Best Poem in the World

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    Jan 30, 2010 2:31 PM GMT
    BEST POEM IN THE WORLD

    I was shocked, confused, bewildered
    As I entered Heaven's door,
    Not by the beauty of it all,
    Nor the lights or its decor.

    But it was the folks in Heaven
    Who made me sputter and gasp--
    The thieves, the liars, the sinners,
    The alcoholics and the trash.

    There stood the kid from seventh grade
    Who swiped my lunch money twice.
    Next to him was my old neighbor
    Who never said anything nice.

    Herb, who I always thought
    Was rotting away in hell,
    Was sitting pretty on cloud nine,
    Looking incredibly well.

    I nudged Jesus, 'What's the deal?
    I would love to hear Your take.
    How'd all these sinners get up here?
    God must've made a mistake.

    'And why is everyone so quiet,
    So somber - give me a clue.'
    'Hush, child,' He said, 'they're all in shock.
    No one thought they'd be seeing you.'

    JUDGE NOT!!

    Remember...Just going to church doesn't make you a
    Christian any more than standing in your garage makes you a car.

    Every saint has a PAST...
    Every sinner has a FUTURE!
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    Jan 30, 2010 6:13 PM GMT
    Bats are creepy; bats are scary;
    Bats do not seem sanitary;
    Bats in dismal caves keep cozy;
    Bats remind us of Lugosi;
    Bats have webby wings that fold up;
    Bats from ceilings hang down rolled up;
    Bats when flying undismayed are;
    Bats are careful; bats use radar;
    Bats at nighttime at their best are;
    Bats by Batman unimpressed are!



  • danisnotstr8

    Posts: 2579

    Jan 30, 2010 6:38 PM GMT
    This is an Elizabethan poem by Edward de Vere, the 17th Earle of Oxford. It's most often attributed to Sir Edward Dyer, but a lot of research has been done to prove a theory that the original signature was misinterpreted. Edward de Vere is also a major suspect in another controversy. He is often thought of as the real name behind William Shakespeare.

    In Praise of a Contented Mind

    My mind to me a kingdom is;
    Such perfect joy therein I find
    That it excels all other bliss
    That world affords or grows by kind.
    Though much I want which most men have,
    Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

    No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
    No force to win the victory,
    No wily wit to salve a sore,
    No shape to feed each gazing eye;
    To none of these I yield as thrall.
    For why my mind doth serve for all.

    I see how plenty suffers oft,
    How hasty climbers soon do fall;
    I see that those that are aloft
    Mishap doth threaten most of all;
    They get with toil, they keep with fear.
    Such cares my mind could never bear.

    Content I live, this is my stay;
    I see no more than may suffice;
    I press to bear no haughty sway;
    Look what I lack my mind supplies;
    Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
    Content with that my mind doth bring.

    Some have too much, yet still do crave;
    I little have, and seek no more.
    They are but poor, though much they have,
    And I am rich with little store.
    They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
    They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

    I laugh not at another’s loss;
    I grudge not at another’s gain;
    No worldly waves my mind can toss;
    My state at one doth still remain.
    I fear no foe, nor fawning friend;
    I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

    Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
    Their wisdom by their rage of will,
    Their treasure is their only trust;
    And cloake`d craft their store of skill.
    But all the pleasure that I find
    Is to maintain a quiet mind.

    My wealth is health and perfect ease;
    My conscience clear my chief defense;
    I neither seek by bribes to please,
    Nor by deceit to breed offense.
    Thus do I live; thus will I die.
    Would all did so as well as I!
  • DanielQQ

    Posts: 365

    Jan 30, 2010 6:43 PM GMT
    Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?
    by Thomas Hardy

    "Ah, are you digging on my grave,
    My loved one? -- planting rue?"
    -- "No: yesterday he went to wed
    One of the brightest wealth has bred.
    'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
    'That I should not be true.'"

    "Then who is digging on my grave,
    My nearest dearest kin?"
    -- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
    What good will planting flowers produce?
    No tendance of her mound can loose
    Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

    "But someone digs upon my grave?
    My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
    -- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
    That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
    She thought you no more worth her hate,
    And cares not where you lie.

    "Then, who is digging on my grave?
    Say -- since I have not guessed!"
    -- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
    Your little dog , who still lives near,
    And much I hope my movements here
    Have not disturbed your rest?"

    "Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
    Why flashed it not to me
    That one true heart was left behind!
    What feeling do we ever find
    To equal among human kind
    A dog's fidelity!"

    "Mistress, I dug upon your grave
    To bury a bone, in case
    I should be hungry near this spot
    When passing on my daily trot.
    I am sorry, but I quite forgot
    It was your resting place."
  • danisnotstr8

    Posts: 2579

    Jan 30, 2010 6:46 PM GMT
    Daniel, that poem is adorable.
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    Feb 02, 2010 5:22 AM GMT
    ::pukes at rhyming::
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    Feb 02, 2010 5:37 AM GMT
    The Dance of Death

    Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
    Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
    With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
    And the extravagant courtesan's thin face.

    Was slimmer waist e'er in a ball-room wooed?
    Her floating robe, in royal amplitude,
    Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod
    With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.

    The swarms that hum about her collar-bones
    As the lascivious streams caress the stones,
    Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,
    Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes

    Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays
    Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,
    Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae.
    O charm of nothing decked in folly! they

    Who laugh and name you a Caricature,
    They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure,
    The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone,
    That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!

    Come you to trouble with your potent sneer
    The feast of Life! or are you driven here,
    To Pleasure's Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir
    And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?

    Or do you hope, when sing the violins,
    And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,
    To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,
    And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?

    Fathomless well of fault and foolishness!
    Eternal alembic of antique distress!
    Still o'er the curved, white trellis of your sides
    The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.

    And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find,
    Among us here, no lover to your mind;
    Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?
    The charms of horror please none but the brave.

    Your eyes' black gulf, where awful broodings stir,
    Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller
    Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath,
    The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.

    For he who has not folded in his arms
    A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,
    Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,
    When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.

    O irresistible, with fleshless face,
    Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:
    "Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,
    Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!

    Withered Antinoüs, dandies with plump faces,
    Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,
    Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,
    Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.

    From Seine's cold quays to Ganges' burning stream,
    The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream;
    They do not see, within the opened sky,
    The Angel's sinister trumpet raised on high.

    In every clime and under every sun,
    Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;
    And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye
    And mingles with your madness, irony!"

    -Baudelaire
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    Feb 02, 2010 5:52 AM GMT
    Truly the best poem ever.

    A Carcass

    My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
    That fair, sweet, summer morn!
    At a turn in the path a foul carcass
    On a gravel strewn bed,

    Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
    Burning and dripping with poisons,
    Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way
    Its belly, swollen with gases.

    The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
    As if to roast it to a turn,
    And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature
    The elements she had combined;

    And the sky was watching that superb cadaver
    Blossom like a flower.
    So frightful was the stench that you believed
    You'd faint away upon the grass.

    The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
    From which came forth black battalions
    Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid
    All along those living tatters.

    All this was descending and rising like a wave,
    Or poured out with a crackling sound;
    One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
    Lived by multiplication.

    And this world gave forth singular music,
    Like running water or the wind,
    Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion
    Shake in their winnowing baskets.

    The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
    A sketch that slowly falls
    Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist
    Completes from memory alone.

    Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog
    Watched us with angry eye,
    Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass
    The morsel he had left.

    — And yet you will be like this corruption,
    Like this horrible infection,
    Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
    You, my angel and my passion!

    Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
    After the last sacraments,
    When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
    To molder among the bones of the dead.

    Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will
    Devour you with kisses,
    That I have kept the form and the divine essence
    Of my decomposed love!


    -Baudelaire
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    Feb 02, 2010 6:24 AM GMT
    Anything from Emily Dickinson, as much of her work can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." Try it with my fav poem of hers:

    Death
    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
    My labor, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We passed the school, where children strove
    At recess, in the ring;
    We passed the fields of gazing grain,
    We passed the setting sun.

    Or rather, he passed us;
    The dews grew quivering and chill,
    For only gossamer my gown,
    My tippet only tulle.

    We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.
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    Feb 02, 2010 6:31 AM GMT
    EGO TRIPPING
    by: NIKKI GIOVANNI

    I was born in the congo
    I walked to the fertile crescent and built
    the sphinx
    I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
    that only glows every one hundred years falls
    into the center giving divine perfect light
    I am bad

    I sat on the throne
    drinking nectar with allah
    I got hot and sent an ice age to europe
    to cool my thirst
    My oldest daughter is nefertiti
    the tears from my birth pains
    created the nile
    I am a beautiful woman

    I gazed on the forest and burned
    out the sahara desert
    with a packet of goat's meat
    and a change of clothes
    I crossed it in two hours
    I am a gazelle so swift
    so swift you can't catch me

    For a birthday present when he was three
    I gave my son hannibal an elephant
    He gave me rome for mother's day
    My strength flows ever on

    My son noah built new/ark and
    I stood proudly at the helm
    as we sailed on a soft summer day
    I turned myself into myself and was
    jesus
    men intone my loving name
    All praises All praises
    I am the one who would save

    I sowed diamonds in my back yard
    My bowels deliver uranium
    the filings from my fingernails are
    semi-precious jewels
    On a trip north
    I caught a cold and blew
    My nose giving oil to the arab world
    I am so hip even my errors are correct
    I sailed west to reach east and had to round off
    the earth as I went
    The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid
    across three continents

    I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
    I cannot be comprehended except by my permission

    I mean...I...can fly
    like a bird in the sky...
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    Feb 03, 2010 5:04 AM GMT
    RunintheCity saidAnything from Emily Dickinson, as much of her work can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." Try it with my fav poem of hers:

    Death
    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
    My labor, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We passed the school, where children strove
    At recess, in the ring;
    We passed the fields of gazing grain,
    We passed the setting sun.

    Or rather, he passed us;
    The dews grew quivering and chill,
    For only gossamer my gown,
    My tippet only tulle.

    We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.



    Also one of my favorites.icon_biggrin.gif
  • danisnotstr8

    Posts: 2579

    Feb 03, 2010 5:09 AM GMT
    Ma chambre a la forme d'une cage,
    Le soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre.
    Mais moi qui veux fumer pour faire des mirages
    J'allume au feu du jour ma cigarette.
    Je ne veux pas travailler -- je veux fumer.

    My bedroom is shaped like a cage,
    The sun puts its arm through the window.
    But I, wanting to smoke to make mirages,
    I light my cigarette from the day's fire.
    I do not want to work -- I want to smoke.

    -- Guillaume Apollinaire, "Hôtel" (from Le guetteur mélancolique), trans. Charles T. Downey
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    Feb 03, 2010 5:13 AM GMT
    Anything by Stephen Crane.


    In the desert

    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."



    I stood upon a high place

    I stood upon a high place,
    And saw, below, many devils
    Running, leaping,
    and carousing in sin.
    One looked up, grinning,
    And said, "Comrade! Brother!"



    Many red devils ran from my heart

    Many red devils ran from my heart
    And out upon the page,
    They were so tiny
    The pen could mash them.
    And many struggled in the ink.
    It was strange
    To write in this red muck
    Of things from my heart



    A man went before a strange God

    A man went before a strange God --
    The God of many men, sadly wise.
    And the deity thundered loudly,
    Fat with rage, and puffing.
    "Kneel, mortal, and cringe
    And grovel and do homage
    To My Particularly Sublime Majesty."

    The man fled.

    Then the man went to another God --
    The God of his inner thoughts.
    And this one looked at him
    With soft eyes
    Lit with infinite comprehension,
    And said, "My poor child!
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    Feb 03, 2010 5:26 AM GMT

    I'm sorry if this is a bit cliche, but it still gives me chills every time i read it...


    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
    Only this, and nothing more.'

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
    This it is, and nothing more,'

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
    Darkness there, and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
    But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
    Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
    'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
    Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
    Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as `Nevermore.'

    But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
    Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
    Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
    Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of "Never-nevermore."'

    But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
    Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
    Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
    On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
    Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
    `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted - nevermore!
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    Apr 08, 2010 11:29 AM GMT
    Maggie Estep is my gurl!

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    Apr 08, 2010 11:39 AM GMT
    Umm let see.. Best Porn in the world. Ah oops wrong thread. Pardon the interruption.