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Thread: Poems on Men, Women, Love, Relationships...

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    Post Poems on Men, Women, Love, Relationships...

    Post 'em if ya got 'em! Songs are good too, as is criticism!

    Here's some (okay, a lot!) by Dorothy Parker:

    A Very Short Song

    Once, when I was young and true,
    Someone left me sad-
    Broke my brittle heart in two;
    And that is very bad.

    Love is for unlucky folk,
    Love is but a curse.
    Once there was a heart I broke;
    And that, I think, is worse.


    To a Much Too Unfortunate Lady

    He will love you presently
    If you be the way you be.
    Send your heart a-skittering.
    He will stoop, and lift the thing.
    Be your dreams as thread, to tease
    Into patterns he shall please.
    Let him see your passion is
    Ever tenderer than his....
    Go and bless your star above,
    Thus are you, and thus is Love.

    He will leave you white with woe,
    If you go the way you go.
    If your dreams were thread to weave
    He will pluck them from his sleeve.
    If your heart had come to rest,
    He will flick it from his breast.
    Tender though the love he bore,
    You had loved a little more....
    Lady, go and curse your star,
    Thus Love is, and thus you are.


    Unfortunate Coincidence

    By the time you swear you're his,
    Shivering and sighing,
    And he vows his passion is
    Infinite, undying -
    Lady, make a note of this:
    One of you is lying.


    Love Song (One of my personal favorites )

    My own dear love, he is strong and bold
    And he cares not what comes after.
    His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
    And his eyes are lit with laughter.
    He is jubilant as a flag unfurled-
    Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
    My own dear love, he is all my world-
    And I wish I'd never met him.

    My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
    And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
    The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
    And the skies are sunlit for him.
    As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
    As the fragrance of acacia.
    My own dear love, he is all my dreams-
    And I wish he were in Asia.

    My love runs by like a day in June,
    And he makes no friends of sorrows.
    He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
    In the pathway of the morrows.
    He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
    Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
    My own dear love, he is all my heart-
    And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

    Men

    They hail you as their morning star
    Because you are the way you are.
    If you return the sentiment,
    They'll try to make you different;
    And once they have you, safe and sound,
    They want to change you all around.
    Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
    They'd make of you another person.
    They cannot let you go your gait;
    They influence and educate.
    They'd alter all that they admired.
    They make me sick, they make me tired.


    Interview (this one is #1 -I love it)

    The ladies men admire, I've heard,
    Would shudder at a wicked word.
    Their candle gives a single light;
    They'd rather stay at home at night.
    They do not keep awake till three,
    Nor read erotic poetry.
    They never sanction the impure,
    Nor recognize an overture.
    They shrink from powders and from paints.
    So far, I have had no complaints.
    I envision a world where people dawning long white robes and elaborate headdresses run rampant down the streets, waving their arms in the air while screaming "we've gone mad, we've gone mad", like defrocked monks breaking the silence of ages past.

    Spoonblade: Sharper than a knife and twice as deadly.

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    Post Laurence Hope, the one female poet I like..

    'Against all reason, I am fain to fling my life, my youth, myself beneath your feet'


    From Last Poems (1905):
    Dedication to Malcolm Nicolson

    ''I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse,
    Made public never words inspired by thee,
    Lest strangers' lips should carelessly rehearse
    Things that were sacred and too dear to me.

    Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years
    Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw,
    Stern to thyself, thy comrades' faults and fears
    Proved generosity thine only law.

    Small joy was I to thee; before we met
    Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save.
    Useless my love--as vain as this regret
    That pours my hopeless life across thy grave. ''


    KASHMIRI SONG

    by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

    ''Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
    Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
    Whom do you lead on rapture's roadway far,
    Before you agonise them in farewell?

    Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
    Holding the doors of Heaven and Hell,
    How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins,
    Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.

    Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
    On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
    I would have rather felt you round my throat,
    Crushing out life, than waving me farewell. ''



    by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

    ''SINCE, oh, Beloved, you are not even faithful
    To me, who loved you so, for one short night,
    For one brief space of darkness, though my absence
    Did but endure until the dawning light:

    Since all your beauty--which was mine--you squandered
    On that which now lies dead across your door;
    See here this knife, made keen and bright to kill you.
    You shall not see the sun rise any more.

    Lie still! Lie still! In all the empty village
    Who is there left to hear or heed your cry?
    All are gone down to labour in the valley,
    Who will return before your time to die?

    No use to struggle; when I found you sleeping,
    I took your hands and bound them to your side,
    And both these slender feet, too apt at straying,
    Down to the cot on which you lie are tied.

    Lie still, Beloved; that dead thing lying yonder,
    I hated and I killed, but love is sweet,
    And you are more than sweet to me, who love you,
    Who decked my eyes with dust from off your feet.

    Give me your lips; ah, lovely and disloyal
    Give me yourself again; before you go
    Down through the darkness of the Great, Blind Portal,
    All of life's best and basest you must know.

    Erstwhile, Beloved, you were so young and fragile
    I held you gently, as one holds a flower:
    But now, God knows, what use to still be tender
    To one whose life is done within an hour?

    I hurt? What then? Death will not hurt you, dearest,
    As you hurt me, just for a single night.
    You call me cruel, who laid my life in ruins
    To gain one little moment of delight.

    Look up, look out, across the open doorway
    The sunlight streams. The distant hills are blue.
    Look at the pale, pink peach trees in our garden,
    Sweet fruit will come of them;--but not for you.

    The fair, far snow, upon those jagged mountains
    That gnaw against the hard blue Afghan sky
    Will soon descend, set free by summer sunshine.
    You will not see those torrents sweeping by.

    The world is not for you. From this day forward,
    You must lie still alone, who would not lie
    Alone for one night only, though returning
    I was, when earliest dawn should break the sky.

    There lies my lute, and many strings are broken,
    Some one was playing it, and some one tore
    The silken tassels round my Hookah woven;
    Some one who plays, and smokes, and loves, no more!

    Some one who took last night his fill of pleasure,
    As I took mine at dawn! The knife went home
    Straight through his heart! God only knows my rapture
    Bathing my chill hands in the warm red foam.

    And so I pain you? This is only loving,
    Wait till I kill you! Ah, this soft curled hair!
    Surely the fault was mine, to Love and leave you
    Even a single night, you are so fair.

    Cold steel is very cooling to the fervour
    Of overpassionate ones, Beloved, like you.
    Nay, turn your lips to mine. Not quite unlovely
    They are as yet, as yet, though quite untrue.

    What will your brothers say, to-night returning
    With laden camels homewards to the hills,
    Finding you dead, and me asleep beside you,
    Will he wake me first before he kills?

    For I shall sleep. Here on the cot beside you
    When you, my Heart's Delight, are cold in death.
    When your young heart and restless lips are silent,
    Grown chilly, even beneath my burning breath.

    When I have slowly drawn the knife across you,
    Taking my pleasure as I see you swoon,
    I shall sleep sound, worn out by love's last fervour,
    And then, God grant your kinsmen kill me soon! ''
    Last edited by Scáthach; Wednesday, November 5th, 2003 at 02:38 AM.

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    Somehow, I'll make it through to tomorrow.
    And I'll still love her.
    And she'll still love me.
    And we'll still be close together.
    And we'll still be forever apart.
    And my heart
    still has not learned a thing.


    bla bla bla



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    Post My favourite poets..

    Hymn

    The spacious firmament on high,
    With all the blue ethereal sky,
    And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
    Their great Original proclaim.
    Th' unwearied Sun from day to day
    Does his Creator's power display;
    And publishes to every land
    The work of an Almighty hand.

    Soon as the evening shades prevail,
    The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
    And nightly to the listening Earth
    Repeats the story of her birth:
    Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
    And all the planets in their turn,
    Confirm the tidings as they roll,
    And spread the truth from pole to pole.

    What though in solemn silence all
    Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
    What though nor real voice nor sound
    Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
    In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
    And utter forth a glorious voice;
    For ever singing as they shine,
    'The Hand that made us is divine.'

    - Joseph Addison



    Isolation: To Marguerite

    We were apart; yet, day by day,
    I bade my heart more constant be.
    I bade it keep the world away,
    And grow a home for only thee;
    Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew,
    Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.

    The fault was grave! I might have known,
    What far too soon, alas! I learn'd--
    The heart can bind itself alone,
    And faith may oft be unreturn'd.
    Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell--
    Thou lov'st no more;--Farewell! Farewell!

    Farewell!--and thou, thou lonely heart,
    Which never yet without remorse
    Even for a moment didst depart
    From thy remote and spher{`e}d course
    To haunt the place where passions reign--
    Back to thy solitude again!

    Back! with the conscious thrill of shame
    Which Luna felt, that summer-night,
    Flash through her pure immortal frame,
    When she forsook the starry height
    To hang over Endymion's sleep
    Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.

    Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved
    How vain a thing is mortal love,
    Wandering in Heaven, far removed.
    But thou hast long had place to prove
    This truth--to prove, and make thine own:
    "Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone."

    Or, if not quite alone, yet they
    Which touch thee are unmating things--
    Ocean and clouds and night and day;
    Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;
    And life, and others' joy and pain,
    And love, if love, of happier men.

    Of happier men--for they, at least,
    Have dream'd two human hearts might blend
    In one, and were through faith released
    From isolation without end
    Prolong'd; nor knew, although not less
    Alone than thou, their loneliness. ''

    - Matthew Arnold


    Home-Thoughts, From Abroad

    I.

    Oh, to be in England
    Now that April's there,
    And whoever wakes in England
    Sees, some morning, unaware,
    That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
    Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
    While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
    In England---now!!

    II.

    And after April, when May follows,
    And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
    Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
    Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
    Blossoms and dewdrops---at the bent spray's edge---
    That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
    Lest you should think he never could recapture
    The first fine careless rapture!
    And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
    All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
    The buttercups, the little children's dower
    ---Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!''

    - Robert Browning


    ''I loved you..."


    I loved you, and I probably still do,
    And for a while the feeling may remain...
    But let my love no longer trouble you,
    I do not wish to cause you any pain.
    I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
    The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
    Made up a love so tender and so true
    As may God grant you to be loved again''

    - Pushkin


    Break, break, break


    Break, break, break,
    On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
    And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.

    O, well for the fisherman's boy,
    That he shouts with his sister at play!
    O, well for the sailor lad,
    That he sings in his boat on the bay!

    And the stately ships go on
    To their haven under the hill;
    But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
    And the sound of a voice that is still!

    Break, break, break,
    At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
    But the tender grace of a day that is dead
    Will never come back to me.

    - Tennyson


    ‘And ask ye why these sad tears stream?’


    ''And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
    Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
    I had a dream–a lovely dream,
    Of her that in the grave is sleeping.

    I saw her as ’twas yesterday,
    The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
    And round her play’d a golden ray,
    And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.

    With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
    A garland red with roses bound it;
    Its strings were wreath’d with lambent fire
    And amaranth was woven round it.

    I saw her mid the realms of light,
    In everlasting radiance gleaming;
    Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
    Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.

    I strove to reach her, when, behold,
    Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
    And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
    Faded in air–a lovely vision!

    And I awoke, but oh! to me
    That waking hour was doubly weary;
    And yet I could not envy thee,
    Although so blest, and I so dreary. ''

    - Tennyson


    Disabled


    He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
    And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
    Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
    Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
    Voices of play and pleasure after day,
    Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

    About this time Town used to swing so gay
    When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
    And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
    In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
    Now he will never feel again how slim
    Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
    All of them touch him like some queer disease.

    There was an artist silly for his face,
    For it was younger than his youth, last year.
    Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
    He's lost his colour very far from here,
    Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
    And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
    And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

    One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
    After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
    It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
    He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
    Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
    That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
    Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
    He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
    Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

    Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
    And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
    Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills
    For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
    And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
    Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
    And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

    Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
    Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
    Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

    Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
    And do what things the rules consider wise,
    And take whatever pity they may dole.
    Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
    Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
    How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
    And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

    - Wilfred Owen


    Greater Love

    Red lips are not so red
    As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
    Kindness of wooed and wooer
    Seems shame to their love pure.
    O Love, your eyes lose lure
    When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

    Your slender attitude
    Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
    Rolling and rolling there
    Where God seems not to care;
    Till the fierce love they bear
    Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.

    Your voice sings not so soft,-
    Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,-
    Your dear voice is not dear,
    Gentle, and evening clear,
    As theirs whom none now hear,
    Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

    Heart, you were never hot
    Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
    And though your hand be pale,
    Paler are all which trail
    Your cross through flame and hail:
    Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.''

    [U]- Wilfred Owen[/U]


    Vergissmeinnicht


    Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
    returning over the nightmare ground
    we found the place again, and found
    the soldier sprawling in the sun.

    The frowning barrel of his gun
    overshadowing. As we came on
    that day, he hit my tank with one
    like the entry of a demon.

    Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
    the dishonoured picture of his girl
    who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
    in a copybook gothic script.

    We see him almost with content,
    abased, and seeming to have paid
    and mocked at by his own equipment
    that's hard and good when he's decayed.

    But she would weep to see today
    how on his skin the swart flies move;
    the dust upon the paper eye
    and the burst stomach like a cave.

    For here the lover and killer are mingled
    who had one body and one heart.
    And death who had the soldier singled
    has done the lover mortal hurt.

    - Keith Douglas


    Sorry for going offtopic, but they do really relate, just not always so obviously

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    I gave you my heart right from the start
    You took it away, that's not o.k.
    I want it back so I can have a heart attack
    To take away the pain from my soul, so I can die
    I thought I'd never say this to you but......forever goodbye.



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    Thumbs Up Thomas Lovell Beddoes - one of the classic greats

    Wolfram's Dirge

    ''If thou wilt ease thine heart
    Of love and all its smart,
    Then sleep, dear, sleep;
    And not a sorrow
    Hang any tear on your eyelashes;
    Lie still and deep,
    Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
    The rim o' the sun to-morrow,
    In eastern sky.

    But wilt thou cure thine heart
    Of love and all its smart,
    Then die, dear, die;
    'Tis deeper, sweeter,
    Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming
    With folded eye;
    And then alone, amid the beaming
    Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her
    In eastern sky. ''

    The Last Man

    By heaven and hell, and all the fools between them,
    I will not die, nor sleep, nor wink my eyes,
    But think myself into a god; old Death
    Shall dream he has slain me, and I'll creep behind him,
    Thrust off the bony tyrant from his throne
    And beat him into dust. Or I will burst
    Damnation's iron egg, my tomb, and come
    Half damned, ere they make lightning of my soul,
    And creep into thy carcase as thou sleepest
    Between two crimson fevers. I'll dethrone
    The empty skeleton, and be thy death,
    A death of grinding madness. -- Fear me now;
    I am a devil, not a human soul

    -- Thomas Lovell Beddoes

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    Senior Member Ominous Lord Spoonblade's Avatar
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    Great poems!

    Here's the ultimate classic :

    My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
    Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
    If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
    If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
    I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
    But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
    And in some perfumes is there more delight
    Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
    I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
    That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
    I grant I never saw a goddess go,
    My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
    And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
    As any she belied with false compare.
    I envision a world where people dawning long white robes and elaborate headdresses run rampant down the streets, waving their arms in the air while screaming "we've gone mad, we've gone mad", like defrocked monks breaking the silence of ages past.

    Spoonblade: Sharper than a knife and twice as deadly.

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    Good Vibrations

    by Beach Boys

    I, I love the colorful clothes she wears
    And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair
    I hear the sound of a gentle word
    On the wind that lifts her perfume through the air

    Close my eyes
    She's somehow closer now
    Softly smile, I know she must be kind
    When I look in her eyes
    She goes with me to a blossom world
    Turman found a copy of The Graduate, and thought highly enough of the story that he made a movie he considered to be 90-percent faithful to the book.

    But Turman and director Mike Nichols made one key adaptation, changing the Braddocks from WASP-y blonde characters into a dark-haired, more ethnic-looking family.

    From NPR's Present at the Creation

    http://www.npr.org/programs/morning/features/patc/graduate/

    http://www.norcalmovies.com/TheGraduate/tg11.jpg

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    Senior Member Gladstone's Avatar
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    By the band Garbage

    Milk

    I am milk
    I am red hot kitchen
    And I am cool
    Cool as the deep blue ocean

    I am lost
    So I am cruel
    But I'd be love and sweetness
    If I had you

    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you
    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you

    I am weak
    But I am strong
    I can use my tears to
    Bring you home

    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you
    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you
    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you

    I am milk
    I am red hot kitchen
    I am cool
    Cool as the deep blue ocean

    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you
    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you

    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you
    I'm aching
    I'm aching for you

    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting
    I'm waiting for you.


    Lovesong

    The Cure

    whenever I'm alone with you you make me feel
    like i am home again whenever i'm alone with
    you you make me feel like i am whole again

    whenever i'm alone with you you make me feel
    like i am young again whenever i'm alone with
    you you make me feel like i am fun again

    however far away i will always love you however
    long i stay i will always love you whatever
    words i say i will always love you i will always
    love you

    whenever i'm alone with you you make me feel
    like i am free again whenever i'm alone with
    you you make me feel like i am clean again

    however far away i will always love you however
    long i stay i will always love you whatever
    words i say i will always love you i will always
    love you
    Turman found a copy of The Graduate, and thought highly enough of the story that he made a movie he considered to be 90-percent faithful to the book.

    But Turman and director Mike Nichols made one key adaptation, changing the Braddocks from WASP-y blonde characters into a dark-haired, more ethnic-looking family.

    From NPR's Present at the Creation

    http://www.npr.org/programs/morning/features/patc/graduate/

    http://www.norcalmovies.com/TheGraduate/tg11.jpg

  10. #10
    Senior Member Gladstone's Avatar
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    This is good

    She Moved Through the Fair

    Unknown

    My young love said to me, my mother won´t mind
    And my father won´t slight you for your lack of kine,
    And she stepped away from me and this she did say,
    It will not be long love ´til our wedding day.

    She stepped away from me and she moved through the fair,
    And fondly I watched her move here and move there,
    Then she went her way homeward with one star awake,
    As the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

    The people were saying no two were e´er wed,
    But one has a sorrow that never was said,
    And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear,
    And that was the last that I saw of my dear.

    I dreamt it last night that my young love came in,
    So softly she entered her feet made no din,
    She came close beside me and this she did say,
    It will not be long love ´til our wedding day
    Turman found a copy of The Graduate, and thought highly enough of the story that he made a movie he considered to be 90-percent faithful to the book.

    But Turman and director Mike Nichols made one key adaptation, changing the Braddocks from WASP-y blonde characters into a dark-haired, more ethnic-looking family.

    From NPR's Present at the Creation

    http://www.npr.org/programs/morning/features/patc/graduate/

    http://www.norcalmovies.com/TheGraduate/tg11.jpg

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