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Rank: Member
Joined: 6/18/2010
Posts: 13
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Location: India
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Which is ur fav. romantic poem? Quote a few lines please... I like P. B. Shelley's
One Word Is Too Often Profaned
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it;
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother;
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not, --
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
I cannot define love-- but I see it in my mom's eyes and know its worth
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Honestly, there are too many worthy entries to speak of. Though our old love letters from long ago are not poetry in the sense of construction, they read as such to me when I re-read them. She had a way of expressing herself.
"Be without fear in the face of your enemies. Be brave and upright that God may love thee. Speak the truth always, even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless, and do no wrong". (Knight's Oath, Kingdom of Heaven)
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Location: Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
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Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 has been my favourite since I was a teenager:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be false and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Goosebumps as I was typing it out - thank you for the opportunity to re-experience this!
TIMING TOAST: There's an art of knowing when, never try to guess. Toast until it smokes and then, twenty seconds less. -- Piet Hein
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Location: United States
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sonnets from the portuguese is a classic
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
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Rank: Advanced Member
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THE GREAT HUNT by Carl Sandburg
I CANNOT tell you now;
When the wind's drive and whirl
Blow me along no longer,
And the wind's a whisper at last--
Maybe I'll tell you then--
some other time.
When the rose's flash to the sunset
Reels to the rack and the twist,
And the rose is a red bygone,
When the face I love is going
And the gate to the end shall clang,
And it's no use to beckon or say, "So long"--
Maybe I'll tell you then--
some other time.
I never knew any more beautiful than you:
I have hunted you under my thoughts,
I have broken down under the wind
And into the roses looking for you.
I shall never find any
greater than you.
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Rank: Member
Joined: 8/29/2009
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Location: Croatia
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Barbara by Jacques Prevert
Remember Barbara
It rained all day on Brest that day
And you walked smiling
Flushed enraptured streaming-wet
In the rain
Remember Barbara
It rained all day on Brest that day
And I ran into you in Siam Street
You were smiling
And I smiled too
Remember Barbara
You whom I didn't know
You who didn't know me
Remember
Remember that day still
Don't forget
A man was taking cover on a porch
And he cried your name
Barbara
And you ran to him in the rain
Streaming-wet enraptured flushed
And you threw yourself in his arms
Remember that Barbara
And don't be mad if I speak familiarly
I speak familiarly to everyone I love
Even if I've seen them only once
I speak familiarly to all who are in love
Even if I don't know them
Remember Barbara
Don't forget
That good and happy rain
On your happy face
On that happy town
That rain upon the sea
Upon the arsenal
Upon the Ushant boat
Oh Barbara
What shitstupidity the war
Now what's become of you
Under this iron rain
Of fire and steel and blood
And he who held you in his arms
Amorously
Is he dead and gone or still so much alive
Oh Barbara
It's rained all day on Brest today
As it was raining before
But it isn't the same anymore
And everything is wrecked
It's a rain of mourning terrible and desolate
Nor is it still a storm
Of iron and steel and blood
But simply clouds
That die like dogs
Dogs that disappear
In the downpour drowning Brest
And float away to rot
A long way off
A long long way from Brest
Of which there's nothing left.
I love playin' with fire.
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ANNABELLE LEE
Author: Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
I am carrying my heart~I am carrying my rhythm~I am carrying my prayers~But you can't kill my spirit~It's soaring and strong (Paula Cole's Me Lyrics)***We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We ARE spirtual beings having a human experience.(T.deChardin)***There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. (Albert Einstein)
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martyg wrote:sonnets from the portuguese is a classic
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death. Sounds like HOW DO I LOVE THEE ? Author: Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1770-1850) How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
I am carrying my heart~I am carrying my rhythm~I am carrying my prayers~But you can't kill my spirit~It's soaring and strong (Paula Cole's Me Lyrics)***We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We ARE spirtual beings having a human experience.(T.deChardin)***There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. (Albert Einstein)
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My Love is Like a Red Red Rose
My love is like a red red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gang dry.
Till all the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt by the sun:
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee well, my only love
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again my love,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
by Robert Burns
Playsure
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Break of Day by John Donne (He wrote two by that title, this is the short one, which I feel is THE most romantic poem ever! The other Break of Day is subtitled "Another of the Same")The last two lines are indented, but I can't get them to do that here.
Stay, O sweet, and do not rise;
The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not, it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.
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Christine - How Do I Love Thee? IS by Elizabeth Browning. If you look up Sonnets from the Portugese you will find it there with her as author. Bit confusing, I expect.
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Love is beautiful, and painful, mysterious and honest.
This poem of William Carlos Williams touches those four bases for me.
THE ACT
There were the roses, in the rain.
Don't cut them, I pleaded.
They won't last, she said.
But they're so beautiful
where they are.
Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said,
and cut them and gave them to me
in my hand.
All politics is applesauce. ...Will Rogers
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There are a few that I like. This is one of them:
Pablo Neruda: Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. --Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken--
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Location: Chile
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Pablo Neruda, The Chilean passionate poet of love . He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in
1971. He wrote many ,many poems to her lovers, all of them marvellous ,but my favourite is
Sed de ti que me acosa
Thirst of you that gives me no peace in the hungry nights.
Wavering red hand that rises towards your life.
Overpowering thirst, mad thirst ,thirst of forest in droght.
Thirst of burning metal, thirst of avid roots.
Towards where, in those afternoons when your eyes don´t travel
towards my eyes, waiting for you then ?
You are full of those shadows that threaten me.
You follow me as stars follow the night.
My mother asked me many sharp queries.
You answer all of them. You are full of voices.
White anchor that drops in the ocean that we cross.
Furrow for the shady seed of my name.
That found a land of mine that doesn´t cover your footprints.
Without your travelling eyes,at night where to go?
That´s why you are the thirst and who is going to quench it.
How can I not love you if I´m going to love you for that.
Yes, if that is the tie how can I cut it, how.
How if until my bones are thirsty of your bones.
Thirst of you, thirst of you, appalling and sweet garland.
Thirst of you that at night it bites me as a dog.
The eyes are thirsty, what are the eyes for?
The mouth is thirsty, what are your kisses for?
The soul is burned down by those embers that love you.
The body a living fire that it´s going to burn down your body.
Of thirst, infinite thirst. Thirst that searches your thirst.
And there, it´s annihilated as water in the fire.
--------------------------
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schrodinger's cat wrote:There are a few that I like. This is one of them:
Tonight I can write the saddest lines Desiree wrote:Pablo Neruda, The Chilean passionate poet of love. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971.
Sed de ti que me acosa
Beautiful poems, sc & Desiree
If French is the language of love, then El Espanol es la musica del amor. And Pablo Neruda is its maestro.
All politics is applesauce. ...Will Rogers
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Location: Chile
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Grandyone : Yes, Pablo Neruda is a master of poetry . He wrote "Twenty Love Poems and a Song
of Despair " to her first unrequited love; And One hundred Love Poems to his last wife.
Even though, the poem lost the richness of rhythm and the beauty of sound of
words when translating into English.Beauty still prevails. I´ll write the first stanza in Spanish to notice the difference.
Sed de ti
Sed de ti que me acosa en las noches hambrientas.
Trémula mano roja que hasta tu vida se alza.
Ebria sed, loca sed, sed de selva en sequía.
Sed de metal ardiendo, sed de raíces ávidas.
¿Hacia dónde , en las tardes que no vayan tus ojos
en viaje hacia mis ojos, esperándote entonces ?
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Location: Illinois, United States
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There are so many but the first that popped into my head after reading the question was one by Robert Frost:
MOON COMPASSES
I stole forth dimly in the dripping pause
Between two downpours to see what there was.
And a masked moon had spread down compass rays
To a cone mountainin the midnight haze,
As if the final estimate were hers;
And as it measured in her calipers
The mountain stood exalted in its place.
So love will take between the hands a face.
Let me be on parched earth a cool jug of water. ~The Egyptian Book of the Dead
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Rank: Newbie
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Location: India
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How Many Kisses: to Lesbia - Gaius Valerius Catullus
Lesbia, you ask how many kisses of yours
would be enough and more to satisfy me.
As many as the grains of Libyan sand
that lie between hot Jupiter’s oracle,
at Ammon, in resin-producing Cyrene,
and old Battiades sacred tomb:
or as many as the stars, when night is still,
gazing down on secret human desires:
as many of your kisses kissed
are enough, and more, for mad Catullus,
as can’t be counted by spies
nor an evil tongue bewitch us.
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I would have posted "Suzanne" by Leonard Cohen but I think I have already done so on another thread, so this poem is another of his.....
A thousand kisses deep
You came to me this morning
And you handled me like meat
You'd have to be a man to know
How good that feels how sweet
My mirror twin my next of kin
I'd know you in my sleep
And who but you would take me in
A thousand kisses deep
I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat
I'm just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet
Who loved you with his frozen love
His second-hand physique
With all he is and all he was
A thousand kisses deep
I know you had to lie to me
I know you had to cheat
To pose all hot and high behind
The veils of sheer deceit
Our perfect porn aristocrat
So elegant and cheap
I'm old but I'm still into that
A thousand kisses deep
And I'm still working with the wine
Still dancing cheek to cheek
The band is playing Auld Lang Syne
The heart will not retreat
I ran with Diz and Dante
I never had their sweep
But once or twice they let me play
A thousand kisses deep
The autumn slipped across your skin
Got something in my eye
A light that doesn't need to live
And doesn't need to die
A riddle in the book of love
Obscure and obsolete
Till witnessed here in time and blood
A thousand kisses deep
I'm good at love I'm good at hate
It's in between I freeze
Been working out but it's too late
It's been too late for years
But you look fine you really do
The pride of Boogie Street
Somebody must have died for you
A thousand kisses deep
I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat
I'm just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet
But you don't need to hear me now
And every word I speak
It counts against me anyhow
A thousand kisses deep
I live in my own little world, but it's OK - they know me here...
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Whew. This thread got revived after a year. I guess there's a certain romance to that....
In any case, my favorite romantic poem is one of my own, but in lieu of voicing something public that is meant private, I'll post this:
THE CINNAMON PEELER by Michael Ondaatje
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
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Cinnamon Girl by Neil Young
I wanna live
With a cinnamon girl
I could be happy
The rest of my life
With a cinnamon girl.
A dreamer of pictures
I run in the night
You see us together,
Chasing the moonlight,
My cinnamon girl.
Ten silver saxes,
A bass with a bow
The drummer relaxes
And waits between shows
For his cinnamon girl.
A dreamer of pictures
I run in the night
You see us together,
Chasing the moonlight,
My cinnamon girl.
Pa sent me money now
I'm gonna make it somehow
I need another chance
You see your baby loves to dance
Yeah
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Fortune
has its cookies to give out
which is a good thing
since its been a long time since
that summer in Brooklyn
when they closed off the street
one hot day
and the
FIRE MEN
turned on their hoses
and all the kids ran out in it
in the middle of the street
and there were
maybe a couple dozen of us
out there
with the water squirting up
to the
sky
and all over
us
there was maybe only six of us
kids altogether
running around in our
barefeet and birthday
suits
and I remember Molly but then
the firemen stopped squirting their hoses
all of a sudden and went
back in
their firehouse
and
started playing pinochle again
just as if nothing
had ever
happened
while I remember Molly
looked at me and
ran in
because I guess really we were the only ones there
Lawrence Felinghetti
The poem is spread out across the page in a completely different way in the original. See
(http://www.english.iup.edu/hcs/Basic%20Writing%20Fall%202008/Ferlinghetti%20poem.pdf)
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Location: Taiwan
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Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
-- William Butler Yeats
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~William Wordsworth
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Location: Philippines
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If You Forget Me
--Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
"There are three people in all of us: the one we want to be; the one we think we are; and the one we really are. The first two are familiar to us. The last one is a complete stranger." - La Boîte noire
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Valley Girl by Frank Zappa
Valley Girl
She's a Valley Girl
Valley Girl
She's a Valley Girl
Okay, fine...
Fer sure, fer sure
She's a Valley Girl
In a clothing store
Okay, fine...
Fer sure, fer sure
She's a
Like, OH MY GOD! (Valley Girl)
Like - TOTALLY (Valley Girl)
Encino is like SO BITCHEN (Valley Girl)
There's like the Galleria (Valley Girl)
And like all these like really great shoe stores
I love going into like clothing stores and stuff
I like buy the neatest mini-skirts and stuff
It's like so BITCHEN cuz like everybody's like
Super-super nice...
It's like so BITCHEN...
On Ventura, there she goes
She just bought some bitchen clothes
Tosses her head 'n flips her hair
She got a whole bunch of nothin' in there
Anyway, he goes are you into S and M?
I go, oh RIGHT...
Could you like just picture me in like a LEATHER TEDDY
Yeah right, HURT ME, HURT ME...
I'm sure! NO WAY!
He was like freaking me out...
He called me a BEASTIE...
That's cuz like he was totally BLITZED
He goes like BAG YOUR FACE!
I'm sure!
Valley Girl
She's a Valley Girl
Valley Girl
She's a Valley Girl
Okay, fine...
Fer sure, fer sure
She's a Valley Girl
So sweet 'n pure
Okay, fine...
Fer sure, fer sure
She's a
It's really sad (Valley Girl)
Like my English teacher
He's like... (Valley Girl)
He's like Mr. BU-FU (Valley Girl)
We're talking Lord God King BU-FU (Valley Girl)
I am SO SURE
He's like so GROSS
He like sits there and like plays with all his rings
And he like flirts with all the guys in the class
It's like totally disgusting
I'm like so sure
It's like BARF ME OUT...
Gag me with a spoon!
Last idea to cross her mind
Had something to do with where to find
A pair of jeans to fit her butt
And where to get her toenails cut
So like I go into this like salon place, y'know
And I wanted like to get my toenails done
And the lady like goes, oh my God, your toenails
Are like so GRODY
It was like really embarrassing
She's like OH MY GOD, like BAG THOSE TOENAILS
I'm like sure...
She goes, uh, I don't know if I can handle this, y'know...
I was like really embarrassed...
Valley Girl
She's a Valley Girl
Valley Girl
She's a Valley Girl
Okay, fine
Fer sure, fer sure
She's a Valley Girl
And there is no cure
Okay, fine
Fer sure, fer sure
She's a Valley Girl
And there is no cure
Like my mother is like a total space cadet (Valley Girl)
She like makes me do the dishes and (Valley Girl)
CLEAN the cat box (Valley Girl)
I am sure
That's like GROSS (Valley Girl)
BARF OUT! (Valley Girl)
OH MY GOD (Valley Girl)
Hi!
Uh-huh... (Valley Girl)
My name?
My name is Ondrya Wolfson (Valley Girl)
Uh-huh
That's right, Ondrya (Valley Girl)
Uh-huh...
I know
It's like... (Valley Girl)
I do not talk funny...
I'm sure (Valley Girl)
Whatsa matter with the way I talk? (Valley Girl)
I am a VAL, I know (Valley Girl)
But I live like in a really good part of Encino so it's okay
(Valley Girl)
Uh-huh... (Valley Girl)
So like, I don't know (Valley Girl)
I'm like freaking out totally (Valley Girl)
Oh my God! (Valley Girl)
Hi - I have to go to the orthodontist (Valley Girl)
I'm getting my braces off, y'know (Valley Girl)
But I have to wear a retainer
That's going to be really like a total bummer
I'm freaking out
I'm SURE
It's like those things that like stick in your mouth
They're so gross...
You like get saliva all over them
But like, I don't know, it's going to be cool, y'know
So you can see my smile
It'll be like really cool
Except my like my teeth are like too small
But NO BIGGIE...
It's so AWESOME
It's like TUBULAR, y'know
Well, I'm not like really ugly or anything
It's just like
I don't know
You know me, I'm like into like the clean stuff
Like PAC-MAN and like, I don't know
Like my mother like makes me do the dishes
It's like so GROSS...
Like all the stuff like sticks to the plates
And it's like, it's like somebody else's food, y'know
It's like GRODY...
GRODY TO THE MAX
I'm sure
It's like really nauseating
Like BARF OUT
GAG ME WITH A SPOON
GROSS
I am SURE
TOTALLY...
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Posts: 19,780
Points: 59,346
Location: Helsinki, Finland
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Guillaume Apollinaire:
The Bells (Alcools: Les Cloches)
My gipsy beau my lover
Hear the bells above us
We loved passionately
Thinking none could see us
But we so badly hidden
All the bells in their song
Saw from heights of heaven
And told it everyone
Tomorrow Cyprien Henry
Marie Ursule Catherine
The baker’s wife her husband
and Gertrude that’s my cousin
Will smile when I go by them
I won’t know where to hide
You far and I’ll be crying
Perhaps I shall be dying
I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.
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Joined: 8/3/2009
Posts: 1,888
Points: 5,695
Location: Columbia, SC, United States
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I had a lover many many years ago who left me a poem written on a paper bag when he left for work. I have always loved it. It is short and sweet.
Exquisite Annie
Without whom, not.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 8/11/2011
Posts: 2,079
Points: 6,244
Location: United States, FL
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THE FLEA.
by John Donne
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.
O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
"Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits." - Satchel Paige
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 6/30/2009
Posts: 1,457
Points: 4,228
Location: United States
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Sleeping In The Forest by Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/10/2009
Posts: 1,245
Points: 3,672
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To Rubymoon: I love this poem.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 6/30/2009
Posts: 1,457
Points: 4,228
Location: United States
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(Thank you, Marissa)
Pangur Ban (anonymous)
I and Pangur Ban my cat,
Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
Better far than praise of men
Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will,
He too plies his simple skill.
Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.
'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.
When a mouse darts from its den
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!
So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.
Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.
in the original language (Gaelic) :
Pangur Ban
Messe ocus Pangur Bán,
cechtar nathar fria saindan:
bíth a menmasam fri seilgg,
mu memna céin im saincheirdd.
Caraimse fos (ferr cach clu)
oc mu lebran, leir ingnu;
ni foirmtech frimm Pangur Bán:
caraid cesin a maccdán.
O ru biam (scél cen scís)
innar tegdais, ar n-oendís,
taithiunn, dichrichide clius,
ni fris tarddam ar n-áthius.
Gnáth, huaraib, ar gressaib gal
glenaid luch inna línsam;
os mé, du-fuit im lín chéin
dliged ndoraid cu ndronchéill.
Fuachaidsem fri frega fál
a rosc, a nglése comlán;
fuachimm chein fri fegi fis
mu rosc reil, cesu imdis.
Faelidsem cu ndene dul
hi nglen luch inna gerchrub;
hi tucu cheist ndoraid ndil
os me chene am faelid.
Cia beimmi a-min nach ré
ni derban cách a chele:
maith la cechtar nár a dán;
subaigthius a óenurán.
He fesin as choimsid dáu
in muid du-ngni cach oenláu;
du thabairt doraid du glé
for mu mud cein am messe.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/10/2009
Posts: 1,245
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A poem that made me smile reading it.:) It almost seems like a poem for a child. Did you translate it yourself from the original Gaelic? Thank you for posting it.Marissa
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Marissa La Faye Isolde wrote:A poem that made me smile reading it.:) It almost seems like a poem for a child. Did you translate it yourself from the original Gaelic? Thank you for posting it.Marissa To Marissa-- I love this poem and the "mystery" of sorts surrounding its origin... I see it as a "romance" between the monk and his pet... background (below) from Wikipedia-- Pangur Bán" is an Old Irish poem, written about the 9th century at or around Reichenau Abbey. It was written by an Irish monk, and is about his cat. Pangur Bán, "white fuller", is the cat's name.[citation needed] Although the poem is anonymous, it bears similarities to the poetry of Sedulius Scottus, prompting speculation that Sedulius is the author.[1] In 8 verses of four lines, the author compares the cat's activities with his own scholarly pursuits.
The poem is preserved in the Reichenau Primer (Stift St. Paul Cod. 86b/1 fol 1v) and now kept in St Paul's Abbey in the Lavanttal. A critical edition of the poem was published in 1903 by Whitley Stokes and John Strachan in the second volume of the Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus.[2] The most famous of the many English translations is that by Robin Flower. In W. H. Auden's translation, the poem was set by Samuel Barber as the eighth of his ten Hermit Songs (1952-3).
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Christmas Roses
Black roses for my faithless love who left on Christmas Day
No word , no time , no warning sign , he simply turned away
I'd waited in the morning with my love-struck eyes aglow
And never thought on Christmas Eve my love would treat me so
Red roses he had given me a few short hours before
I'd placed the scented scarlet blooms beside the bedroom door
Imagined my love smiling as he offered me a ring
So unprepared for misery that Christmas Day would bring
I took the roses one by one and tore their petals bright
And dropped them on the staircase as I left the house that night
Glowing in the blue-white haze of snow through moonlit bay
I left their trail behind me as I went upon my way
White roses , Winter roses , petals dropping to the floor
Shedding snowy heads as my love opened up the door
And softly then I cleaved to him and offered my caress
I pressed as close as flesh can bear and heard my love confess
Red roses dripped their colour down upon the polished floor
I stepped away and left my love as he had left before
And wandered home in silent streets where night had stopped all time
Content now , knowing that my love was no one's love but mine
Black roses for my lover , laid upon the new turned grave
Entwined upon a mossy wreath , the New Year's gift I gave
Woven with a pagan spell , our souls may never part
And fed on rose red blood the night my knife caressed his heart
My darkest prayers will bind your spirit , hold you from the light
And evermore you'll come to me upon a Winter's night
And no more will your cheating eyes be free again to roam
While sooty roses mark your grave they make the earth your home
So now on Christmas morning while the wine and worship flow
Across the frosted churchyard to my lover I will go
And there beside the marble stone , renew devotion's sign
Black rose that traps your soul and binds your silent heart to mine
copyright J Johnson 2005
I live in my own little world, but it's OK - they know me here...
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Location: India
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@ Timeflies:
Like you, I like Shelly's poem that you quote - in particular the second passage, from "I can give not..." till the end.
I am curious to know why this particular poem though.
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