling,
What a wonder to have shone

Darling, don't be frightened
There are skies under your skin
In a wide array of white and gray
On wild winter winds
And every still and silent night they pray
That day will come again
But if it won't then darling
Something else will soon begin

Darling, don't be frightened
There's a sea down in your soul
As deep as earth is wide,
As soft and kind as earth is old
Such an ocean, when it finds you
Well it might swallow you whole
But if it does, then darling
What a lovely way to go
If it does then darling
What a lovely way to go


----------



## mergirl (Dec 18, 2009)

JoyJoy said:


> Beyond a wholesome discipline,
> be gentle with yourself.
> You are a child of the universe
> no less than the trees and the stars;
> ...


 
I had heard of it before but it it a good one to be reminded of.
I love it all especially this verse.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 5, 2010)

Friends -

This poem was published in the Minnesota DNR "Volunteer", a little jewel of a magazine that I have subscribed to just about forever. The poem was written by a young man - a teenager - from the midwest. I was astonished both by the quality of the writing, the form of the poem, and the intensity of the emotion. I knew I had to share it.

I contacted a representative at the DNR who, in turn, contacted the author. Both gave me complete permission to share it with you. Read the poem, but also go to the link. There is a lovely water color illustration there as well.

*Grandpa . . .*

Gramps worked hard till the day he died.
I was in New York playing hockey.
I was playing for Team Minnesota, excited and unaware of
what was happening back at home.
He lay on his deathbed catching crappies with me.

I was in New York playing hockey.
Grandpa's hands in the air, casting his fishing pole.
He lay on his deathbed catching crappies with me.
The calm nights on the lake with Grandma, showing the
pros how to catch 'em in their 10-foot aluminum rowboat.

Grandpa's hands in the air, casting his fishing pole.
I would have given my life to be fishing with Grandpa that night.
The calm nights on the lake with Grandma, showing the
pros how to catch 'em in their 10-foot aluminum rowboat.
I score my first goal after a few frustrating days on the team.

I would have given my life to be fishing with Grandpa that night.
Sitting in my dorm in Rochester, New York, I get a phone call
telling me my grandpa had passed away the previous night.
I score my first goal after a few frustrating days on the team.
I was not able to bring Gramps fishing one last time.

Sitting in my dorm in Rochester, New York, I get a phone call
telling me my grandpa had passed away the previous night.
Gramps lay on his deathbed catching crappies with me.
I was not able to bring Gramps fishing one last time.
Grandpa lay on his deathbed catching crappies with me.

Anthony M. Palkki
dedicated to Clinton H. Olin​
I am a grandpa too, with five grand (and I do mean Grand) kids, ranging from a year to nine years tomorrow. This grandpa was never much good at catching stuff in the water, or hauling guns through the woods. When the kids are a bit older, we'll get into chess and checkers, and I hope, some of my old favorite books - totally irrelevant to this age of kids born knowing more electronics than I ever learned.

My thing is biking. I posted elsewhere about a recent ride with my 44 y.o. son, full of nostalgia and memories. I have pictures of the whole pack, on their bikes, ready to hit the trail (although not for a few years yet.) I have taken a few short (3-5 mile) rides with my oldest, riding the bike I bought him just last year. 

When I lay on my deathbed, I won't be catching crappies. I'll be listening to the swish of tires and chains, to the wind, the birds, and the cries of delight when the kids spot some critter that they don't see in the city. Mrs Ho Ho will be there too, my constant riding companion. Her red cheeks and flying hair are more beautiful than the birds and flowers. With her powerful legs, she is always the leader of the pack.

I don't know what happens to folks, or where they go, when they die. I hope there is a waiting area where grandpas can finish their cigars and tell their stories, with a corner (well away from the cigars) where the grandmas will put the final touches on their knitting and tell their own stories. I'd like to think that we can wait there for the little while it will take for our loved ones to rejoin us. And then we will be off down the trail again, legs pumping away at a 60 cadence. With Mrs Ho Ho beside me, I could keep up that cadence forever.

I have been meaning to post this for some time now and never quite got around to it. It has suddenly become more urgent. Despite having a high level of fitness for a 72 year old, a CAT scan revealed that the cause of my occasional shortness of breath is probably some coronary artery blockage. I'm due for angiography in a few hours and we'll just have to see what happens then.

I don't think that this will be my last message to you, not by a darn sight. But it may be the last for a little while. Mrs Ho Ho will keep our friends, on and off-board, posted on our progress.


----------



## lozonloz (Mar 5, 2010)

Woo! Poetry Thread I didnt know about.

My fav is Wild Geese by Mary Oliver. Whenever I feel down it reminds me of what an amazing place the world is.

*Wild Geese 

You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 
You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves. 
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 
Meanwhile the world goes on. 
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 
are moving across the landscapes, 
over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers. 
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 
are heading home again. 
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things. *


----------



## Micara (Mar 5, 2010)

Yay for this thread!

We read this in high school, and it always stuck with me. 

*Barbie Doll *
by Marge Piercy


*This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs. 

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs. 

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up. 

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending. *


----------



## lozonloz (Mar 5, 2010)

Also, this would probably be my favourite poem if I was a guy. I've always really liked it, even though it doesnt apply to me much, being a girl. But I love the image it gives me, its sweet and endearing and funny.

*A Puppy Called Puberty

It was like keeping a puppy in your underpants
A secret puppy you weren't allowed to show to anyone
Not even your best friend or your worst enemy

You wanted to pat him, stroke him, cuddle him
All the time you weren't supposed to touch him.

He only slept for five minutes at a time
Then he'd suddenly perk up his head
In the middle of school medical inspection
And always on bus rides.

So you had to climb down from the upper deck
All bent double to smuggle the puppy off the bus
Without the buxom conductress spotting
Your wicked and ticketless stowaway.

Jumping up, wet-nosed, eagerly wagging-
He only stopped being a nuisance
When you were alone together
Pretending to be doing your homework
But really gazing at each other
Through hot and laxy daydreams.

Of those beautiful schoolgirls on the bus
With kittens bouncing in their sweaters.

By Adrian Mitchell*

And last but not least, by two favourite comic poems by Carol Ann Duffy:
*
Frau Freud

Ladies, for argument’s sake, let us say
that I’ve seen my fair share of ding-a-ling, member and jock,
of todger and nudger and percy and cock, of tackle,
of three-for-a-bob, of willy and winky; in fact,
you could say, I’m as au fait with Hunt-the-Salami
as Ms. M. Lewinsky - equally sick up to here
with the beef bayonet, the pork sword, the saveloy,
love-muscle, night-crawler, dong, the dick, prick,
dipstick and wick, the rammer, the slammer, the rupert,
the shlong. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve no axe to grind
with the snake in the trousers, the wife’s best friend,
the weapon, the python - I suppose what I mean is,
ladies, dear ladies, the average penis - not pretty…
the squint of its envious solitary eye…one’s feeling of
pity…*

And:
*
Mrs Icarus

I’m not the first or the last
to stand on a hillock,
watching the man she married
prove to the world
he’s a total, utter, absolute Grade A pillock.*

I don't totally agree with the sentiment but they always make me giggle.


----------



## LovelyLiz (Mar 5, 2010)

I've only just begun to get into Neruda's poetry...I'm a latecomer to the Neruda party (also, I tend to read more prose than poetry). But this poem sealed my love for him...

*So That You Will Hear Me*, Pablo Neruda

So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.

Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.

And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.

Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.

Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.

The wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual.
Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over.
You listen to other voices in my painful voice.

Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications.
Love me, companion. Don't forsake me. Follow me.
Follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish.

But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.

I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.


----------



## mejix (Mar 5, 2010)

sending positive thoughts to Ho Ho land. hope to see you back soon!




Ho Ho Tai said:


> Friends -
> 
> This poem was published in the Minnesota DNR "Volunteer", a little jewel of a magazine that I have subscribed to just about forever. The poem was written by a young man - a teenager - from the midwest. I was astonished both by the quality of the writing, the form of the poem, and the intensity of the emotion. I knew I had to share it.
> 
> ...


----------



## NYCGabriel (Mar 5, 2010)

anything by lord byron, baudelair or EE cummings


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 6, 2010)

mejix said:


> sending positive thoughts to Ho Ho land. hope to see you back soon!



Thanks mejix -

I'm back, still pretty hale and hearty. A bit of an issue spotted by the test, but something handle-able by a few diet tweaks and probably some statins. 

I sent out a description by e-mail to friends and family. I think I will post a version of it on the health thread. I'll probably be banned for life because I may do a bit of finger-wagging in the faces of some of our lovely young ladies who just know they will live forever.


----------



## MizzSnakeBite (Mar 6, 2010)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Thanks mejix -
> 
> I'm back, still pretty hale and hearty. A bit of an issue spotted by the test, but something handle-able by a few diet tweaks and probably some statins.
> 
> I sent out a description by e-mail to friends and family. I think I will post a version of it on the health thread. *I'll probably be banned for life because I may do a bit of finger-wagging in the faces of some of our lovely young ladies who just know they will live forever.*



HAHAHHAHAHHAHA! 

Pretty soon they'll come to realize they're not immortal. 

Glad you came through it well!


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 6, 2010)

mcbeth said:


> I've only just begun to get into Neruda's poetry...I'm a latecomer to the Neruda party (also, I tend to read more prose than poetry). But this poem sealed my love for him...
> 
> *So That You Will Hear Me*, Pablo Neruda
> 
> ...



mcbeth -

There are quite a few references to Neruda here, both within and without the poetry thread. I posted this one nearly four years ago, probably crying as I did so. The story of Peter Leiberson and his (now deceased) wife, Lorraine Hunt Leiberson revolves around a set of songs he wrote for his wife, using the poetry of Pablo Neruda. In my view, it is one of the great love stories of all time. Take a look at it and then search out other posts, both on Neruda and the Leibersons.

That post falls within a thread entitled "What is Love" from July 2006. Follow the link and you will find each example of Neruda highlighted.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 6, 2010)

lozonloz said:


> Also, this would probably be my favourite poem if I was a guy. I've always really liked it, even though it doesnt apply to me much, being a girl. But I love the image it gives me, its sweet and endearing and funny.
> 
> *A Puppy Called Puberty
> 
> ...



Heh! Heh! Boy, do I remember that! I was a newspaper carrier from ages 10 to 16 - smack dab in the middle of that period of life. In those days (late '40s and early '50s) we went around to our customers to collect for the week's delivery. Most of them paid with whatever they could find under the sofa cushions. Then we had to take the bus downtown to pay the newspaper company for the papers we bought from them. (That's how it worked. We bought the papers wholesale and sold them to the customers retail. That way, the newspaper company could maintain the fiction that we were independent business men.)

After garnering a coinpurse full of nickels and dimes, it was off to downtown on that fearsome bus. And, despite my best efforts not to look at those gals up front, or to remember some passing cutie at school, I'd wind up with a huge erection (in my old age, I think "Ah, if only . . .") made worse by every bump and pot hole. At the downtown stop, cheeks blazing, news sack, held in front, only partially disguising my plight, I'd try to sneak out the back door of the bus, unseen. Never worked, of course. My rosy cheeks may as well have been a neon sign.

Ah, those were the days, though I didn't know it at the time.


----------



## mejix (May 25, 2010)

Smell of autumn
Heart longs
For the four-mat room. 

_Basho_





How clear and sweet
The water of the mountain to 
An evening pilgrim

_Kamio Kumiko_





Where there are humans
You'll find flies, 
And Buddhas. 

_Kobayashi Issa_





Fallen leaves--
Raking, 
Yet not raking. 

_Taigi_


----------



## Blackjack_Jeeves (May 26, 2010)

*John Keats  Bright Star*

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like natures patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earths human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-
No- yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair loves ripening breast,
To feel forever its soft fall and swell.
Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever  or else swoon to death.

*Matt Dubois  Love Defined*

What is love, but an emotion,
So strong and so pure,
That nurtured and shared with another
All tests it will endure?

What is love, but a force
To bring the mighty low,
With the strength to shame the mountains
And halt times ceaseless flow?

What is love, but a triumph,
A glorious goal attained,
The union of two souls, two hearts
A bond the angels have ordained?

What is love, but a champion,
To cast the tyrant from his throne,
And raise the flag of truth and peace,
And fear of death oerthrow?

What is love, but a beacon,
To guide the wayward heart,
A blazing light upon the shoals
That dash cherished dreams apart?

And what is love, but forever,
Eternal and sincere,
A flame that through wax and wane
Will outlive lifes brief years?

So Ill tell it on the mountaintops,
In all places high and low,
That love for you is my reason to be,
And will never break or bow.

~~Far better than my own. As I don't write well enough for my own tastes, I've often searched for poetry as it suited me. These are some of my findings.


----------



## mejix (Jun 30, 2010)

i never read long poems online but i kinda sorta liked this one. most of it anyway. 

*On Living * 
by Nazim Hikmet
Translated by Mutlu Konuk and Randy Blasing

I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example--
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people--
even for people whose faces you've never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees--
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don't believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II

Let's say we're seriously ill, need surgery--
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it's impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we'll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we'll look out the window to see if it's raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast. . . 
Let's say we're at the front--
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We'll know this with a curious anger,
but we'll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let's say we're in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We'll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind--
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.

III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet--
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even 
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space . . . 
You must grieve for this right now
--you have to feel this sorrow now--
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say "I lived". . .


----------



## CastingPearls (Jun 30, 2010)

Dean Koontz from the Book of Counted Sorrows

Untitled


We have a weight to carry
and a distance we must go.

We have a weight to carry,
a destination we can't know.

We have a weight to carry
and can put it down nowhere.

We are the weight we carry
from there to here to there.


----------



## snuggletiger (Jun 30, 2010)

as attributed to Muhammad Ali in the film WHEN WE WERE KINGS

ME
WE


----------



## mejix (Aug 5, 2010)

_from_ *The Last Bus*
by Nazim Hikmet

The great dark is closing in.
Now neither the seer's pride nor the scribe's claptrap.
I'm pouring bowls of light over my head,
I can look at the sun and not be blinded.
An perhaps- what a pity-
the most beautiful lie
will no longer seduce me.
Words can't make me drunk anymore,
neither mine nor anyone else's.
That's how it goes, my rose.
Death now is awfully close.
The world is more beautiful than ever.
The world that was my suit of clothes,
I started undressing.
I was at the window of a train,
now I'm at the station.
I was inside the house,
now I'm at the door- it's open.
I love the guests twice as much.
And the heat is blonder than ever,
the snow is whiter than ever.


----------



## LovelyLiz (Aug 5, 2010)

This poem is one of my favorites, by the mystical Iranian poet, Hafiz:

_Don’t surrender your loneliness so quickly.
let it cut more deep.
Let it ferment and season you
as few human or even divine ingredients can.
Something missing in my heart tonight
has made my eyes so soft
my voice so tender
my need of God
absolutely clear._


----------



## Lovelyone (Aug 5, 2010)

My mother passed away on the 4th of July 2010. While talking with the Reverend about what would be said at her funeral, a poem came to mind. There's a short story that goes with it so bare with me if you will. 

My mom and I didn't always see eye to eye and we often fought like cats and dogs, mostly because we were so much alike...but we loved one another. During one of the bad times we decided to take a break from one another and not talk to one another for a while. After about 3 months, I missed her terribly. I was too proud to go confront her and let her know this--so I sent her letters in the mail. One week I sent her a passage from a book that I love, the next week I sent her a poem, and the following week I printed out some quotes that I found online that I thought she might enjoy, and yet another week I sent her a dirty joke. This went on for about 3 months. I never signed those letters but she knew they were from me. When I finally decided to go see her, she held up those letters (she'd saved them all) and said, "Do you know who sent these to me?" and I sheepishly said "Why mother...of what do you speak?" Honestly I thought she was going to yell at me for sending them so I got a little stressed for the moment. She hesitated for a few minutes and then said, "I want to thank you." Of course I had a surprised look on my face cos I thought she was going to yell at me but she did the opposite--so I said, "Thank me for what, being a pain in the ass?" After laughing for a minute--she replied..."No, I've been looking for a copy of a poem. Its one of my favorites and no one knew what I was talking about when I asked them. You sent it to me. It's a poem I want someone to read at my funeral." 
I, being the curious kitty, asked, "I sent you several poems, which one are you referring to?" 
She held it out and started to read. The following is the poem which we read at her funeral. I just wanted to share it because its been a long time favorite of mine too. 

DRINKING FROM MY SAUCER 
author unknown

I've never made a fortune 
and it's probably too late now. 
But I don't worry about that much, 
I'm happy anyhow. 

And as I go along life's way, 
I'm reaping better than I sowed. 
I'm drinking from my saucer, 
'Cause my cup has overflowed. 

I haven't got a lot of riches, 
and sometimes the going's tough. 
But I've got loved ones around me, 
and that makes me rich enough. 

I thank God for his blessings, 
and the mercies He's bestowed. 
I'm drinking from my saucer, 
'cause my cup has overflowed. 

I remember times when things went wrong, 
My faith wore somewhat thin. 
But all at once the dark clouds broke, 
and the sun peeped through again. 

So God, help me not to gripe about 
the tough rows that I've hoed. 
I'm drinking from my saucer, 
'Cause my cup has overflowed. 

If God gives me strength and courage, 
when the way grows steep and rough. 
I'll not ask for other blessings, 
I'm already blessed enough. 

And may I never be too busy, 
to help others bear their loads. 
Then I'll keep drinking from my saucer, 
'Cause my cup has overflowed.


----------



## mejix (Aug 5, 2010)

so sorry for your loss. thanks for sharing.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 8, 2010)

Mejix, Lovelyone, others -

Every time I dip into this thread, I feel like I'm walking into a Black Tie affair, wearing a polyester leisure suit. 

Lovelyone, I could own that poem for myself. My cup, too, overflows into the saucer, though it wasn't always true. 

Mejix, I wish I had your grasp of the subtleties of poetry in your cultural background - or in ANY culture.

My contributions are just the things I've picked up here and there in a rather long life. I hang them on my skeletal cultural frame for a bit of decoration, although they do mean much to me. I have also found personal meaning in many of the other shared poems here. Thank you, all.

If you don't mind, I will continue to wander about in this Black Tie affair, even though my own cheap tie is stained with spilled hors d'oeuvre.


----------



## mejix (Aug 8, 2010)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Mejix, Lovelyone, others -
> 
> Every time I dip into this thread, I feel like I'm walking into a Black Tie affair, wearing a polyester leisure suit.
> 
> ...



don't worry about the tux. these days i'm only wearing shorts when in front of the computer, most likely going commando. hehehe. here's another thing i found:

_from_ *Early Light*
by Nazim Hikmet

The telegraph poles in the early light, 
the road.
The dresser mirror brightening, 
the table, 
slippers. 
Things recognize each other once again. 
In our room the early light unfolds like a sail, 
the cool air is diamond blue. 
The stars pale--
far away, 
pebbles bleach white deep in the sky's stream. 
My rose is sleeping, 
her head on the enormous feather pillow.



(originally it said "her enourmous head in the feather pillow" but the poet was wise enough to change it).


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Oct 21, 2011)

Well, high time to bring it back, along with a lot of wonderful folks with whom I have not shared for a while. Are you all still out there - somewhere? I hope so.

This is about the silliest and most undignified bit of lyrical doggerel in this thread. As Mrs Ho Ho and I go through the ritual of preparing for the night, I walk about, reporting that "locked the doors, set the furnace, got the water glasses, opened the window, put out the clock and wound up the cat . . .

What???

Oh. That's from a very old and very silly song about a young man's befuddlement after sharing a kiss with his beloved. Well, guess what? Ain't just young folks. Mrs Ho Ho can throw me into a tizzy just by looking at me and making smacking noises.

Here's the original.

Said My Pajamas and Put on My Prayers
I climbed up the door, and opened the stairs;
I said my pajamas and put on my pray'rs,
I turned off the bed and crawled into the light
And all because you kissed me (kiss) goodnight.

Next morning I woke and scrambled my shoes;
I shined up an egg, then I toasted the news;
I buttered my tie, and took another bite;
And all because you kissed me (kiss) goodnight

By evening I felt normal, so we went out again
You said "Goodnight," and kissed me, I hurried home and then
I climbed up the door, and opened up the stairs;
I said my pajamas and put on my pray'rs;
I turned off the bed, and crawled into the light
And all because you kissedme (kiss) goodnight.


I powdered my hair, and pinned up my nose;
I hung up the bath, and I turned on my clothes;
I put out the clock, and wound the cat up tight;
And all because you kissed me (kiss) goodnight
I ran up the shade and pulled down the stair;

I curled up the rug, and I vacuumed my hair;
I just couldn't tell my left foot from my right;
And all because you kissed me (kiss) goodnight

By evening I felt normal, so we went out again
You said, "Goodnight," and kissed me, I hurried home and then
I lifted the preacher and called up the phone;
I spoke to the dog, and I threw your Ma a bone;
'Twas midnight, and yet the sun was shining bright,
And all because you kissed me (kiss) goodnight.​


----------



## Jess87 (Oct 22, 2011)

Definitely The Waste Land, but it's much too long to post, so I'll just include my favorite part. 

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only 
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 
And I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

That last line is just magnificent. 

I really like Neil Gaiman's The Day the Saucer's Came as well.

"That day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and
stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didnt notice it because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-mens nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold,
and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods
day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true
brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across
the land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the
day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling
us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of
the Time Machine day,
You didnt notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not ever reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call."


----------



## mejix (Oct 22, 2011)

It was indeed more than a year ago Master Tai. (*bows*)


*Image*
T.E. Hulme

Old houses were scaffolding once
and workmen whistling.



*


----------



## Twilley (Oct 22, 2011)

I love love love poetry, so much so that it's hard to pick an absolute favorite, but one of them absolutely has to be The Tyger by William Blake. I know it's kind of cliche, but I do love the Romantic movement, and Blake is so delightfully bonkers that you don't notice the pretension as much  

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


----------



## Sweetie (Feb 10, 2012)

This is a favorite of mine. 

Phenominal Woman - Maya Angelou

Pretty woman wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to fit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.

I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me. 

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
They swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.

I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me. 

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.

I say,
It's the arch of my back
The sun in my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me. 

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
I ought to make you proud

I say,
It's the click of my heals,
The bend of my hair,
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.


----------



## Takeshi (Feb 10, 2012)

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats


----------



## Takeshi (Feb 10, 2012)

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


----------



## LeoGibson (Feb 11, 2012)

John Donne,
Anne Donne,
Undone


----------



## Delightfully Peculiar (Feb 11, 2012)

This Is Just To Say *
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

The Red Wheelbarrow *
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

anyone lived in a pretty how town *
by E. E. Cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain


----------



## pegz (Feb 13, 2012)

Body of a Woman
by Pablo Neruda

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the sun leap from the depth of the earth.

I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.


----------



## TwilightStarr (Feb 15, 2012)

she had nothing
but time on her hands:
silver rings, turquoise stones
and purple nails 
I rubbed my thumb
across her palm:
a featherbed
where slept a psalm 
yea, though I walk
I used to fly
and now we dance

My favorite part from one of my favorite poems - She by Saul Williams


----------



## smithnwesson (Feb 21, 2012)

I may have already posted this, if so, sorry! This is a very long thread and I haven't read all of the posts.

I guess my favorite poem is _Dust of Snow_ by Robert Frost. Anyway it has run through my mind every several months for a lotta years now. . .

*The way a crow 
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued. *

- Jim


----------



## Weirdo890 (Feb 24, 2012)

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Dylan Thomas

Who else thinks that Dylan Thomas should be resurrected to read an audio book of his works?


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 23, 2012)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



. . . rebooting this thread yet one more time. We have a lot of relatively new folks on-board and, sadly, many old-timers missing. To the new folks: if you are encountering this thread for the first time, I envy you. To those no longer with us: thank you for your many contributions. You are, and will be, remembered.

I have wanted to post this poem for years, but was stymied by the stern flyleaf warnings: "All rights reserved . . . et c." I wanted to share it with a friend who is having a bit of trouble letting go right now, so called the offices of COMPAS to see if I could share it. I also asked whether it could be shared in an on-line poetry thread. The answer in both cases was yes, providing proper credit is given. I have done that in what follows.

The young man who wrote this was either remarkably perspicacious or just managed to hit upon a metaphor that nearly all of us can relate to at almost any period in our lives. "When it grows up . . ." or when our relationship stales, our job goes south, our sight and hearing begin to dim "we say Goodbye to it." 

What else can we do?



"When It Grows Up You Say Goodbye To It"

Minnesota Writers-in-the-Schools
COMPAS 1980 - 1981
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced without the prior permission of COMPAS



*How To Grow A Baby

Brian Kemp / grade 3
Montgomery Elementary School, Montgomery

First you plant a baby seed. 
Next you have to plant it in the month you want it. 
It will take about six months or more. 
Next feed it milk each day - about four times a day. 
You must change it. 
You will have to use a wizard to make it grow. 
Give it a bath each night with soap and warm water. 
Keep on doing the same thing each day and you will have a baby.

If it is a boy I would name it Seed. If it is a girl I would name it Garden.

When it grows up you say Goodbye to it.*​


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jun 30, 2012)

eightyseven said:


> I'm curious as to everyone's favorite poems and lines from said poems... so post the name and a little snippet
> 
> Mine's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot
> 
> ...



A lovely young woman whose handle is lizzie_lotr posted a fragment of this poem at the end of a recent thread acknowledging the death of Ray Bradbury. While I have read (or thought I had) many or most of his works, I had never encountered this poem. If any of you are inclined to rep me for this post, please seek out a post by lizzie_lotr and rep her instead.

I found the poem on this website: http://holyjoe.org/poetry/bradbury.htm
*
Remembrance

by Ray Bradbury 

And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.
The days being short now, simply I had come
To gaze and look and stare upon
The thought of that once endless maze of afternoons.
But most of all I wished to find the places where I ran
As dogs do run before or after boys,
The paths put down by Indians or brothers wise and swift
Pretending at a tribe.
I came to the ravine.
I half slid down the path
A man with graying hair but seeming supple thoughts
And saw the place was empty.
Fools! I thought. O, boys of this new year,
Why dont you know the Abyss waits you here?
Ravines are special fine and lovely green
And secretive and wandering with apes and thugs
And bandit bees that steal from flowers to give to trees.
Caves echo here and creeks for wading after loot:
A water-strider, crayfish, precious stone
Or long-lost rubber boot --
It is a natural treasure-house, so why the silent place?
Whats happened to our boys that they no longer race
And stand them still to contemplate Christs handiwork:
His clear blood bled in syrups from the lovely wounded trees?
Why only bees and blackbird winds and bending grass?
No matter. Walk. Walk, look, and sweet recall.

I came upon an oak where once when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for Skip to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which Id written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
Its not so high. Why did I shriek?
It cant be more than fifteen feet above. Ill climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrels hole and long-lost nest were there.

I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
What, what, what if? I thought. But no. Some forty years beyond!
The note Id put? Its surely stolen off by now.
A boy or screech-owls pilfered, read, and tattered it.
Its scattered to the lake like pollen, chestnut leaf
Or smoke of dandelion that breaks along the wind of time...

No. No.

I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
Nothing. And still more nothing. Yet digging further
I brought forth:
The note.
Like mothwings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm. I knew its look:
Ruled paper from an old Sioux Indian Head scribble writing book.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.*


----------



## daddyoh70 (Jul 20, 2012)

The Desiderata (desired things) is a 1927 poem by American writer Max Ehrmann:

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.


----------



## lottapounds (Jul 21, 2012)

I love Baudelaire. Especially this poem...her belly and breasts, the grapes of my vine...so juicy...:eat2: 

The Jewels


My darling was naked, and knowing my heart well, 
She was wearing only her sonorous jewels, 
Whose opulent display made her look triumphant 
Like Moorish concubines on their fortunate days.


When it dances and flings its lively, mocking sound, 
This radiant world of metal and of gems 
Transports me with delight; I passionately love 
All things in which sound is mingled with light.


She had lain down; and let herself be loved 
From the top of the couch she smiled contentedly 
Upon my love, deep and gentle as the sea, 
Which rose toward her as toward a cliff.


Her eyes fixed upon me, like a tamed tigress, 
With a vague, dreamy air she was trying poses, 
And by blending candor with lechery, 
Her metamorphoses took on a novel charm;


And her arm and her leg, and her thigh and her loins,
Shiny as oil, sinuous as a swan,
Passed in front of my eyes, clear-sighted and serene;
And her belly, her breasts, grapes of my vine,


Advanced, more cajoling than angels of evil, 
To trouble the quiet that had possessed my soul, 
To dislodge her from the crag of crystal, 
Where calm and alone she had taken her seat.


I thought I saw blended in a novel design
Antiope's haunches and the breast of a boy,
Her waist set off so well the fullness of her hips.
On that tawny brown skin the rouge stood out superb!


 And when at last the lamp allowed itself to die,
Since the fire alone lighted the room,
Each time that it uttered a flaming sigh,
It drenched with blood that amber colored skin!


 William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jul 21, 2012)

daddyoh70 said:


> The Desiderata (desired things) is a 1927 poem by American writer Max Ehrmann:
> 
> 
> 
> ...



Daddyoh - Very much a favorite of mine, and for a long, long time. I've spent a large part of my nearly 75 years either searching for an appropriate belief system or searching for a way out of the one I was stuck in. I have shelves and shelves of books on belief structures, filled with margin notes, arguing with the author. IMHO, the same is largely true of science, mythology or any discipline that seeks to explain our existence, the universe, and our place in it. It is all mythology to me - belief structures, not knowledge structures. 

After many fruitless searches and disappointing forays, I decided that the lines that I left in your quote explain it to my satisfaction. At my age, I consider it more important to accept my ignorance of that beyond my grasp, and accept the power of that which I DO know, personally. Highest on that list is the power of love - and for that I am grateful - eternally grateful, if that proves possible.


----------



## daddyoh70 (Jul 27, 2012)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> Daddyoh - Very much a favorite of mine, and for a long, long time. I've spent a large part of my nearly 75 years either searching for an appropriate belief system or searching for a way out of the one I was stuck in. I have shelves and shelves of books on belief structures, filled with margin notes, arguing with the author. IMHO, the same is largely true of science, mythology or any discipline that seeks to explain our existence, the universe, and our place in it. It is all mythology to me - belief structures, not knowledge structures.
> 
> After many fruitless searches and disappointing forays, I decided that the lines that I left in your quote explain it to my satisfaction. At my age, *I consider it more important to accept my ignorance of that beyond my grasp, and accept the power of that which I DO know, personally. Highest on that list is the power of love* - and for that I am grateful - eternally grateful, if that proves possible.



HoHo,
I don't think any writing has moved me more than the "The Desiderata. It was given to me by a friend around 1997. I had hit a rough patch in my life and was quickly losing faith in my current belief system. Except for my occassional "episode," I try to stick to this philosphy. I highlighted part of your post because I'm at a point in my life where I'm trying to accept my ignorance of things I just don't understand. Sometimes it's not an easy task. Anyway, I firmly believe that "The Desiderata" has made me a better person.


----------



## Shan34 (Jul 27, 2012)

There is some real good stuff here. This is my favorite.

Hellbound Train - Anonymous 

A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor,
Having drunk so much he could drink no more;
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

The engine with murderous blood was damp
And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;
An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.

The boiler was filled with lager beer
And the devil himself was the engineer;
The passengers were a most motly crew
Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,

Rich men in broadcloth, beggers in rags,
Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags,
Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white,
All chained togetherO God, what a site!

While the train rushed on at an awful pace
The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face;
Wider and wider the country grew,
As faster and faster the engine flew.

Louder and louder the thunder crashed
And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed;
Hotter and hotter the air became
Till the clothes were burned from each quivering frame.

And out of the distance there arose a yell,
"Ha, ha," said the devil, "we're nearing hell!"
Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain
And begged the devil to stop the train.

But he capered about and danced for glee,
And laughed and joked at their misery.
"My faithful friends, you have done the work
And the devil never can a payday shirk.

"You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor,
The starving brother you've turned from the door;
You've laid up gold where the canker rust,
And have given free vent to your beastly lust.

"You've justice scorned, and corruption sown,
And trampled the laws of nature down.
You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied,
And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.

"You have paid full fair, so I'll carry you through,
For it's only right you should have your due.
Why, the laborer always expects his hire,
So I'll land you safe in the lake of fire,

"Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar,
And my imps torment you forevermore."
Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry,
His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high

Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour
To be saved from his sin and the demon's power;
And his prayers and his vows were not in vain,
For he never road the hell-bound train


----------



## mejix (Jul 28, 2012)

*Two Giant Fat People*
Hafiz


God and I have become

Like two giant fat people

Living in a tiny boat

We keep

Bumping into each other

And laughing.






*The Vegetables*
Hafiz


Today

The vegetables would like to be cut

By someone who is singing Gods Name.

How could Hafiz know

Such top secret information?

Because

Once we were all tomatoes,

Potatoes, onions or

Zucchini.


----------



## Deven (Jul 28, 2012)

My favorite poem is Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe:


It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jul 28, 2012)

Deven said:


> My favorite poem is Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe:
> 
> 
> It was many and many a year ago,
> ...



Somewhere, on a hill, there's a bench and two trees
Where we often sit peacefully
The dreams we once dreamed have become memories,
Which we share with the moon and the breeze

But after we're gone, some dreams will live on
In the lives of those who will be
Maybe they'll visit our bench and our trees 
Sharing their dreams with the moon and the breeze
and the ashes of Annie and me.


----------



## mejix (Aug 23, 2012)

*Ruben's Women*
_Wislawa Szymborska_

Titanettes, female fauna,
naked as the rumbling of barrels.
They roost in rampled beds,
asleep, with mouths agape, ready to crow.
Their pupils have fled into flesh
and sound the glandular depths
from which yeast seeps into their blood.

Daughters of the Baroque. Dough
thickens in troughs, baths steam, wines blush,
cloudy piglets careen across the sky,
triumphant trumpets neigh the carnal alarm.

O pumpkin plump! O plumped-up corpulence
inflated double by disrobing
and tripled by your tumultuous poses!
O fatty dishes of love!

Their skinny sisters woke up earlier,
before dawn broke and shone upon the painting.
And no one saw how they went single file
along the canvass unpainted side.

Exiled by style. Only their ribs stood out.
With birdlike feet and palms, they strove
to take wing on their jutting shoulder blades.

The thirteenth century would have given them golden halos.
The twentieth silver screens.
The seventeenth, alas, holds nothing for the unvoluptuous.

For even the sky bulges here
with pudgy angles and a chubby god 
thick-whiskered Phoebus, on a sweaty steed,
riding straight into the seething bedchamber.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Aug 26, 2012)

mejix said:


> *Ruben's Women*
> _Wislawa Szymborska_
> 
> Titanettes, female fauna,
> ...



mejix -

Once again you have caught me so far out of my depth that I have to stand on the shoulders of titans, just to grab a breath of air. In this case, my savior was the NYT, which offered this obituary upon Ms Szymborska's death (Feb. 1, 2012). 

She is said to have been playful and whimsical in her writing and treatment of her chosen topics. She died of lung cancer at age 88, presumably rather wasted. Was there a touch of jealousy in her descriptions of Rubens' subjects, voluptuous but presumably healthy? Her descriptions certainly do not strike me as flattering.

Next time, dear friend, could you possibly present us with something a bit less esoteric? In any given day, I find plenty of opportunities to feel like an idiot. I don't need another staring at me out of the pages of Dimensions. How about:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'd rather be plump
Than dead of sprue

Oh, and by the way - those apostrophe police. "Ruben's Women"?


----------



## mejix (Aug 26, 2012)

Ho Ho Tai said:


> mejix -
> 
> Once again you have caught me so far out of my depth that I have to stand on the shoulders of titans, just to grab a breath of air. In this case, my savior was the NYT, which offered this obituary upon Ms Szymborska's death (Feb. 1, 2012).
> 
> ...




Thanks for your comments. This is not a late poem so I don't have any reason to believe that it had to do with her illness. I kind of like the "fatty dish of love" part. Didn't feel it was resentful. You speak the truth about the apostrophe. No wonder it looked weird.


----------



## CastingPearls (Aug 27, 2012)

I didn't feel it was resentful either. I loved it. Thanks for posting it.


----------



## mejix (Aug 27, 2012)

CastingPearls said:


> I didn't feel it was resentful either. I loved it. Thanks for posting it.



Glad you liked.


----------



## prplecat (Aug 29, 2012)

Remembrance

by Ray Bradbury 

And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.
The days being short now, simply I had come
To gaze and look and stare upon
The thought of that once endless maze of afternoons.
But most of all I wished to find the places where I ran
As dogs do run before or after boys,
The paths put down by Indians or brothers wise and swift
Pretending at a tribe.
I came to the ravine.
I half slid down the path
A man with graying hair but seeming supple thoughts
And saw the place was empty.
Fools! I thought. O, boys of this new year,
Why dont you know the Abyss waits you here?
Ravines are special fine and lovely green
And secretive and wandering with apes and thugs
And bandit bees that steal from flowers to give to trees.
Caves echo here and creeks for wading after loot:
A water-strider, crayfish, precious stone
Or long-lost rubber boot --
It is a natural treasure-house, so why the silent place?
Whats happened to our boys that they no longer race
And stand them still to contemplate Christs handiwork:
His clear blood bled in syrups from the lovely wounded trees?
Why only bees and blackbird winds and bending grass?
No matter. Walk. Walk, look, and sweet recall.

I came upon an oak where once when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for Skip to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which Id written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
Its not so high. Why did I shriek?
It cant be more than fifteen feet above. Ill climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrels hole and long-lost nest were there.

I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
What, what, what if? I thought. But no. Some forty years beyond!
The note Id put? Its surely stolen off by now.
A boy or screech-owls pilfered, read, and tattered it.
Its scattered to the lake like pollen, chestnut leaf
Or smoke of dandelion that breaks along the wind of time...

No. No.

I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
Nothing. And still more nothing. Yet digging further
I brought forth:
The note.
Like mothwings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm. I knew its look:
Ruled paper from an old Sioux Indian Head scribble writing book.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.


----------



## Jim Miller (Aug 29, 2012)

From the songs of Tom Bombadil:

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster.


From Emily Dickinson:

A WORD is dead	
When it is said,	
Some say.	
I say it just	
Begins to live
That day.


----------



## bbwlibrarian (Dec 19, 2012)

Resurrecting this thread, in lieu of making a new one.

I've just discovered (rediscovered?) the poetry of Adrienne Rich, and I'm loving it. Here's what I'm digging so far:

*"A Valediction Forbidding Mourning"*

My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.

They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.

I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
_my bleeding is under control_.

A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.


*"Living in Sin"*

She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.


----------



## dharmabean (Dec 19, 2012)

I LOOK AT YOUNG GIRLS NOW 
jewel kilcher

I look at young girls now 
in their tight crushed velour 
skin tight sky blue 
hip huggers with the baby doll 
tank tops 
and I think 
I've been there. 
God, have I been there. 

Sixteen years old and 
wrestling with an overwhelming 
newfound sexuality. 
Parading it in all its 
raw and awkward charm. 

I had a pair of vintage 
burgundy velvet short-shorts 
that laced up 
the sides 
from the 1920s 
and I wore them 
with a tight leotard 
and plastic faux pearl 
choker 

showing off all my lanky 
leggy blossoming 
youth on the verge 
of womanhood for all the 
free world to see 
with no idea how to keep 
a secret, especially my own.


----------



## bbwlibrarian (Dec 20, 2012)

Appropriate for this forum: the incomparable late, great Lucille Clifton reads "homage to my hips."


----------



## Sweetie (Dec 24, 2012)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost 18741963

Whose woods these are I think I know. 
His house is in the village though; 
He will not see me stopping here 
To watch his woods fill up with snow. 


My little horse must think it queer 
To stop without a farmhouse near 
Between the woods and frozen lake 
The darkest evening of the year. 


He gives his harness bells a shake 
To ask if there is some mistake. 
The only other sounds the sweep 
Of easy wind and downy flake. 


The woods are lovely, dark and deep. 
But I have promises to keep, 
And miles to go before I sleep, 
And miles to go before I sleep.


----------



## bbwlibrarian (Dec 25, 2012)

I normally think of Erica Jong as a prose writer (her excellent "Isadora Wing" books being foremost in my mind--_Fear of Flying_, most notably), but I've been digging some of her poetry lately. She's not as skillful as, say, Anne Sexton, but I do enjoy some of her work.

*"Aclestis on the Poetry Circuit"*

The best slave
does not need to be beaten.
She beats herself.

Not with a leather whip,
or with stick or twigs,
not with a blackjack
or a billyclub,
but with the fine whip
of her own tongue
& the subtle beating
of her mind
against her mind.

For who can hate her half so well
as she hates herself?
& who can match the finesse
of her self-abuse?

Years of training
are required for this.
Twenty years
of subtle self-indulgence,
self-denial;
until the subject
thinks herself a queen
& yet a beggar --
both at the same time.
She must doubt herself
in everything but love.

She must choose passionately
& badly.
She must feel lost as a dog
without her master.
She must refer all moral questions
to her mirror.
She must fall in love with a cossack
or a poet.

She must never go out of the house
unless veiled in paint.
She must wear tight shoes
so she always remembers her bondage.
She must never forget
she is rooted in the ground.

Though she is quick to learn
& admittedly clever,
her natural doubt of herself
should make her so weak
that she dabbles brilliantly
in half a dozen talents
& thus embellishes
but does not change
our life.

If she's an artist
& comes close to genius,
the very fact of her gift
should cause her such pain
that she will take her own life
rather than best us.

& after she dies, we will cry
& make her a saint.


*"Becoming a Nun"*

On cold days
it is easy to be reasonable,
to button the mouth against kisses,
dust the breasts
with talcum powder
& forget
the red pulp meat
of the heart.

On those days
it beats
like a digital clock--
not a beat at all
but a steady whirring
chilly as green neon,
luminous as numerals in the dark,
cool as electricity.

& I think:
I can live without it all--
love with its blood pump,
sex with its messy hungers,
men with their peacock strutting,
their silly sexual baggage,
their wet tongues in my ear
& their words like little sugar suckers
with sour centers.

On such days
I am zipped in my body suit,
I am wearing seven league red suede boots,
I am marching over the cobblestones
as if they were the heads of men,

& I am happy
as a seven-year-old virgin
holding Daddy's hand.

Don't touch.
Don't try to tempt me with your ripe persimmons.
Don't threaten me with your volcano.
The sky is clearer when I'm not in heat,
& the poems
are colder.


----------



## Mishty (Dec 27, 2012)

dharmabean said:


> I LOOK AT YOUNG GIRLS NOW
> jewel kilcher
> 
> I look at young girls now
> ...



Yeessss!
Jewel got me through my tween and teen years with her books of poetry!


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Dec 21, 2015)

Friends -



I told my kids about an outing long ago, in which I induced a friend to come out early in the morning to see the five visible planets all lined up in the sky. Grouching and complaining, she did come out to see them, and was delighted. Later, she sent me this poem.



Like the sign at Caribou Coffee, "If you want to experience life, you have to stay awake for it."



Ho Ho Tai



*Summons *
*Robert Francis*
Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
Of night. Come whistling up the road.
Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.
See that I see. Talk to me till
Im half as wide awake as you
And start to dress wondering why
I ever went to bed at all.
Tell me the walking is superb.
Not only tell me but persuade me.
You know Im not too hard persuaded.


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Jan 27, 2016)

At last - together again! All five planets visible to the naked eye are once again visible.



EarthSky // Astronomy Essentials, Science  
Release Date: Jan 27, 2016 
*See 5 bright planets at once!*


----------



## Yakatori (Feb 23, 2016)

Been wanting to contribute something here for a while now, particularly this one that always seems to come to mind reflecting on how people inevitably float on out of our lives, although-still are never really ever quite gone. It's kind of long, so just bear with me; especially as maybe now it says something about this place as well, for some of you:



> _Sexual Urgency, What a Woman's Laughter can do, and the Nature of True Virility​
> - *Rumi* (Jal&#257;l ad-D&#299;n Mu&#7717;ammad Balkh&#299; )​
> 
> Someone of hand to the caliph of Egypt,
> ...


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Nov 26, 2016)

mel said:


> My fav for over 20 years
> 
> by e e cummings
> ......................
> ...



Yesterday was the 28th anniversary of the day that "she and I knew that we would be 'us'" - almost, but not quite, an engagement, but a moment of understanding that opened the door to the rest of our lives.

Not long after that, I devised the patterns for the tee shirts shown below, and had the shirts made up. It's a bit difficult to read but one shirt shows me peeping out the window of a heart-shaped little house. It has the caption "Annie's [Mrs Ho Ho's] heart, Bobby's house." The other is just the reverse. We pull them out occasionally and wear them - and yesterday was one of those days. I wish I could post the picture of us, together, wearing the shirts but that's a no-no.

It seems like the perfect complement to the cummings poem and a legitimate way to re-boot this wonderful thread. 

View attachment heart shirts IMG_0994.jpg


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Mar 3, 2017)

Friends - I hope you don't mind my booting this thread yet one more time. I had occasion to share this with a friend and decided it would be new, and of interest, to many of you as well. My co-poet, Marsha Menard, was a beloved regular here years ago, who died in an effort to accomplish feats beyond her abilities. Would that this could be said of me some day.

With this preface, I sent it to my older son when he turned 40 (he of the hand-walking and pink flamingos).

The Big 40!
No, not mine, nor Mrs Ho Ho's either. I ran across something I sent to my oldest son a few years ago, when he turned 40. I post a modified version of it here, for whatever humor or wisdom it may contain.

"So - 40. Looking back, as I approached 40, I had just left one company and started with another. I had those anticipations and trepidations that, finally, I had to stop the denial and acknowledge that I was no longer a kid. I had entered the world of adulthood.

That feeling must have lasted a good six months. 

If you are also facing running headlong into that wall, I know that - if you have led a well-balanced life - you NEVER really reach adulthood, at least, in the sense of leaving childhood behind. You acquire adult behaviors, you build on the sense of responsibility to yourself and others that has carried you this far. (If you didn't have some of that already, you wouldn't have made it.)

I don't know if I sent you the pair of poems, both entitled "Ice Blocking" that I wrote together with an on-line friend. If not (and even if I have) I'll send them to you. They got published in a local paper. But, given your re-developed talent for walking around the block on your hands, and inflicting the neighbor with a plague of pink flamingos, I think you have already 'gotten' this message.

I think I will append the poems here. The cap-and-bells icon is one I used on a bulletin board where I 'met' Marsha, the author of the first of the pair. Sadly, she died recently (circa 2006), the result of pneumonia acquired while attempting an endurance feat well beyond her capacity."

Dad

Ice Blocking
Marsha Menard (R.I.P)

A huge block of party ice, and one towel.
A semi-steep slope covered in recently-watered grass
It smells so sweet, looks so green, looks so perfect.
I plop the ice upon the top of the slope,
Sliding the ice a little to get it ready.
I cover the ice with a towel so that it does not stick to my butt. I sit, raising my legs, balancing on the big block of ice. "Wheeeeeee!" I shout joyfully as I summer-toboggan down the slope ice melting sliding slipping me off rolling at the bottom giggling hands and feet flying in the air as I bounce here and there upon the grass the ice zooming ahead of me.
I stand up catching my bearings laughing at myself and the supremely childish fun I'm having.

I catch up to the block of ice, and pull it by the towel that is now half frozen to it. I pull the ice back up the hill, feet happy, heart racing, and ready to slide again and again, to my heart's content, merrily crashing at the bottom of the grassy slope, eager to go again and again and again and again.

The ice melts slowly, eventually it is time to go. I am forced once more to become an adult again. "sigh"

Ice Blocking (the child you leave behind)
Ho Ho Tai

"Grow up!" my mother often said,
"Leave childish ways behind!"
I did grow up, or tall at least,
With longer legs, horizons to reach.
I walked too fast, and for a time,
I left my little child behind.

I had a long, hard run,
Horizons still just out of reach.

But now, I'm old and slow, you see,
And my child has caught up with me.
The one who runs through sprinklers
As we did the other day,
Or lugs an ice block up a hill
And slides down all the way (I wish I'd thought of that)

Moms are always right, I know.
(At least, in their own mind.)
But NO adult can be complete
Who leaves their child behind.

Ho Ho Tai (written a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away)

Marsha, I have a feeling that resting in peace is not what you are up to. I thought I got a glimpse of you sliding down a cloud.
__________________
Ho Ho Tai


"The greatest wisdom: Love and Laughter, Inter-twined."


----------



## moore2me (Mar 6, 2017)

Dear Esteemed Master of the English Language (AKA Ho Ho Ta),

I have missed you & your handler (Ms Ho Ho). I bet you thought I had become a zealot or joined a cult. No, not again . . . been there, done that. I don't think the Amish will let me in again (long story) and Tony Alamo's is supposed to be shut down. I now where they live in Arkansas and the roads are still closed to the public. After all they did make some outrageously beautiful jackets.

I couldn't resist responding to your poems in your last few quotes to this thread. If you want my advice (no person with normal sanity would), I will hold back . . . would want to inflate a senior citizen's vanity. After all, it only makes them worse (or that's what they tell me). A few words of warning . . . Someone showed me how to count the number of words in a document using Word. The epic poems in your last post were 807, I know you can top that . . . so can I. Just thought you'd want to know that the younger Dimmers are watching and the machines can count now.

Will talk more later. I bet your mailbox is still full and not taking anymore posts.

Love (and I don't say that to many people), :kiss2:

M2M
moore2me


----------



## Deezer123 (Mar 6, 2017)

bbwlibrarian said:


> Appropriate for this forum: the incomparable late, great Lucille Clifton reads "homage to my hips."




She's lovely and she's great


----------



## Ho Ho Tai (Sep 3, 2017)

Moore to Me -

I had to bump this thread because I can't live without poetry (and this thread) any more than I can live without love (and thanks for yours. Dear Lady).

I don't really have a poem for you at the moment, but I can say that Mrs. Ho Ho and I are still very much in love as we approach our 28th year together. Our hearts still beat to the same meter, as our souls fill in the words. As I approach 80 y.o., nothing will ever match that gift.


----------



## Dr. Feelgood (Sep 4, 2017)

"Books are keys to wisdom's treasure.
Books are gate to lands of pleasure.
Books are paths that upward lead.
Books are friends -- come, let us read."

--Emilie Poulson


----------



## AuntHen (Sep 5, 2017)

My favorite is The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. I first heard of it back in the 80s when watching Anne of Green Gables with Megan Follows. Singer Loreena McKennitt did a good job turning it into a song years ago...

https://youtu.be/Ixi4jz0Gn4E


----------



## Tad (Sep 6, 2017)

fat9276 said:


> My favorite is The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. I first heard of it back in the 80s when watching Anne of Green Gables with Megan Follows. Singer Loreena McKennitt did a good job turning it into a song years ago...
> 
> https://youtu.be/Ixi4jz0Gn4E



A teacher read this to us in about grade four or five, it was the first time I'd really encountered poetry beyond nursery rhymes, and got me to search out some more on my own. I don't remember all the words, but I can still feel the rhythm that she read the poem with, how it evoked the cantering horse, the breathless wait .... it really stuck with me obviously.

But the poem that has always spoken to me the most is Robert Frosts The Road Not Taken. I think it captures that feeling of having to make just one choice so well.


----------



## swamptoad (Nov 3, 2017)

"The Fledgling"



So, art thou feathered, art thou flown,
Thou naked thing?and canst alone
Upon the unsolid summer air
Sustain thyself, and prosper there?
Shall no more with anxious note
Advise thee through the happy day,
Thrusting the worm into thy throat,
Bearing thine excrement away?
Alas, I think I see thee yet,
Perched on the windy parapet,
Defer thy flight a moment still
To clean thy wing with careful bill.
And thou are feathered, thou art flown;
And hast a project of thine own. 


Edna St. Vincent Millay


----------

