Your favorite Poem?

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    Jul 28, 2010 6:09 PM GMT
    I read this poem at least twice a week and it always makes me think about where my life is headed and if its where i want to go or where others are saying i should go ... Now whats your favorite poem? and what does it make you feel, think, or want from life when you read it?

    Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

    1. 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; 5

    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, 10

    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. 15

    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. 20
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    Jul 28, 2010 9:43 PM GMT
    Sonnets 46 and 47 by Shakespeare.

    Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
    How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
    Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
    My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
    My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
    A closet never pierced with crystal eyes,
    But the defendant doth that plea deny,
    And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
    To 'cide this title is impannelled
    A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
    And by their verdict is determined
    The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part:
    As thus: mine eye's due is thine outward part,
    And my heart's right, thine inward love of heart.

    Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
    And each doth good turns now unto the other:
    When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
    Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
    With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
    And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
    Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
    And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
    So, either by thy picture or my love,
    Thy self away, art present still with me;
    For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
    And I am still with them, and they with thee;
    Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
    Awakes my heart, to heart's and eyes' delight.
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    Jul 28, 2010 9:54 PM GMT
    IF by Rudyard Kipling

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
    If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

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

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

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    Jul 28, 2010 9:56 PM GMT
    I love this poem by Lord Byron.

    George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788–1824

    597. When we Two parted

    WHEN we two parted
    In silence and tears,
    Half broken-hearted
    To sever for years,
    Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 5
    Colder thy kiss;
    Truly that hour foretold
    Sorrow to this.

    The dew of the morning
    Sunk chill on my brow— 10
    It felt like the warning
    Of what I feel now.
    Thy vows are all broken,
    And light is thy fame:
    I hear thy name spoken, 15
    And share in its shame.

    They name thee before me,
    A knell to mine ear;
    A shudder comes o'er me—
    Why wert thou so dear? 20
    They know not I knew thee,
    Who knew thee too well:
    Long, long shall I rue thee,
    Too deeply to tell.

    In secret we met— 25
    In silence I grieve,
    That thy heart could forget,
    Thy spirit deceive.
    If I should meet thee
    After long years, 30
    How should I greet thee?
    With silence and tears.
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    Jul 28, 2010 10:05 PM GMT
    Rumi or Blake:

    William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

    To see a world in a grain of sand,
    And a heaven in a wild flower,
    Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
    And eternity in an hour.

    A robin redbreast in a cage
    Puts all heaven in a rage.

    A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
    Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
    A dog starv'd at his master's gate
    Predicts the ruin of the state.

    A horse misused upon the road
    Calls to heaven for human blood.
    Each outcry of the hunted hare
    A fibre from the brain does tear.

    A skylark wounded in the wing,
    A cherubim does cease to sing.
    The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
    Does the rising sun affright.

    Every wolf's and lion's howl
    Raises from hell a human soul.

    The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
    Keeps the human soul from care.
    The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
    And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

    The bat that flits at close of eve
    Has left the brain that won't believe.
    The owl that calls upon the night
    Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

    He who shall hurt the little wren
    Shall never be belov'd by men.
    He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
    Shall never be by woman lov'd.

    The wanton boy that kills the fly
    Shall feel the spider's enmity.
    He who torments the chafer's sprite
    Weaves a bower in endless night.

    The caterpillar on the leaf
    Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
    Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
    For the last judgement draweth nigh.

    He who shall train the horse to war
    Shall never pass the polar bar.
    The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
    Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

    The gnat that sings his summer's song
    Poison gets from slander's tongue.
    The poison of the snake and newt
    Is the sweat of envy's foot.

    The poison of the honey bee
    Is the artist's jealousy.

    The prince's robes and beggar's rags
    Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
    A truth that's told with bad intent
    Beats all the lies you can invent.

    It is right it should be so;
    Man was made for joy and woe;
    And when this we rightly know,
    Thro' the world we safely go.

    Joy and woe are woven fine,
    A clothing for the soul divine.
    Under every grief and pine
    Runs a joy with silken twine.

    The babe is more than swaddling bands;
    Every farmer understands.
    Every tear from every eye
    Becomes a babe in eternity;

    This is caught by females bright,
    And return'd to its own delight.
    The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
    Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

    The babe that weeps the rod beneath
    Writes revenge in realms of death.
    The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
    Does to rags the heavens tear.

    The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
    Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
    The poor man's farthing is worth more
    Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

    One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
    Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
    Or, if protected from on high,
    Does that whole nation sell and buy.

    He who mocks the infant's faith
    Shall be mock'd in age and death.
    He who shall teach the child to doubt
    The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

    He who respects the infant's faith
    Triumphs over hell and death.
    The child's toys and the old man's reasons
    Are the fruits of the two seasons.

    The questioner, who sits so sly,
    Shall never know how to reply.
    He who replies to words of doubt
    Doth put the light of knowledge out.

    The strongest poison ever known
    Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
    Nought can deform the human race
    Like to the armour's iron brace.

    When gold and gems adorn the plow,
    To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
    A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
    Is to doubt a fit reply.

    The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
    Make lame philosophy to smile.
    He who doubts from what he sees
    Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

    If the sun and moon should doubt,
    They'd immediately go out.
    To be in a passion you good may do,
    But no good if a passion is in you.

    The whore and gambler, by the state
    Licensed, build that nation's fate.
    The harlot's cry from street to street
    Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

    The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
    Dance before dead England's hearse.

    Every night and every morn
    Some to misery are born,
    Every morn and every night
    Some are born to sweet delight.

    Some are born to sweet delight,
    Some are born to endless night.

    We are led to believe a lie
    When we see not thro' the eye,
    Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
    When the soul slept in beams of light.

    God appears, and God is light,
    To those poor souls who dwell in night;
    But does a human form display
    To those who dwell in realms of day.
  • fitartistsf

    Posts: 716

    Jul 28, 2010 10:07 PM GMT
    My favorite poem... actually, part of a song, but spoken...

    "Breathe deep, the gathering gloom,
    Watchlights fade from every room,
    Bedsitter people look back and lament,
    Another day's useless energy's spent.

    Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
    Lonely man cries for love and has none,
    New mother picks up and suckles her son,
    Senior citizens wish they were young.

    Cold-hearted orb that rules the night,
    Removes the colors from our sight,
    Red is gray, and yellow white,
    But we decide which is right,
    And which is an illusion....

    Pinprick holes in a colorless sky,
    Let insipid figures of light pass by,
    The mighty light of ten thousand suns,
    Challenges infinity, and is soon gone.

    Night-time to some, a brief interlude,
    To others, the fear of solitude.

    Brave Helios, wake up your steeds,
    Bring the warmth the countryside needs."

    "The Lover's Lament" on "Days Of Future Past", 1967, by the Moody Blues
  • owen19832006

    Posts: 1035

    Jul 28, 2010 10:23 PM GMT
    Robert Frost - 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
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    Jul 28, 2010 11:32 PM GMT
    It's hard to pick just one, but Wallace Stevens's "The Idea of Order at Key West" would be near the top of my list, along with his "Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour".
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    Jul 28, 2010 11:47 PM GMT

    i like my body when it is with your

    i like my body when it is with your
    body. It is so quite new a thing.
    Muscles better and nerves more.
    i like your body. i like what it does,
    i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
    of your body and its bones, and the trembling
    -firm-smooth ness and which i will
    again and again and again
    kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
    i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
    of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
    over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,

    and possibly i like the thrill

    of under me you so quite new

    Edward Estlin Cummings .
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    Jul 28, 2010 11:52 PM GMT
    Wow guys, those are all really good ones! i may have to steal one or two of them lol jk jk
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    Jul 28, 2010 11:55 PM GMT

    a single ox
    lying in a field of flowers
    like a rock in the ocean.
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    Jul 28, 2010 11:58 PM GMT
    Lord why did you make me Blk

    Why Did You Make Me Black Lord?
    Lord, why did you make me black?
    Why did you make someone
    the world would hold back?

    Black is the color of dirty clothes,
    of grimy hands and feet,
    Black is the color of darkness,
    of tired beaten streets.

    Why did you give me thick lips,
    a broad nose and kinky hair?
    Why did you create someone
    who receives the hated stare?

    Black is the color of the bruised eye
    when someone gets hurt,
    Black is the color of darkness,
    black is the color of dirt.

    Why is my bone structure so thick,
    my hips and cheeks so high?
    Why are my eyes brown,
    and not the color of the sky?

    Why do people think I'm useless?
    How come I feel so used?
    Why do people see my skin
    and think I should be abused?

    Lord, I just don't understand...
    What is it about my skin?
    Why is it some people want to hate me
    and not know the person within?

    Black is what people are "Labeled"
    when others want to keep them away...
    Black is the color of shadows cast....
    Black is the end of the day.

    Lord you know my own people mistreat me,
    and you know this just ain't right....
    They don't like my hair, they don't like my
    skin, as they say I'm too dark or too light!

    Lord, don't you think
    it's time to make a change?
    Why don't you redo creation
    and make everyone the same?

    God's Reply:

    Why did I make you black? Why did I make you black?

    I made you in the color of coal
    from which beautiful diamonds are formed...
    I made you in the color of oil,
    the black gold which keeps people warm.

    Your color is the same as the rich dark soil
    that grows the food you need...
    Your color is the same as the black stallion and
    panther, Oh what majestic creatures indeed!

    All colors of the heavenly rainbow
    can be found throughout every nation...
    When all these colors are blended,
    you become my greatest creation!

    Your hair is the texture of lamb's wool,
    such a beautiful creature is he...
    I am the shepherd who watches them,
    I will ALWAYS watch over thee!

    You are the color of the midnight sky,
    I put star glitter in your eyes...
    There's a beautiful smile hidden behind your pain...
    That's why your cheeks are so high!

    You are the color of dark clouds
    from the hurricanes I create in September...
    I made your lips so full and thick,
    so when you kiss...they will remember!

    Your stature is strong,
    your bone structure thick to withstand the
    burden of time....
    The reflection you see in the mirror,
    that image that looks back, that is MINE!

    So get off your knees,
    look in the mirror and tell me what you see?
    I didn't make you in the image of darkness...
    I made you in the image of ME
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    Jul 29, 2010 12:20 AM GMT

    The Guest House

    This being human is a guest house.
    Every morning a new arrival.

    A joy, a depression, a meanness,
    some momentary awareness comes
    As an unexpected visitor.

    Welcome and entertain them all!
    Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
    who violently sweep your house
    empty of its furniture,
    still treat each guest honorably.
    He may be clearing you out
    for some new delight.

    The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
    meet them at the door laughing,
    and invite them in.

    Be grateful for whoever comes,
    because each has been sent
    as a guide from beyond.

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    Jul 29, 2010 3:29 AM GMT
    "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot.

    Yeah, I know.
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    Jul 29, 2010 3:48 AM GMT
    A Psalm of Life
    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Tell me not in mournful numbers,
    Life is but an empty dream!
    For the soul is dead that slumbers,
    And things are not what they seem.

    Life is real! Life is earnest!
    And the grave is not its goal;
    Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
    Was not spoken of the soul.

    Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
    Is our destined end or way;
    But to act, that each tomorrow
    Find us farther than today.

    Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
    And our hearts, though stout and brave,
    Still, like muffled drums, are beating
    Funeral marches to the grave.

    In the world's broad field of battle,
    In the bivouac of Life,
    Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
    Be a hero in the strife!

    Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
    Let the dead Past bury its dead!
    Act, - act in the living Present!
    Heart within, and God o'erhead!

    Lives of great men all remind us
    We can make our lives sublime,
    And, departing, leave behind us
    Footprints on the sand of time;

    Footprints, that perhaps another,
    Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
    A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
    Seeing, shall take heart again.

    Let us then be up and doing,
    With a heart for any fate;
    Still achieving, still pursuing,
    Learn to labor and to wait.
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    Jul 29, 2010 3:51 AM GMT
    We Are Seven - Wordsworth

    A simple child,
    That lightly draws its breath,
    And feels its life in every limb,
    What should it know of death?

    I met a little cottage Girl:
    She was eight years old, she said;
    Her hair was thick with many a curl
    That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,
    And she was wildly clad: 10
    Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
    --Her beauty made me glad.

    "Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
    How many may you be?"
    "How many? Seven in all," she said
    And wondering looked at me.

    "And where are they? I pray you tell."
    She answered, "Seven are we;
    And two of us at Conway dwell,
    And two are gone to sea. 20

    "Two of us in the church-yard lie,
    My sister and my brother;
    And, in the church-yard cottage, I
    Dwell near them with my mother."

    "You say that two at Conway dwell,
    And two are gone to sea,
    Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
    Sweet Maid, how this may be."

    Then did the little Maid reply,
    "Seven boys and girls are we; 30
    Two of us in the church-yard lie,
    Beneath the church-yard tree."

    "You run about, my little Maid,
    Your limbs they are alive;
    If two are in the church-yard laid,
    Then ye are only five."

    "Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
    The little Maid replied,
    "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
    And they are side by side. 40

    "My stockings there I often knit,
    My kerchief there I hem;
    And there upon the ground I sit,
    And sing a song to them.

    "And often after sunset, Sir,
    When it is light and fair,
    I take my little porringer,
    And eat my supper there.

    "The first that died was sister Jane;
    In bed she moaning lay, 50
    Till God released her of her pain;
    And then she went away.

    "So in the church-yard she was laid;
    And, when the grass was dry,
    Together round her grave we played,
    My brother John and I.

    "And when the ground was white with snow,
    And I could run and slide,
    My brother John was forced to go,
    And he lies by her side." 60

    "How many are you, then," said I,
    "If they two are in heaven?"
    Quick was the little Maid's reply,
    "O Master! we are seven."

    "But they are dead; those two are dead!
    Their spirits are in heaven!"
    'Twas throwing words away; for still
    The little Maid would have her will,
    And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
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    Jul 29, 2010 4:06 AM GMT
    jprichva said
    O O O O that Shakespehearean Rag
    It's so elegant, so intelligent.....

    Modernism! Feh!

    August is the cruelest month. I'm not looking forward to it.
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    Jul 29, 2010 4:09 AM GMT
    SONNET 44

    If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
    Injurious distance should not stop my way;
    For then despite of space I would be brought,
    From limits far remote where thou dost stay.
    No matter then although my foot did stand
    Upon the farthest earth removed from thee;
    For nimble thought can jump both sea and land
    As soon as think the place where he would be.
    But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
    To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
    But that so much of earth and water wrought
    I must attend time's leisure with my moan,
    Receiving nought by elements so slow
    But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.

    Will S.
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    Jul 29, 2010 4:15 AM GMT

    When you get what you want in your struggle for self
    And the world makes you king for a day,
    Just go to the mirror and look at yourself
    And see what that man has to say.

    For it isn’t your father or mother or wife
    Whose judgment upon you must pass.
    The fellow whose verdict counts most in you life
    Is the one staring back from the glass.

    Some people may think you're a straight shooter chum
    And think you’re a wonderful guy.
    But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum
    If you can’t look him straight in the eye.

    He’s the fellow to please-never mind all the rest,
    For he’s with you clear to the end.
    And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test
    If the man in the glass is your friend.

    You may fool the whole world down the pathway of life
    And get pats on the back as you pass.
    But your final reward will be heartache and tears
    If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.
  • Thomas757

    Posts: 260

    Jul 29, 2010 4:23 AM GMT
    The Bells -Edgar Allan Poe

    Hear the sledges with the bells -
    Silver bells!
    What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
    How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
    In the icy air of night!
    While the stars that oversprinkle
    All the heavens seem to twinkle
    With a crystalline delight;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
    From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.


    Hear the mellow wedding bells -
    Golden bells!
    What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
    Through the balmy air of night
    How they ring out their delight!
    From the molten-golden notes,
    And all in tune,
    What a liquid ditty floats
    To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
    On the moon!
    Oh, from out the sounding cells
    What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
    How it swells!
    How it dwells
    On the Future! -how it tells
    Of the rapture that impels
    To the swinging and the ringing
    Of the bells, bells, bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!


    Hear the loud alarum bells -
    Brazen bells!
    What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
    In the startled ear of night
    How they scream out their affright!
    Too much horrified to speak,
    They can only shriek, shriek,
    Out of tune,
    In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
    In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
    Leaping higher, higher, higher,
    With a desperate desire,
    And a resolute endeavor
    Now -now to sit or never,
    By the side of the pale-faced moon.
    Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
    What a tale their terror tells
    Of despair!
    How they clang, and clash, and roar!
    What a horror they outpour
    On the bosom of the palpitating air!
    Yet the ear it fully knows,
    By the twanging
    And the clanging,
    How the danger ebbs and flows;
    Yet the ear distinctly tells,
    In the jangling
    And the wrangling,
    How the danger sinks and swells,
    By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
    Of the bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!


    Hear the tolling of the bells -
    Iron bells!
    What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
    In the silence of the night,
    How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy menace of their tone!
    For every sound that floats
    From the rust within their throats
    Is a groan.
    And the people -ah, the people -
    They that dwell up in the steeple,
    All alone,
    And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
    In that muffled monotone,
    Feel a glory in so rolling
    On the human heart a stone -
    They are neither man nor woman -
    They are neither brute nor human -
    They are Ghouls:
    And their king it is who tolls;
    And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
    A paean from the bells!
    And his merry bosom swells
    With the paean of the bells!
    And he dances, and he yells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the paean of the bells,
    Of the bells -
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the throbbing of the bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells -
    To the sobbing of the bells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    As he knells, knells, knells,
    In a happy Runic rhyme,
    To the rolling of the bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells -
    To the tolling of the bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
  • tituspullo197...

    Posts: 203

    Jul 29, 2010 4:28 AM GMT
    first, i just gotta say thanks -- i can't believe there are men out there who work out AND read poetry. i may actually learn to have faith in gay men again, if not humanity itself.

    this one always renders me speechless. it's by anna akhmatova, a russian poet born of aristocratic lineage and forced to watch much of her family persecuted under the bolsheviks after the revolution.


    And Lot's wife looked back
    and became a pillar of salt.

    And the just man followed God's ambassador here,
    Huge and bright against the mountain black.
    But alarm spoke loudly in the woman's ear:
    It's not too late, you can still look back

    At red-towered Sodom where you were born,
    At the square where you sang, where you sat to spin,
    At the windows of the high house, forlorn,
    Where you bore your beloved husband children.

    She looked; deadly pain found the fault,
    Her eyes couldn't see if they saw or not;
    And her body became translucent salt,
    Her lively feet were rooted to the spot.

    She's seen as a kind of loss and yet
    Who will grieve for this woman, cry for this wife?
    My heart alone will never forget:
    For a single look, she gave up her life.

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    Jul 29, 2010 4:29 AM GMT
    i thank You God for most this amazing
    day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
    and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
    which is natural which is infinite which is yes

    (i who have died am alive again today,
    and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
    day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
    great happening illimitably earth)

    how should tasting touching hearing seeing
    breathing any--lifted from the no
    of all nothing--human merely being
    doubt unimaginable You?

    (now the ears of my ears awake and
    now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

    -ee cummings

    74. "Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you"

    BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you
    As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
    That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend
    Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
    I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due, 5
    Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
    Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
    But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
    Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,
    But am betroth'd unto your enemie: 10
    Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe;
    Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
    Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
    Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

    -John Donne

    Father's Song

    Yesterday, against admonishment,
    my daughter balanced on the couch back,
    fell and cut her mouth.

    Because I saw it happen I knew
    she was not hurt, and yet
    a child's blood so red
    it stops a father's heart.

    My daughter cried her tears;
    I held some ice
    against her lip.
    That was the end of it.

    Round and round: bow and kiss.
    I try to teach her caution;
    she tried to teach me risk.

    -Gregory Orr
  • xebec75

    Posts: 243

    Jul 29, 2010 5:59 AM GMT
    I like the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll...It reminds me that poetry can be fun to read for the simple euphony of language.


    Lewis Carroll
    (from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

    `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.
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    Jul 29, 2010 6:03 AM GMT
    I wake...
    I sleep....

    How wide the bed with none aside


    The Japanese are really good with economy, unlike the Victorians with their perpetual diarrhea of the poetic.
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    Jul 29, 2010 1:32 PM GMT
    One of my faves. -Doug

    Song To A Seagull by Joni Mitchell

    Fly silly seabird
    No dreams can possess you
    No voices can blame you
    For sun on your wings
    My gentle relations
    Have names they must call me
    For loving the freedom
    Of all flying things
    My dreams with the seagulls fly
    Out of reach out of cry

    I came to the city
    And lived like old Crusoe
    On an island of noise
    In a cobblestone sea
    And the beaches were concrete
    And the stars paid a light bill
    And the blossoms hung false
    On their store window trees
    My dreams with the seagulls fly
    Out of reach out of cry

    Out of the city
    And down to the seaside
    To sun on my shoulders
    And wind in my hair
    But sandcastles crumble
    And hunger is human
    And humans are hungry
    For worlds they can't share
    My dreams with the seagulls fly
    Out of reach out of cry

    I call to a seagull
    Who dives to the waters
    And catches his silver-fine
    Dinner alone
    Crying where are the footprints
    That danced on these beaches
    And the hands that cast wishes
    That sunk like a stone
    My dreams with the seagulls fly
    Out of reach Out of cry