Benway Posted September 6, 2011 Report Share Posted September 6, 2011 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted September 6, 2011 Report Share Posted September 6, 2011 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Villan Posted September 6, 2011 Report Share Posted September 6, 2011 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? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Dice Posted September 6, 2011 Report Share Posted September 6, 2011 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.... WE WERE JUST KIDS. 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... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
catsmother21 Posted September 6, 2011 Report Share Posted September 6, 2011 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 Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name. T. S. Eliot Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
catsmother21 Posted September 6, 2011 Report Share Posted September 6, 2011 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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
carlylight1 Posted September 7, 2011 Report Share Posted September 7, 2011 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
carlylight1 Posted September 7, 2011 Report Share Posted September 7, 2011 ps. thanks for starting this a.m its a fantastic thread xxxx Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted September 7, 2011 Report Share Posted September 7, 2011 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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
carlylight1 Posted September 15, 2011 Report Share Posted September 15, 2011 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted September 16, 2011 Report Share Posted September 16, 2011 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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Benway Posted September 16, 2011 Author Report Share Posted September 16, 2011 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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted September 16, 2011 Report Share Posted September 16, 2011 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
carlylight1 Posted September 19, 2011 Report Share Posted September 19, 2011 - Prayer. 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-) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Benway Posted September 20, 2011 Author Report Share Posted September 20, 2011 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. [1915] The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted October 6, 2011 Report Share Posted October 6, 2011 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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jam-parker Posted October 7, 2011 Report Share Posted October 7, 2011 The Life of Love XVI - Khalil GibramSpring 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. Summer 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. Autumn 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. Winter 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!J.xxx. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
starryeyesee Posted October 31, 2011 Report Share Posted October 31, 2011 '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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Benway Posted October 31, 2011 Author Report Share Posted October 31, 2011 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Benway Posted October 31, 2011 Author Report Share Posted October 31, 2011 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) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted January 30, 2012 Report Share Posted January 30, 2012 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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted February 18, 2012 Report Share Posted February 18, 2012 XLV you 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 hide. e.e. cummings Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted February 21, 2012 Report Share Posted February 21, 2012 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 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Saharah Blue Posted August 13, 2012 Report Share Posted August 13, 2012 This Is Just To Say 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. by William Carlos Williams Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Benway Posted August 14, 2012 Author Report Share Posted August 14, 2012 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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