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Thread: Your Favourite or Own Poem(s)

  1. #31
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    Leisure By William Henry Davies



    What is this life if, full of care,
    We have no time to stand and stare.
    No time to stand beneath the boughs
    And stare as long as sheep or cows.
    No time to see, when woods we pass,
    Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
    No time to see, in broad daylight,
    Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
    No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
    And watch her feet, how they can dance.
    No time to wait till her mouth can
    Enrich that smile her eyes began.
    A poor life this if, full of care,
    We have no time to stand and stare.

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    The beginning of Howl by Allen Ginsberg

    I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
    madness, starving hysterical naked,
    dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
    looking for an angry fix,
    angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
    connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
    ery of night,
    who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
    up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
    cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
    contemplating jazz,
    who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
    saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
    ment roofs illuminated,
    who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
    hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
    among the scholars of war,
    who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
    publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
    skull,
    who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
    ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
    to the Terror through the wall,
    who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
    Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,



    "My Bohemia: A Fantasy (Ma Bohème: Fantaisie)" by Rimbaud

    I ran off, fists in my ragged seams:
    Even my overcoat was becoming Ideal:
    I went under the sky, Muse! I was yours:
    Oh! What miraculous loves I dreamed!

    My only pair of pants was a big hole.
    - Tom Thumb the dreamer, sowing the roads there
    With rhymes. My inn the Sign of the Great Bear.
    - My stars in the sky rustling to and fro.

    I heard them, squatting by the wayside,
    In September twilights, there I felt the dew
    Drip on my forehead, like a fierce coarse wine.

    Where, rhyming into the fantastic dark,
    I plucked, like lyre strings, the elastics
    Of my tattered shoes, a foot pressed to my heart.



    "Le Testament: Rondeau" by Villon


    Death, I cry out at your harshness,
    That stole my girl away from me,
    Yet you’re not satisfied I see
    Until I languish in distress.

    Since then I’ve lost all liveliness:
    What harm alive, to you, was she?
    Death, I cry out at your harshness,
    That stole my girl away from me.

    Two we were, with one heart blessed:
    If heart’s dead, yes, then I foresee,
    I’ll die, or I must lifeless be,
    Like those statues made of lead.



    "The Tyger" by William Blake


    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare sieze the fire?

    And what shoulder, & what art.
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? & what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And watered heaven with their tears,
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?




    "By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept" by Lord Byron

    1
    We sat down and wept by the waters
    Of Babel, and thought of the day
    When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
    Made Salem's high places his prey;
    And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
    Were scattered all weeping away.

    2
    While sadly we gazed on the river
    Which rolled on in freedom below,
    They demanded the song; but, oh never
    That triumph the stranger shall know!
    May this right hand be withered for ever,
    Ere it string our high harp for the foe!

    3
    On the willow that harp is suspended,
    Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
    And the hour when thy glories were
    ended
    But left me that token of thee:
    And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
    With the voice of the spoiler by me!



    "Raymond Chandler Evening" by Robyn Hitchcock

    It's a Raymond Chandler evening
    At the end of someone's day
    And I'm standing in my pocket
    And I'm slowly turning grey

    I remember what I told you
    But I can't remember why
    And the yellow leaves are falling
    In a spiral from the sky

    There's a body on the railings
    That I can't identify
    And I'd like to reassure you but
    I'm not that kind of guy

    It's a Raymond Chandler evening
    And the pavements are all wet
    And I'm lurking in the shadows
    'Cause it hasn't happened yet

  3. #33
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    ROAD LESS TRAVELED

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth

    Then took the other as just as fair
    And having perhaps the better claim
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear
    Though as for that, the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
    I doubted if I should ever come back

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence
    Two roads diverged in a wood
    And I took the one less traveled by
    And that has made all the difference


    Robert Frost

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    Allah

    I tried to find Him on the Christian cross, but He
    was not there; I went to the Temple of the
    Hindus and to the old pagodas, but I could not
    find a trace of Him anywhere.

    I searched on the mountains and in the valleys
    but neither in the heights nor in the depths was I
    able to find Him. I went to the Ka'bah in Mecca,
    but He was not there either.

    I questioned the scholars and philosophers but
    He was beyond their understanding.

    I then looked into my heart and it was there
    where He dwelled that I saw Him; He was
    nowhere else to be found.

    -Jalal ad-Din Rumi
    The ancient masters were subtle, mysterious, profound, responsive.
    The depth of their knowledge is unfathomable.
    Because it is unfathomable,
    All we can do is describe their appearance.
    -Tao teh Ching

  5. #35
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    Post Your Favorite Poems

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
    But make allowance for their doubting too,
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
    If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
    If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breath a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
    If all men count with you, but none too much,
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


    Rudyard Kipling

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    "To see a world in a grain of sand,
    And a heaven in a wild flower,
    Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
    And eternity in an hour."


    William Blake

    All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players,
    They have their exits and entrances,
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
    Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice
    In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
    With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
    And so he plays his part.


    William Shakespeare

  7. #37
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    Not my own poem but instead, one written by a woman named Ellen Bass. I don't know anything about her--but, I heard this poem read aloud on the radio this morning and found it terrific. It's very true about us menfolk.


    I Love the Way Men Crack

    I love the way men crack
    open when their wives leave them,
    their sheaths curling back like the split
    shells of roasted chestnuts, exposing
    the sweet creamy meat. They call you
    and unburden their hearts the way a woman
    takes off her jewels, the heavy
    pendant earrings, the stiff lace gown and corset,
    and slips into a loose kimono.
    It's like you've both had a couple shots
    of really good scotch and snow is falling
    in the cone of light under the street lamp—
    large slow flakes that float down in the amber glow.

    They tell you all the pain pressed into their flat chests,
    their disappointed penises, their empty hands.
    As they sift through the betrayals and regrets,
    their shocked realization of how hard they tried,
    the way they shouldered the yoke
    with such stupid good faith—
    they grow younger and younger. They cry
    with the unselfconciousness of children.
    When they hug you, they cling.
    Like someone who's needed glasses for a long time—
    and finally got them-they look around
    just for the pleasure of it: the detail,
    the sharp edges of what the world has to offer.

    And when they fall in love again, it only gets better.
    Their hearts are stuffed full as éclairs
    and the custard oozes out at a touch.
    They love her, they love you, they love everyone.
    They drag out all the musty sorrows and joys
    from the basement where they've been shoved
    with mitts and coin collections. They tell you
    things they've never told anyone.
    Fresh from loving her, they come glowing
    like souls slipping into the bodies
    of babies about to be born.

    Then a year goes by. Or two.
    Like broken bones, they knit back together.
    They grow like grass and bushes and trees
    after a forest fire, covering the seared earth.
    They landscape the whole thing, plant like mad
    and spend every weekend watering and weeding.

  8. #38
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    Generally I like poems by Keats. I'll post one of my own which I wrote when I was around 18... I don't write much nowadays.

    Temple Resurgent

    Amidst ancient fields, scarred by battle long forlorn
    Land scorched by wrath of vengeful Furies
    In yonder distance, against crimson canvas
    It stands erect, in ruins, barely alive

    Temple abandoned by its own gods
    Its altar empty, yet sacred and pure
    Resonating silence eternally its sermon
    Last rays of harsh winter sun illuminating glass tainted and stained

    Defying the Furies, hearkening to the silence that reigns
    The Pilgrim approaches, concealed, enrobed
    He enters the ruins, trenching through garden of thorns
    To Altar he goes, pious, unswerving, winds thrashing against him like ocean waves on a rock

    Robes he casts aside, chest baring, eyes burning with fervour
    Upon Altar he places his beating heart, vibrant, powerful
    Temple resurgent, Temple alive
    Forevermore, Temple and Pilgrim are One

    This temple, my body, once more holy and revived…

  9. #39
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    A poem you have written/Your Favorite...

    I enjoy writing and reading poems,stories & things. Here is one I wrote a while back...

    Can I ask you a question mom?
    Where do we all go when we die?
    And why do people cry?
    Where did I come from?
    And mom
    Why does dad not like my friend Sam?
    And when will little brother be as tall as I am?
    Where do you go when you leave? And why are people mean?
    Where is Santa in the summer and whens uncle Charlie coming over?
    When can I drive Oh and how long will I be alive?
    Mom?
    Son when you die you go to heaven so you better be good and get your room clean by 7'
    and Son people cry because they are happy or maybe hurt hurry up...hand me that shirt
    Son you came from my belly ....what's that on my couch Mr? peanut butter and jelly?
    Oh and son your dad thinks Sam is weird and so do I by the way tell him not to come by And little brother is growing tall he will be your height in a little while
    Son when I leave I go to work which you will do one day your a good boy and you will do ok
    Son people are mean because they just are watch out for people and get to know who they really are
    Son Santa is still at the North Pole making new toys and maybe some fishing poles
    Oh and uncle Charlie will be here in May and yes son you can go out and play
    Son don't you wanna hear the answer to your last question before you go
    You Son will be alive for as long as you are meant to be,life is beautiful and you will see
    Ask me more tomorrow son..will you please
    "We've become a nation of strangers. There seems to be very little in common to bond us to our fellow Americans outside of our immediate families,some don't even have that to fall back on."

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    i used to write poetry a lot to vent my feelings but i havnt written in about 2 years. here is one i wrote about a girl i had a crush on in school. it may be stupid.

    you pass me daily
    with a smile to melt my heart
    of love i know nothing
    but in your presence i feal for something
    for something of which i may never no
    with smile and eyes of Freya
    the very essence of what a women should be
    a daily glimpse of you makes my heart beat stronger
    of love i know nothing, but to be with you and melt my heart.
    "Sei, was Du willst, aber was Du bist, habe den Mut ganz zu sein."
    (Albert Leo Schlageter)

    "Deutsche Einigkeit, meine Stärke - meine Stärke, Deutschlands Macht" (Hermann)

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