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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 6/30/2010
Posts: 5,684
Points: 16,991
Location: Canada
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Something from one of my countrymen.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day:
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, They grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas.
And this is written in prose, but if this ain't poetry I'm never going to read again:
To begin at the beginning:
It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courter's-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
The houses are blind as moles ( though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles ) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
Opening of First Voice Prologue from Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas.
Sanity is not statistical
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/11/2010
Posts: 4,078
Points: 12,193
Location: United Kingdom
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beautiful, and substitute England for the country of your birth.........
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
The Soldier
Rupert Brooke
I live in my own little world, but it's OK - they know me here...
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/1/2009
Posts: 1,470
Points: 3,480
Location: United States
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Ariel by Sylvia Plath
My teenage daughter says the poem is "stupid and boring." If only she knew it is about riding a horse.
You cannot reason someone out of something they were not reasoned into. Jonathan Swift
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 10/12/2010
Posts: 672
Points: 1,978
Location: Australia
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Looking Puzzled by Paul Curtis Toots wrote " I am puzzled most
By things that don't fit
Such as "if all is not lost"
Then where the hell is it? Toots (and Paul)"Where the hell is it? Answer: its down the back of the sofa with w sticky lollies, small denomination coins, buttons and condom wrappers!!! and another version of... the boy stood on the burning deck his pocket full of crackers one went off between his legs and blew off both his knackers!  I like it....ha ha
A Genie told me I could have one wish...Either a large Penis or a Long memory...I forget which one I chose. :)
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 10/12/2010
Posts: 672
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Location: Australia
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BTW Ex
I am in total agreement with you regarding Under Milkwood and all Dylan Thomas work. Under Milkwood is pure genius. It is superb as a radio play, on stage, read as poetry and it even works as a wonderful film starring the inimitable Peter O'toole as Captain Cat narrated by Richard Burton also starring Elizabeth Taylor.
Who but DT (interesting initials considering his penchant for whiskey) could write such a line as "shoe black, crow black, fishing boat bobbing sea" what a talent.
A Genie told me I could have one wish...Either a large Penis or a Long memory...I forget which one I chose. :)
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Location: Canada
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I have the Burton version as an audio tape. Even better than the film because it was written originally as a " play for voices". I think my favourite phrase from the prologue is " Night.... in Ocky Milkman's loft like a mouse with gloves". I went to Laugharne, the model for Llareggub, many times. I always ended up just standing there, listening. I met his widow, Caitlin, in Cardiff many years ago. She told me he was the most frustrating, beautiful, maddening wonderful man she had ever known. I'd step over my grandmother for ten minutes with him.
Sanity is not statistical
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/11/2010
Posts: 4,078
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Location: United Kingdom
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there are just some voices that you could listen to forever, Richard Burton, Anthony Hopkins, James Earl Jones, to name only a few, (personally I love Cary Grant and Tony Curtis' impression) - Peter O'Toole, John Mills, irreplaceable talent - at the minute I think Kevin Stacey and Morgan Freeman are on the way to "my list of voices to listen to" - oops, did I change the subject, sorry, got carried away, just when you mentioned Burton and DT. Happy Memories.
I live in my own little world, but it's OK - they know me here...
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 10/12/2010
Posts: 672
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Location: Australia
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My My that poor kid had a rough time of it!!!!!!!!
He got castrated, had his penis stumped by a cricket ball,his feet blistered, was forced to wear girls clothes, had a dirty neck and we left him still standing on that burning deck!!!!
The boy stood on the burning deck
did he wash his dirty neck
Did he heck
The boy stood on the burning deck
his pocket full of crackers
one went off between his legs
and blew off both his knackers
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Playing a game of cricket.
The ball went up his trouser leg
And stumped his middle wicket
The boy stood on the burning deck
His feet were full of blisters
He tore his pants on a rusty nail
And,now he wears his sister's
A Genie told me I could have one wish...Either a large Penis or a Long memory...I forget which one I chose. :)
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/7/2010
Posts: 1,370
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Location: United Kingdom
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he's even worse off now.......I found some more:
The boy stood on the burning deck
Picking his nose like mad
He rolled it into little balls
and flicked it at his Dad
and
The boy stood on the burning deck
His legs were all a'quiver
He gave a cough
His leg fell off
And floated down the river
and
The boy stood on the burning deck
Eating a tuppenny Walls
A bit dropped down his trouser leg
And paralysed his balls
(I'm not sure but I think a tuppenny Walls is an ice cream that cost two old English pennies)
and also a little gem from Spike Milligan.....
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled
Twit.
There is no past tense to Love, either you always will or you never did. ....
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Location: Canada
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We do not wish to know that, kindly leave the stage !
Sanity is not statistical
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 10/12/2010
Posts: 672
Points: 1,978
Location: Australia
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My My there seems to be an obsession with the lads genitalia...I am not surprised really with all them randy sailors about with nary a woman in sight and he a "pretty" 14 year old. Mind you apparently his Dad was an Officer on the same ship and the original poem has him asking his Dads permisiion to leave!!!! No wonder the boy flicked snot balls at him!!
However my views accord with dear Mr Milligan...(cackle cackle)
A Genie told me I could have one wish...Either a large Penis or a Long memory...I forget which one I chose. :)
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 12/21/2010
Posts: 40
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Location: United States
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KIND of on topic:
My favorite line from any song, "Redness has got to be a disease. You just catch it on your fingers, and it just crawls right up your sleeves."
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Rank: Newbie
Joined: 2/19/2011
Posts: 4
Points: 12
Location: Rome
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Voices of the Dead
The sole eternal in the world,
To whom every living creature turns,
In you, Death, our naked nature rests;
Not happy, but safe
From the ancient sorrow.
Within the confused mind
Our grave thought
Is obscured by deep night;
Devoid of strenght
The arid spirit is left
Without hope or desire:
So free from suffering and fear
It passes without tedium
Through the slow empty ages.
We were; as in a sweated dream
The misty fearful shadow
Wanders inside the infant mind,
Thus we remember our life.
But the remembrance is free
From fear. What were we?
What was that bitter moment
Which we named life?
Mysterious and wondrous
Life now seems to us,
As to the thought of the living
Unknown Death is.
And as when in life
Our naked nature shunned Death,
So it now flies the vital flame;
Not happy, but safe;
For to be blessed is denied by fate
Both to our living and mortal state.
G.L. 1798-1837
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Rank: Newbie
Joined: 2/19/2011
Posts: 4
Points: 12
Location: Rome
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To his Lady
(The poet compares the subject of his poetry to a woman who cannot be found)
Dear beauty, who stir
My love from afar or hiding,
Save when within my dreams
Your divine shadow shakes my heart,
Or in the fields where brighter are
The smile of nature and daylight;
Did you bless, perhaps, that pure time
Known as the Golden Age, or an airy soul
Now amongst us you fly?
Or are you by grudging fate concealed
And preserved for the years to be?
Now no hope is left to me
To see you here alive;
Unless it be when my soul, naked and alone,
Wandering on unknown road,
Comes to a strange abode. Since my prime,
Though uncertain and dark, I thought of you
As a companion and guide through this arid life.
But nothing on this earth resembles you,
And even if one were like you
In words, in acts, in face,
Her beauty would never reach your grace.
If you are one of the eternal ideas
The superior mind disdains
To clothe in a material form,
And amid mortal semblances
To bear this gloomy life of care;
Or if dwell in a remote world, one of
The countless worlds of the supernal skies,
Where you breathe a purer air, and are
Close to a shining star, fairer than the sun,
From this earth, where life is sad and short,
Accept this hymn of a lover you will know not.
James Leopards 1798-1837
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Posts: 1,437
Points: 3,470
Location: United States
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I feel overwhelmed by all the beautiful poetry and appreciative people who I will likely never know outside this forum. Here are two cantos from Childe Harold by Byron that I have always found moving:
CLXXVIII
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar;
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
CLXXIX
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean -- roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin -- his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 10/16/2009
Posts: 98
Points: 312
Location: the last house on the left
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Upon my mothers death.... almost a year ago... (with a few adjustments)
Title: A Away
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
********************************
I cannot say, and I will not say
That she is dead. She is just away!
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
She has wandered into an unknown land,
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since she lingers there.
And you, O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return,
Think of her faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;
And loyal still, as she gave the blows
Of her warrior-strength to her country's foes.
Mild and gentle, as she was brave,
When the sweetest love of her life she gave,
To simple things: Where the violets grew
Blue as the eyes they were likened to
The touches of her hands have strayed,
As reverently as her lips have prayed.
When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to her as the mocking-bird.
And she pitied as much as a woman in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.
Think of her still as the same, I say:
She is not dead... She is just away!
Caterpillar: Who are YOU?
Alice: This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. I -- I hardly know, sir, just at present -- at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 4/12/2010
Posts: 1,362
Points: 4,080
Location: West of Chicago, USA
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To celebrate April as National Poetry Month, I've always liked hearing Maya Angelou read this one:
...............Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
All politics is applesauce. ...Will Rogers
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/3/2010
Posts: 427
Points: 1,253
Location: United States
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To celebrate the innocence of youth.
The Barefoot Boy
John Greenleaf Whittier
Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, - I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, - the grown-up man Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, -
Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, -
Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
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Rank: Advanced Member
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Posts: 629
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Location: United States
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Biological Reflection
A girl whose cheeks are covered with paint
Has an advantage with me over one whose ain't.
OGDEN NASH
"The nearest thing to eternal life we will ever see on this earth is a government program." - Ronald Reagan
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Rank: Newbie
Joined: 9/10/2009
Posts: 1
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Location: United States
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After we've blown ourselves to dust
and all the dooms have come to pass
the things from space will come to wonder at
the endless patience of the grass.
K. Coffin
The only thing that is constant is change.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/10/2009
Posts: 1,245
Points: 3,672
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Matthew Arnold: Dover Beach The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand; Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/21/2009
Posts: 19,780
Points: 59,346
Location: Helsinki, Finland
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The Song of the Jellicles
Jellicle Cats come out tonight,
Jellicle Cats come one come all:
The Jellicle Moon is shining bright--
Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats are rather small;
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,
Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;
They like to practise their airs and graces
And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
Jellicle Cats develop slowly,
Jellicle Cats are not too big;
Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,
They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.
Until the Jellicle Moon appears
They make their toilette and take their repose:
Jellicles wash behind their ears,
Jellicles dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black,
Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;
Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack,
Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.
They're quiet enough in the morning hours,
They're quiet enough in the afternoon,
Reserving their terpsichorean powers
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;
If it happens to be a stormy night
They will practise a caper or two in the hall.
If it happens the sun is shining bright
You would say they had nothing to do at all:
They are resting and saving themselves to be right
For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.
From the Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot
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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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/21/2009
Posts: 19,780
Points: 59,346
Location: Helsinki, Finland
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Cup lichen
Luke 17:21The lichen raised its fragile cup, and rain filled it, and in the drop the sky glittered, holding back the wind. The lichen raised its fragile cup: Now let’s toast the richness of our lives. From Pohjajäätä [‘Ground-ice’], by Helvi Juvonen, 1952 
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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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 1/29/2011
Posts: 147
Points: 444
Location: India
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My favourite is Invictus by William Ernest Henley.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
I also like- Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening by Robert Frost
The last four lines were a favourite with Nehru- India's first prime minister.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of the easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The world makes way for the man who knows where he is going. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Rank: Newbie
Joined: 2/19/2011
Posts: 4
Points: 12
Location: Rome
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Upon a Bas-relief Representing a Departing Young Maid
Whither dost thou go? Who calls
Thee away from thy hearth
Most fair young maid?
Wherefore, so early and alone,
Dost thou leave the paternal abode?
Wilt thou return to this place?
Shall they be happy, one day,
Those who beweep thy loss today?
Thy eyes are dry, thy bearing is bold,
Yet thou art sad; wheather the way ahead
Be dolorous or glad, gloomy the place
Thou seekest, or full of joy,
From thy grave aspect I cannot say.
And alas, I know not, nor perhaps
The world with me, if thy stars
Are filled with love or with scorn,
If thy fate is to be fortunate or to mourn.
Death calls for thy life;
At break of day the last sigh.
No more will thou return to thy nest,
Forever thou will miss
The sweet love of thy kin.
Cold earth is the place whereto thou movest.
There be thy last sojourn.
Perhaps thou art blessed;
Yet those who gaze upon thy fate,
On their own, sigh and mourn.
G.L. James Leopards 1798-1837
all translations by emes
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Joined: 10/9/2011
Posts: 6
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Location: India
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These are 2 poems by Lloyd Hoffman. Lloyd passed away recently.
I knew the man and wanted to know him better. He is gone, but his poems remain.
I read them sometimes, then, after a while, again...
I
Forgetful
of my borrowed time
and at rest
with missing answers
nameless but
true as the gift
of a morning
for a first day.
Still …
Where, maker
of breezes that flow
as breezes do,
where to meet you?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
II
Sometimes I move beyond
the fringes of my thoughts
and artificial space
at ease in not knowing,
not seeing myself, and
at one with the outcome.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 6/15/2011
Posts: 774
Points: 2,093
Location: Earth
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Shucks, there's so many great poets, some personal favorites that come to mind are, Frost, Nash, Yeats, Tagore. There's so many more though.
Forgiving is Love, Love is For Giving.
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 3/18/2009
Posts: 2,036
Points: 6,040
Location: United States
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Alias wrote:Looking Puzzled by Paul Curtis Toots wrote " I am puzzled most
By things that don't fit
Such as "if all is not lost"
Then where the hell is it? Toots (and Paul)"Where the hell is it? Answer: its down the back of the sofa with w sticky lollies, small denomination coins, buttons and condom wrappers!!! and another version of... the boy stood on the burning deck his pocket full of crackers one went off between his legs and blew off both his knackers! I like it....ha ha Just looked up Paul Curtis. He's terrific. Thanks. I love this one. A NOTIONAL MOTION Toast always lands butter side down It’s a rule of locomotion And a cat always lands on its feet Now here is a curious notion If you tie the toast to the cat Would that result in perpetual motion
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 6/30/2009
Posts: 1,457
Points: 4,228
Location: United States
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In Memoriam: Stephan Franciszka, J. R. Harrison, K. Clark, P. Laszlo... and One Other Living Soul... and to The Portuguese Who Promenade. Farewell! But Whenever You Welcome The Hourby Thomas Moore Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour Which awakens the night-song of mirth in your bow'r, Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too, And forgot his own grief to be happy with you. His griefs may return, not a hope may remain, Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain, But he ne'er will forget his short vision that threw Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you. And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night; Shall join in your revels, your sports and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles! -- Too blest, if it tells me, that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, “I wish he were here!” Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy us'd to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd -- You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. http://youtu.be/9e34xqedCjc
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 12/22/2010
Posts: 1,662
Points: 4,934
Location: Gaeltacht, Ireland
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One would have to say we profoundly enjoy Lord Tennyson's
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
Off to Singapore for a spell!
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 4/24/2010
Posts: 64
Points: 128
Location: Lebanon
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This is one of my favorite poems by the great palestinian poet, "Mahmoud Darwish", though i'm not so sure that the translation is good enough to convey such a beauty!
Homing Pigeons
The pigeons fly off
The pigeons alight
--Prepare the land for me that I may rest
for you I love you to the point of exhaustion
your morning is fruit for song,
and this evening is golden.
We belong to ourselves when a shadow enters its own shadow in marble
I resemble myself when I hang myself on a neck that embraces only the clouds.
You are the air that goes naked before me like the tears of the grape
you are the first of the family of waves
when they cling to the shore feeling like foreigners
I love you, you are the soul's beginning and end.
The pigeons fly off
The pigeons alight
--My love and I are two voices with one pair of lips
I am for the sake of my love. I am. And my love is for his wandering star
we enter into the dream--but he is late so we do not see him
when my love sleeps, I wake up to guard the dream from what he sees
I cast out from him the nights that passed before we met
with my own hands I choose the days
as he chose me for the table rose
sleep then my love
so that the sound of the seas may rise to my knees
sleep my love
so that I may descend into you and rescue your dream from the envious
thorn
sleep, my love
with my hair over you, peace be on you.
The pigeons fly off
the pigeons alight
--I saw April in the sea
I said: I forgot the vigilance of your hands
I forgot the chants over my wounds...
how many times can you be born in my dream?
How many times can you slay me, so that I cry out: I love you so you
may rest...
I call to you before speech
I fly to you, holding your waist even before I reach you
how many ties can you put my soul's addresses
in the beaks of pigeons? And vanish like the distance on the slopes
so that I may realize that you are Babylon, Egypt, and Syria.
The pigeons fly
the pigeons alight
--Where do you take me, my love, away from my parents
from my trees, from my little bed, and from my boredom,
from my mirrors, from my moon, from the closet of my life, from
where I stop for the night, from my clothes, from my shyness?
Where are you taking me, my love...where? You kindle the wilderness
in my ear, you make me carry two waves,
(you) break two ribs, drink me then ignite me and abandon me on the
road to you...
Take pity...take pity.
The pigeons fly off
The pigeons alight
--Because I love you, blood flows from my side
in my pain I run through the nights swollen by the fear of what I fear
Come often, disappear a little
come just a little, disappear slowly
come come do not stop. Aah from a step that is never taken!
I love you as I desire you, I love you as I desire you
and gather together this light ringed by bees and a fleeting rose
I love you, curse of my heart
Because I fear for my heart, I fear for my desire if it were to arrive.
I love you as i desire you
I love you, body that creates memories and kills them before they are
finished.
I love you as I desire you,
I tame my soul to the shape of your feet--the shape of two Edens
I rub my wounds with the edges of your silence and your storm
The pigeons fly off
The pigeons alight
Not by wrath does one kill but by laughter. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity! -Friedrich Nietzsche.
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Rank: Member
Joined: 1/28/2012
Posts: 1,738
Points: 4,829
Location: Germany Munich
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Eduard Mörike - Frühling läßt sein blaues Band wieder flattern durch die Lüfte ... (Once again spring lets fly her blue ribbons through the air ...) Edit Perhaps better: Once again spring has flying her blue ribbons through the air ... Mörike's spring poem in German and English Edit 2 It's a pity that such wonderful poems are presented so poorly. Mörikes poem in German has a wonderful rhythm and melody beside the beautiful images and sounds the poem evokes. The two poems should be read by a good speaker and there should be music to it and pictures. But I think even standing alone the poem is a gem.
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Rank: Member
Joined: 1/28/2012
Posts: 1,738
Points: 4,829
Location: Germany Munich
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Looking for an appropriate picture to Mörike's poem  Sandro Botticelli, Italy - Primavera (Springtime) 1478 - Florence, Galleria degli Uffici Frühling lässt sein blaues Band Wieder flattern durch die Lüfte; Süße, wohlbekannte Düfte Streifen ahnungsvoll das Land. Veilchen träumen schon, Wollen balde kommen. —Horch, von fern ein leiser Harfenton! Frühling, ja du bists! Dich habe ich vernommen! Eduard Mörike 1829 Spring lets her blue ribbon Flutter in the breeze again; Faint, familiar scents Drift with promise o'er the land. Already the violets lie dreaming, Longing to unfold. —Hark, a harp sounds softly from afar! Yes, spring, it is you! I can hear you coming! Translation: Charles L. Cingolani Youtube Video Springtime http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e60jCNmCKl4
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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/21/2009
Posts: 19,780
Points: 59,346
Location: Helsinki, Finland
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Oodgeroo Noonuccal, (Born Kathleen Jean Mary Ruska, formerly Kath Walker), (3 November 1920—16 September 1993) was an Australian poet, political activist, artist and educator. She was also a campaigner for Aboriginal rights. Oodgeroo was best known for her poetry, and was the first Aboriginal Australian to publish a book of verse.
Municipal GumGumtree in the city street, Hard bitumen around your feet, Rather you should be In the cool world of leafy forest halls And wild bird calls Here you seems to me Like that poor cart-horse Castrated, broken, a thing wronged, Strapped and buckled, its hell prolonged, Whose hung head and listless mien express Its hopelessness. Municipal gum, it is dolorous To see you thus Set in your black grass of bitumen-- O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?
Understand Old OneWhat if you came back now To our new world, the city roaring There on the old peaceful camping place Of your red fires along the quiet water, How you would wonder At towering stone gunyas high in air Immense, incredible; Planes in the sky over, swarms of cars Like things frantic in flight. We Are GoingThey came in to the little town A semi-naked band subdued and silent All that remained of their tribe. They came here to the place of their old bora ground Where now the many white men hurry about like ants. Notice of the estate agent reads: 'Rubbish May Be Tipped Here'. Now it half covers the traces of the old bora ring. 'We are as strangers here now, but the white tribe are the strangers. We belong here, we are of the old ways. We are the corroboree and the bora ground, We are the old ceremonies, the laws of the elders. We are the wonder tales of Dream Time, the tribal legends told. We are the past, the hunts and the laughing games, the wandering camp fires. We are the lightening bolt over Gaphembah Hill Quick and terrible, And the Thunderer after him, that loud fellow. We are the quiet daybreak paling the dark lagoon. We are the shadow-ghosts creeping back as the camp fires burn low. We are nature and the past, all the old ways Gone now and scattered. The scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter. The eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this place. The bora ring is gone. The corroboree is gone. And we are going.
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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Rank: Advanced Member
Joined: 9/16/2009
Posts: 2,860
Points: 8,390
Location: Bangalore, India
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Tennessee Williams: The Night of the Iguana
How calmly does the orange branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair.
Sometime while night obscures the tree
The zenith of its life will be
Gone past forever, and from thence
A second history will commence.
A chronicle no longer gold,
A bargaining with mist and mould,
And finally the broken stem
The plummeting to earth; and then
An intercourse not well designed
For beings of a golden kind
Whose native green must arch above
The earth's obscene, corrupting love.
And still the ripe fruit and the branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair.
O Courage, could you not as well
Select a second place to dwell,
Not only in that golden tree
But in the frightened heart of me?
~from the play "The Night of the Iguana"
"Tiger! Tiger!...my mistake...I thought I was William Blake" ~Ogden Nash
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