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Poetry Thread

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Hiyas, we have music & stuff threads,

But I don't think we have a poetry one.

I though it would be nice to share our favourite poems.

Another September

by Thomas Kinsella

Dreams fled away, this country bedroom, raw

With the touch of dawn, wrapped in a minor peace,

Hears through an open window the garden draw

Long pitch black breaths , lay bear its apple trees,

Ripe pear trees, brambles, windfall-sweethened soil,

Exhale rough sweetness against the starry slates.

Nearer the river sleeps St.Johns, all toil

Locked fast inside a dream with iron gates.

Domestic autumn, like an animal

Long used to handling by those countrymen,

Rubs her kind hide against the bedroom wall

Sensing a fragrant child come back again

- Not this half tolerated consciousness

That plants its grammar in her unyielding weather

But that unspeaking daughter, growing less

familiar where we fell asleep together.

Wakeful moth-wings blunder near a chair

Toss their light shell at the glass and go

To inhabit the living starlight,Stranded hair

Stirs on the still linen. It is as though

The black breathing that billows her sleep, her name,

Drugged under judgement, waned and - bearing daggers

And balances - down the lampless darkness they came,

Moving like women: Justice, Truth, such figures.

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Saharah Blue

love's function is to fabricate unknownness

(known being wishless;but love,all of wishing)

though life's lived wrongsideout,sameness chokes oneness

truth is confused with fact,fish boast of fishing

and men are caught by worms(love may not care

if time totters,light droops,all measures bend

nor marvel if a thought should weigh a star

—dreads dying least;and less,that death should end)

how lucky lovers are)whose selves abide

under whatever shall discovered be)

whose ignorant each breathing dares to hide

more than most fabulous wisdom fears to see

(who laugh and cry)who dream,create and kill

while the world moves;and every part stands still:

by e.e. cummings

A current fave of mine, like the idea of this thread thanks for starting it.

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I learned this for speech and drama lessons at school and still remember it now (mostly) Great idea for a thread...

From: The Old Vicarage, Grantchester by Rupert Brooke

Ah God! to see the branches stir

Across the moon at Grantchester!

To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten

Unforgettable, unforgotten

River-smell, and hear the breeze

Sobbing in the little trees.

Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand

Still guardians of that holy land?

The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,

The yet unacademic stream?

Is dawn a secret shy and cold

Anadyomene, silver-gold?

And sunset still a golden sea

From Haslingfield to Madingley?

And after, ere the night is born,

Do hares come out about the corn?

Oh, is the water sweet and cool,

Gentle and brown, above the pool?

And laughs the immortal river still

Under the mill, under the mill?

Say, is there Beauty yet to find?

And Certainty? and Quiet kind?

Deep meadows yet, for to forget

The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?

And is there honey still for tea?

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I want you to help me

But I don't know how to ask

I want you to love me

But I don't want you to think I'm weak

I want you to hold me

But I don't want you to think I'm afraid

I want you to take care of me

But I don't want you to think I can't take care of myself

I want you to know how bad it hurts

But I don't want you to think I'm not strong enough to get through it

I need you to tell me what to do

But I don't want you to infringe on my freedom

I want you to protect the little boy

But not lose respect for the man in whom he lives

I want to curl up beside you in a little ball in the night

And hope that you won't remember in the morning

I want permission to cry and wail like a baby now

When I was too afraid to make a sound when he made my world a frightening hell

I want to be able to fall completely apart

And know you are strong enough not to fall apart with me

My soul has been ripped in two

But I want you to think I am still whole

I want to run away from all of this

And then I want you to come and find me

I want you to protect yourself from everything that I have become

But I beg you not to leave me....


Sat here right now, scared, deep in thought,

Wondering about the things I was taught.

As I grew up, from a child to a teen,

You can't imagine, the things I have seen!

Torture of siblings, each and every day,

Wondering when it was coming my way?

Beatings with straps, slippers and canes,

No way in my life, would I ever be sane.

From teen to an adult, was I on track?

Could I give these childhood, memories the sack?

Could I forget, all the things I had seen?

What from these experiences, would I gleen?

Would I be stable, to run my own life?

Would I one day, become somebody's wife?

Could I move onward, away from my past?

How many more, questions would I ask?

I married a man, who I thought was right,

But very soon, it became a daily fight.

I had a crash, injured my back,

He couldn't cope, so gave the marriage the sack!

Now all on my own, two children to raise,

Would I ever in life, recieve somebody's praise?

Would I make them proud, of what I've achieved?

Or would they look at my, like I was deceased?

Finally news, That man is now DEAD!

I should be happy, but I'm sad instead!

No chance to confront him, or ask him why?

Why did the bastard, have to go and die?

I am not finished, this is not the end,

The pain from my past, on me it decends.

I remember clearly, just what he did,

To me and my siblings, when we were just kids!!

Not sure who they're by, Found them like 2 years ago now...

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The Naming of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,

It isn't just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,

Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,

Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey -

All of them sensible everyday names.

There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,

Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:

Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -

But all of them sensible everyday names.

But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,

A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,

Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,

Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,

Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo or Coricopat,

Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -

Names that never belong to more than one cat.

But above and beyond there's still one name left over,

And that is the name that you never will guess;

The name that no human research can discover -

But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

When you notice a cat in profound medication,

The reason, I tell you, is always the same:

His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation

Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:

His ineffable effable


Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

T. S. Eliot

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O Tell Me the Truth About Love

Some say that love's a little boy,

And some say it's a bird,

Some say it makes the world go round,

And some say that's absurd,

And when I asked the man next door,

Who looked as if he knew,

His wife got very cross indeed,

And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,

Or the ham in a temperance hotel?

Does its odour remind one of llamas,

Or has it a comforting smell?

Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,

Or soft as eiderdown fluff?

Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?

O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it

In cryptic little notes,

It's quite a common topic on

The Transatlantic boats;

I've found the subject mentioned in

Accounts of suicide,

And even seen it scribbled on

The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,

Or boom like a military band?

Could one give a first-rate imitation

On a saw or a Steinway Grand?

Is its singing at parties a riot?

Does it only like Classical stuff?

Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?

O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house,

It wasn't ever there,

I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,

And Brighton's bracing air,

I don't know what the blackbird sang,

Or what the tulip said;

But it wasn't in the chicken-run,

Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?

Is it usually sick on a swing?

Does it spend all its time at the races,

Or fiddling with pieces of string?

Has it views of its own about money?

Does it think Patriotism enough?

Are it stories vulgar but funny?

O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning,

Just as I'm picking my nose?

Will it knock on my door in the morning,

Or tread in the bus on my toes?

Will it come like a change in the weather?

Will its greeting be courteous or rough?

Will it alter my life altogether?

O tell me the truth about love.

W. H. Auden

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have only just found this but have re-read it a lot and its become a favourite.

What’s Broken

The slate black sky. The middle step

of the back porch. And long ago

my mother’s necklace, the beads

rolling north and south. Broken

the rose stem, water into drops, glass

knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s

pot of parsley and mint, white roots

shooting like streamers through the cracks.

Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,

the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken

little finger on my right hand at birth—

I was pulled out too fast. What hasn’t

been rent, divided, split? Broken

the days into nights, the night sky

into stars, the stars into patterns

I make up as I trace them

with a broken-off blade

of grass. Possible, unthinkable,

the cricket’s tiny back as I lie

on the lawn in the dark, my heart

a blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.

Dorianne Laux

i like how everything thats looked at happens in some way to be broken- the night sky into stars, etc- but it all sounds beautiful and all still matters. and then the last bit where the brokeness is really close, too close and s/he could've broken the back of a back of a cricket makes it more serious and unbearable and then it ends with the possibility that the heart could be broken is really jolting. but the description of it as a bue cup i love.

i was only going to post that then seeing cats auden poem i love all his so i'l post another

the more loving one

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total darkness sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

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Saharah Blue

Variations on the Word Sleep

I would like to watch you sleeping,

which may not happen.

I would like to watch you,

sleeping. I would like to sleep

with you, to enter

your sleep as its smooth dark wave

slides over my head.

and walk with you through that lucent

wavering forest of bluegreen leaves

with its watery sun & three moons

towards the cave where you must descend,

towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver

branch, the small white flower, the one

word that will protect you

from the grief at the center

of your dream, from the grief

at the center. I would like to follow

you up the long stairway

again & become

the boat that would row you back

carefully, a flame

in two cupped hands

to where your body lies

beside me, and you enter

it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. I would like to be that unnoticed

& that necessary.

by Margaret Atwood

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Septuagesima by John Burnside

I dream of the silence

the day before Adam came

to name the animals,

The gold skins newly dropped

from God's bright fingers, still

implicit with the light.

A day like this, perhaps:

a winter whiteness

haunting the creation,

as we are sometimes

haunted by the space

we fill, or by the forms

we might have known

before the names,

beyond the gloss of things.

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Saharah Blue

The Past Creates the Feeling
The past creates the feeling of a

second person within. Forgetting

this second person and speaking

in the first person present,

but not necessarily singular,

we are.
by Alex Caldiero

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Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Ooopps the other poem wony format properly , never mind, it was depressin anyway.

Thanks for liking the thread. Take care all xx am

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Saharah Blue

The purpose of poetry

is Liberation!

the poet is out to free himself through words -Norbert Blei-

and who doesn't want just a little more liberation in their world, not pretentious at all kit.

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- Prayer.


Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer

utters itself. So, a woman will lift

her head from the sieve of her hands and stare

at the minims1 sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth

enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;

then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth

in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. 2 Grade I piano scales

console the lodger looking out across

a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls

a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -

Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

Carol Ann Duffy (1955-)

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More T.S. Eliot!

The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . . 10

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20

And seeing that it was a soft October night

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions

And for a hundred visions and revisions

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while, 90

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while, 100

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

"That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all." 110

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . . 120

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock

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Saharah Blue

A Minor Bird

I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song.

by Robert Frost

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The Life of Love XVI - Khalil Gibram


Come, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls,

For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its

Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys.

Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the

Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw

Inspiration high above the cool green plains.

Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment

And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and

They appear as brides in the ceremonial custom of

the Night of Kedre.

The sprigs of grapevine embrace each other like

Sweethearts, and the brooks burst out in dance

Between the rocks, repeating the song of joy;

And the flowers bud suddenly from the heart of

Nature, like foam from the rich heart of the sea.

Come, my beloved; let us drink the last of Winter's

Tears from the cupped lilies, and soothe our spirits

With the shower of notes from the birds, and wander

In exhilaration through the intoxicating breeze.

Let us sit by that rock, where violets hide; let us

Pursue their exchange of the sweetness of kisses.


Let us go into the fields, my beloved, for the

Time of harvest approaches, and the sun's eyes

Are ripening the grain.

Let us tend the fruit of the earth, as the

Spirit nourishes the grains of Joy from the

Seeds of Love, sowed deep in our hearts.

Let us fill our bins with the products of

Nature, as life fills so abundantly the

Domain of our hearts with her endless bounty.

Let us make the flowers our bed, and the

Sky our blanket, and rest our heads together

Upon pillows of soft hay.

Let us relax after the day's toil, and listen

To the provoking murmur of the brook.


Let us go and gather grapes in the vineyard

For the winepress, and keep the wine in old

Vases, as the spirit keeps Knowledge of the

Ages in eternal vessels.

Let us return to our dwelling, for the wind has

Caused the yellow leaves to fall and shroud the

Withering flowers that whisper elegy to Summer.

Come home, my eternal sweetheart, for the birds

Have made pilgrimage to warmth and lest the chilled

Prairies suffering pangs of solitude. The jasmine

And myrtle have no more tears.

Let us retreat, for the tired brook has

Ceased its song; and the bubblesome springs

Are drained of their copious weeping; and

Their cautious old hills have stored away

Their colorful garments.

Come, my beloved; Nature is justly weary

And is bidding her enthusiasm farewell

With quiet and contented melody.


Come close to me, oh companion of my full life;

Come close to me and let not Winter's touch

Enter between us. Sit by me before the hearth,

For fire is the only fruit of Winter.

Speak to me of the glory of your heart, for

That is greater than the shrieking elements

Beyond our door.

Bind the door and seal the transoms, for the

Angry countenance of the heaven depresses my

Spirit, and the face of our snow-laden fields

Makes my soul cry.

Feed the lamp with oil and let it not dim, and

Place it by you, so I can read with tears what

Your life with me has written upon your face.

Bring Autumn's wine. Let us drink and sing the

Song of remembrance to Spring's carefree sowing,

And Summer's watchful tending, and Autumn's

Reward in harvest.

Come close to me, oh beloved of my soul; the

Fire is cooling and fleeing under the ashes.

Embrace me, for I fear loneliness; the lamp is

Dim, and the wine which we pressed is closing

Our eyes. Let us look upon each other before

They are shut.

Find me with your arms and embrace me; let

Slumber then embrace our souls as one.

Kiss me, my beloved, for Winter has stolen

All but our moving lips.

You are close by me, My Forever.

How deep and wide will be the ocean of Slumber,

And how recent was the dawn!




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'I cannot grow'

I cannot grow

I have no shadow

To run away from

I only play

I cannot err

There is no creature

Whom I belong to

Whom I could wrong

I am defeat

When it knows it

Can now do nothing

By suffering

All you have lived through

Dancing because you

No longer need it

For any deed

I shall never be

Different. Love me

W.H. Auden

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Sailing To Byzantium - William Butler Yeats.

THAT is no country for old men. The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees

- Those dying generations - at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

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September 1913

What need you, being come to sense,

But fumble in a greasy till

And add the halfpence to the pence

And prayer to shivering prayer, until

You have dried the marrow from the bone?

For men were born to pray and save:

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,

It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,

The names that stilled your childish play,

They have gone about the world like wind,

But little time had they to pray

For whom the hangman's rope was spun,

And what, God help us, could they save?

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,

It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread

The grey wing upon every tide;

For this that all that blood was shed,

For this Edward Fitzgerald died,

And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,

All that delirium of the brave?

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,

It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,

And call those exiles as they were

In all their loneliness and pain,

You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair

Has maddened every mother's son':

They weighed so lightly what they gave.

But let them be, they're dead and gone,

They're with O'Leary in the grave.

William Butler Yeats

(i think this poem is quite relevant to the situation in Ireland today)

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Saharah Blue

Lying In Grass

Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,

And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,

The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees' song,

Is this everything only a god's

Groaning dream,

The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?

The distant line of the mountain,

That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,

Is this too only a convulsion,

Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,

Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,

Never resting, never a blessed movement?

No! Leave me alone, you impure dream

Of the world in suffering!

The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,

The bird's cry cradles you,

A breath of wind cools my forehead

With consolation.

Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!

Let it all be pain.

Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched-

But not this one sweet hour in the summer,

And not the fragrance of the red clover,

And not the deep tender pleasure

In my soul.

by Hermann Hesse

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Saharah Blue



in win

ter who sit

dying thinking

huddled behind dir

ty glass mind muddled

and cuddled by dreams(or some

times vacantly gazing through un

washed panes into crisp todo of

murdering uncouth faces which pass rap

idly with their breaths.)"people are walking deaths

in this season" think "finality lives up

on them a little more openly than usual

hither,thither who briskly carry the as

tonishing & spontaneous & difficult ugliness

of themselves with a more incisive simplicity a

more intensively brutal futility"And sit

huddling dumbly behind three or two partly tran

sparent panes which by some loveless trick sepa

rate one still unmoving mind from a hun

dred doomed hurrying brains(by twos

or threes which fiercely rapidly

pass with their breaths)in win

ter you think,die slow

ly "toc tic" as I

have seen trees(in

whose black bod

ies leaves


e.e. cummings

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Saharah Blue

It Is Not Always May

The sun is bright,--the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing.

And from the stately elms I hear

The bluebird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky,

Where waiting till the west-wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new;--the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,

And even the nest beneath the eaves;--

There are no birds in last year's nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight!

And learn from the soft heavens above

The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For oh, it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest;

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest!

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Saharah Blue

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably


for breakfast.

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

by William Carlos Williams

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This Be The Verse by 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.

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