# Poetry (Original and/or Favorite Works)



## Captainnumber36

Here is one I wrote today, I think I'm going to put it up in my office where I do therapy along with some of my drawings.

*Harmony*

Distant, an unworthy approach
The space now smaller,
"Listen to my song,
Bathe in it's harmony,
Cherish it's meaning,
Exist within it's unforgotten eternity,
Love."


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## Captainnumber36

I'm sure there are other poets/fans of poetry on here! Who do you like, what do you like, share!


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## Totenfeier

There are three poets who, in my professional opinion, fully exploit everything of which the English language is capable (in terms of a nearly-flawless synthesis of profound meaning and musical depth), and a signature work by each:

1. John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

2. John Keats, "To Autumn"

3. Dylan Thomas, "Fern Hill"


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## Phil loves classical

I’m a huge fan of Chinese/Japanese Zen poetry, Goethe, Baudelaire, Keats, and Pound. I’ve written some over the years all prose. I find it harder to write what I really want than music, aince it is not limited to 12 notes and other fixed parameters.


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## Joe B

One of my favorites is William Butler Yeats' "THE SECOND COMING."

My own poetry is more in line with Silverstein and Prelutsky.


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## Bettina

Phil loves classical said:


> I'm a huge fan of Chinese/Japanese Zen poetry, Goethe, Baudelaire, Keats, and Pound. I've written some over the years all prose. I find it harder to write what I really want than music, aince it is not limited to 12 notes and other fixed parameters.


It sounds like maybe you do your best work when there are some constraints and rules to guide you. In that case, perhaps you could try writing poetry in a set form, such as a sonnet or haiku. If you decide to give that a try, let us know how it goes!


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## Dr Johnson

I enjoy limericks and clerihews.


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## Taplow

Dr Johnson said:


> I enjoy limericks and clerihews.


The clerihew is a high poetic achievement indeed. Unfortunately much-neglected.


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## classical yorkist

I'm a little bit obsessed by John Keats. Was able to go to the National Portrait Gallery earlier this year and the tiny miniature portrait they have of him there was incredible to see, it was luminous.


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## hpowders

Richard Cory
BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.


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## Taplow

An apposite clerihew, for those who have never been exposed:

Thomas Tallis
Bore no man any malice
Save for an organist called Ken
Who played his music rather badly now and then

- Spike Milligan


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## Joe B

Joe B said:


> My own poetry is more in line with Silverstein and Prelutsky.



"My Dad's Truck"

My Dad's truck is big and black,
He says his truck is "Where it's at!"

When my Dad gets behind the wheel,
His two back tires often squeal.

He thinks that cars are "Way to slow"
My dad says, "I want'a go…!!!!!"

Took the corner way to fast--
Dad's new truck is in the grass.

He got yelled at by the Trooper,
Called my Mom, "Well that's just SUPER!"​


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## Judith

Have an old traditional poetry book with poems written by all the known poets with "emergency war binding". Think it belonged to my Aunty originally and don't think she knows its in my possession.


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## Heliogabo

Emily Dickinson, John Ashbery, Dylan Thomas, Ezra Pound, Sylvia Plath, Wallace Stevens, and, of courses Walt Whitman. My favorite english language poets.


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## Manxfeeder

Heliogabo said:


> Emily Dickinson


I can't get into Emily Dickinson, though I have a book of her poems. How do I get to see what everyone else is seeing?


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## Joe B

Manxfeeder said:


> I can't get into Emily Dickinson, though I have a book of her poems. How do I get to see what everyone else is seeing?


Manxfeeder,
Maybe you could try her poetry this way:










This definitely works for me.


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## Manxfeeder

Joe B said:


> Manxfeeder,
> Maybe you could try her poetry this way:
> 
> This definitely works for me.


One of the poems from this is on YouTube. It does make it come to life. Thanks!


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## Marinera

Rilke and Ecclesiastes


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## hpowders

Manxfeeder said:


> I can't get into Emily Dickinson, though I have a book of her poems. How do I get to see what everyone else is seeing?


Get Copland's Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson and simply follow along with the words. One of Aaron Copland's most inspired works. Might be a mind changer for you.


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## Cheyenne

hpowders said:


> Get Copland's Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson and simply follow along with the words. One of Aaron Copland's most inspired works. Might be a mind changer for you.


Thank you for recommending this, I will order a performance of it tomorrow at the local classical store!

Other musical settings of English poetry I recommend:

- William Bolcom's setting of Blake's _Songs of Innocence and of Experience_
- Gerald Finzi's setting of Wordsworth's _Ode: Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections of Early Childhood_
- Ralph Vaugan William's setting of Robert Louis Stevenson's _Songs of Travel_ (These settings are heard more than the original poems are read, but for a good reason: they work perfectly! How else to hear "Bright is the Ring of Words / When the right man rings them"?)

Gerald Finzi also set two Milton poems to music, one being the extraordinary sonnet starting with "Methought I saw my late espousèd saint". Any more recommendations are most welcome.


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## QuietGuy

hpowders said:


> Get Copland's Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson and simply follow along with the words. One of Aaron Copland's most inspired works. Might be a mind changer for you.


There is a fine setting of Dickinson's poem Will There Really Be a Morning? by Ricky Ian Gordon here: 




Of course, Copland's settings of Dickinson's words are wonderful too!


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## Manxfeeder

Cheyenne said:


> Thank you for recommending this, I will order a performance of it tomorrow at the local classical store!
> 
> Other musical settings of English poetry I recommend:
> 
> - William Bolcom's setting of Blake's _Songs of Innocence and of Experience_
> 
> . Any more recommendations are most welcome.


I have the Naxos recording. It's nice, but it has some quirks to it, being a live recording. I wish there were another recording of it somewhere. Are there are any others?

One well-done setting of poetry is Corigiliano's Dylan Thomas Trilogy. (His Mr. Tambourine Man is another story, at least to my ears.) Also Samuel Barber's Knoxville 1915 might be squeezed in, though it is actually prose and not English but American.


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## Phil loves classical

Manxfeeder said:


> I can't get into Emily Dickinson, though I have a book of her poems. How do I get to see what everyone else is seeing?


I have a problem accepting her imagery also. Like music stuff can rub you the wrong way.


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## SixFootScowl

I was never into poetry but do like the poems of Robert Service and of Edgar Guest (two quite different poets).


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## Bettina

The texts of art songs tend to be my favorite poems; the musical settings help me appreciate the nuances of the poetry more deeply. For example, I love Heine's Dichterliebe because of Schumann's lovely setting of the cycle. Similarly, some of Goethe's poems are favorites of mine, thanks to Schubert's Erlkönig and Gretchen am Spinnrade, as well as Beethoven's Kennst du das Land (a very underrated song).


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## tdc

I really like the works of Heinrich Heine as well, another favorite is the Roman poet Virgil.

There is plenty of stuff out there considered great I don't connect with, and/or just don't understand.


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## TennysonsHarp

I love the Romantic poets (Byron, Shelley, Keats) as well as Shakespeare and Milton, but my absolute favorite poet is Alfred, Lord Tennyson. His verse is melancholy but also filled with a sense of hope; a gleam of resurrection, if you will. I'm also a fan of T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and the Modernists.

As for non-English poets, Baudelaire is my favorite among the French. I love classical Chinese and Japanese poetry as well, and the Classical Greek and Roman poets are always present on my shelves.

I've been writing poetry since I was about thirteen, but I have yet to publish any of it. I'm compiling a volume of poetry right now, and I plan to self-publish by the end of the year. I would be more than happy to post a sample of my work to see if you folks would be interested in purchasing a copy of the finished product. I write largely in free verse, but have also composed some verses in a more formal style. I've been trying to get back into writing blank verse. I have a knack for coming up with it impromptu.

So, would you ladies and gentlemen be interested if I posted some of my poetry for feedback?


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## Cheyenne

Manxfeeder said:


> I have the Naxos recording. It's nice, but it has some quirks to it, being a live recording. I wish there were another recording of it somewhere. Are there are any others?
> 
> One well-done setting of poetry is Corigiliano's Dylan Thomas Trilogy. (His Mr. Tambourine Man is another story, at least to my ears.) Also Samuel Barber's Knoxville 1915 might be squeezed in, though it is actually prose and not English but American.


I am fairly certain it is the only one -- I couldn't find another. I do hope it will be recorded again.

Thanks for the Corigliano recommendation, I will seek it out too. I've had a volume of Dylan Thomas' complete work forever, but it's been so long since I've read it!

I am reading Spenser's _The Faerie Queene _at the moment, and I really like it. Once you get into the rhythm and language of it, and start to see Spenser's (not so subtle) allegory, it is remarkably enjoyable. There are many passages of beauty and the Spensarian stanza is of lasting fascination, because of its technical demands and lovely results. I've ordered Hadfield's biography of Spenser, the only modern biography of Spenser out there. He is rarely read nowadays, far less than Chaucer, Milton and Shakespeare. I hope Hadfield has some answers!


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## Phil loves classical

TennysonsHarp said:


> I love the Romantic poets (Byron, Shelley, Keats) as well as Shakespeare and Milton, but my absolute favorite poet is Alfred, Lord Tennyson. His verse is melancholy but also filled with a sense of hope; a gleam of resurrection, if you will. I'm also a fan of T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and the Modernists.
> 
> As for non-English poets, Baudelaire is my favorite among the French. I love classical Chinese and Japanese poetry as well, and the Classical Greek and Roman poets are always present on my shelves.
> 
> I've been writing poetry since I was about thirteen, but I have yet to publish any of it. I'm compiling a volume of poetry right now, and I plan to self-publish by the end of the year. I would be more than happy to post a sample of my work to see if you folks would be interested in purchasing a copy of the finished product. I write largely in free verse, but have also composed some verses in a more formal style. I've been trying to get back into writing blank verse. I have a knack for coming up with it impromptu.
> 
> So, would you ladies and gentlemen be interested if I posted some of my poetry for feedback?


Yeah, let's hear some ....


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## TennysonsHarp

Here's a tanka I wrote that I think is one of my best poems:

Of two pines
I remember nothing
Save a wet body
Two lips wet with lakewater
And an apple bitten twice.


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## Phil loves classical

TennysonsHarp said:


> Here's a tanka I wrote that I think is one of my best poems:
> 
> Of two pines
> I remember nothing
> Save a wet body
> Two lips wet with lakewater
> And an apple bitten twice.


style sounds interesting...
I'm lost on the meaning 

if I were to guess, it is an animal of some sort, taking shelter under the trees


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## laurie

TennysonsHarp said:


> Here's a tanka I wrote that I think is one of my best poems:
> 
> Of two pines
> I remember nothing
> Save a wet body
> Two lips wet with lakewater
> And an apple bitten twice.


I quite like this. My feeling of it is, it's about a woman, & temptation...

But isn't a tanka written in 5-7-5-7-7 form? (I'm not sure; poetry classes were a long time ago!  )


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## TennysonsHarp

Traditionally, Japanese poets worked in a 5-7-5 pattern; but since Japanese syllables and English syllables are very different, most English writers of haiku and tanka don't adhere strictly to the formal pattern.

Here a couple of haiku I wrote a while back:

The scent of blossoms
slowly weighs down my robe
in summer.

Spring nights;
rain is fitful, turning to snow
and back again.


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## Mowgli

"Through three cheese trees three free fleas flew.
While these fleas flew, freezy breeze blew.
Freezy breeze made these three trees freeze.
Freezy trees made these trees' cheeze freeze.
That's what made these three free fleas sneeze." - *Fox*


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## Mowgli

From book _Creep To Death_ by Joseph Payne Brennan


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## Totenfeier

To atone for the utterly unconscionable omission of Gerard Manley Hopkins in my earlier post, here, in its entirety:

THE WINDHOVER
(to Christ our Lord)

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in
his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl
and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valor and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovlier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.


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## Bettina

TennysonsHarp said:


> Here's a tanka I wrote that I think is one of my best poems:
> 
> Of two pines
> I remember nothing
> Save a wet body
> Two lips wet with lakewater
> And an apple bitten twice.


This is a beautifully evocative poem! My only reservation about it is that maybe you shouldn't use "wet" twice. In such a short poem, I feel like that could be too redundant. The first "wet" could maybe be replaced with an adjective such as "soft" or "tall" or whatever else could describe your memory of the body.

However, I'm certainly not qualified to critique poetry, so please take this with a huge grain of salt. Maybe the repetition is actually a good way of creating unity.


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## TennysonsHarp

Right now I'm working on a performance piece in blank verse for my Argument and Persuasion in Antiquity class. I'm writing a counter-argument to Ajax in the voice of his mistress, Tecmessa. I'll post it tomorrow after I finish it.


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## Meyerbeer Smith

Taplow said:


> An apposite clerihew, for those who have never been exposed:
> 
> Thomas Tallis
> Bore no man any malice
> Save for an organist called Ken
> Who played his music rather badly now and then
> 
> - Spike Milligan


Some by Auden:

Johann Sebastian Bach
Was a master of his Fach:
Nothing could be more kluge
Than his Kunst der Fuge.

Ludwig van Beethoven
Believed it proven
That, for mortal dust,
What must be, must.

Georg Friedrich Händel
Was highly respected in Kendal:
It was George Frederick Handel
Who caused all the scandal.

Joseph Haydn
Never read Dryden
Nor did John Dryden
Ever hear Haydn.

"Ma foi!", exclaimed Stendhal,
"Ce Scarpia n'est pas si mal,
But he's no Count Mosca,
Unluckily for Tosca."


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## Meyerbeer Smith

Byron - ideal for reading out loud with a bottle in hand

Flecker's "Gates of Damascus"

Wodehouse's "Good Gnus"

Donne, Dryden, Browning


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## SixFootScowl

One of my favorite poems, *The Cremation of Sam McGee*, by Robert W. Service:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

See full poem here.


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## Totenfeier

Here's a sonnet I composed for Stevie Nicks once:

As when, in icy blue transparent skies
The white-winged dove exults in purest flight,
So floats my heart when you caress my eyes
In glowing clouds of dark and mystic light;
So floats my heart when you caress my eyes
And ears with songs of passion, O my dove,
That I desire to lie between your thighs 
And you become the only one I love; 
That I desire to lie between your thighs
Is tribute to your voice's gentle grace,
And when, in icy blue transparent skies
The sun resplendent flames, so shines your face.
In glowing clouds of dark and mystic light,
The white-winged dove exults in purest flight.

...aaaand there you have it.


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## TennysonsHarp

Here's the poem I was talking about. I presented it in class and I think it was very well-received. The background for this poem is based off the play _Ajax_ by Sophocles. The warrior Ajax is considering suicide as a means of preserving his honor. Please let me know what you think.

Tecmessa: Though I have but a woman's heart and body,
The earnestness of my devotion runs
As potent as the ichor of Achilles
Now deified and resting in the stars,
And I would counter your justification
For falling on your sword, shatter tradition,
And break my duties as a quiet wife
To save the life of Ajax, my beloved.

Ajax: With lack of care I greet your earnestness:
For though my mind is stubborn as the steel
Of which my shame-relieving sword is made,
I'll hear you out, a final word of love
From Thisbe to despairing Pyramus. Speak!

Tecmessa: My Lord, I'll seize upon your argument
And offer in return one of my own,
Replete with premises and conclusions.
You claim that suicide's the only way
For men to die with honor in their hearts,
The only way a family can keep
Their honor pure and unadulterated.
And yet, my gracious Lord, your honor flees
The moment sword displaces sinew, and the soul
Drifts like a wayward leaf to the Underworld.
Were you to sheathe your sword within yourself,
There'd be no room for valor, nor for honor,
Nor any trait that makes a warrior.
Consider your echthroi and your philoi,
Your foes and friends--what would become of them
Were you to kill yourself? Atreus' sons,
Menelaus and Agamemnon would
Rejoice upon their hearing of your death,
And theirs would be the victory. Your household,
Your wee son and myself, would be adrift,
Captainless ships lost in a constant fog
No navigators or a helmsman to propel us.
You speak of honor, but you must be blind
If you cannot see honor leaving you
Because you gave your foes the upper hand
And sent your family to rot in shame
By taking your own life. Ajax, Ajax,
Your honor won't be kept or reinforced
By suicide. It sets you up for failure,
Failure as a husband and a father;
Failure as the son of Telamon;
Failure as the Argive warrior
Who fought courageously beside Achilles.
Would such fond memories meet an unjust end
Because you felt you could preserve yourself
By tossing yourself out? Beloved Lord,
Do not give in to impulses of grief,
Nor be won over by this melancholy.
If honor is what you are striving for,
Then you cannot die. You can only live:
Live each day with those memories in heart,
The recollection of your glory days
Fighting beside the strongest of the Greeks.
It's not too late, my Lord, to die in peace,
Your family and your honor uncorrupted.
Put down the blade, my Lord; preserve your honor.


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## Phil loves classical

I like poems most that are simple and yet evocative and profound. Like this one by a famous Japanese Haiku poet, Buson:

The evening breezes -
The water splashes against
A blue heron’s shins


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## Phil loves classical

TennysonsHarp said:


> Here's the poem I was talking about. I presented it in class and I think it was very well-received. The background for this poem is based off the play _Ajax_ by Sophocles. The warrior Ajax is considering suicide as a means of preserving his honor. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Tecmessa: Though I have but a woman's heart and body,
> The earnestness of my devotion runs
> As potent as the ichor of Achilles
> Now deified and resting in the stars,
> And I would counter your justification
> For falling on your sword, shatter tradition,
> And break my duties as a quiet wife
> To save the life of Ajax, my beloved.
> 
> Ajax: With lack of care I greet your earnestness:
> For though my mind is stubborn as the steel
> Of which my shame-relieving sword is made,
> I'll hear you out, a final word of love
> From Thisbe to despairing Pyramus. Speak!
> 
> Tecmessa: My Lord, I'll seize upon your argument
> And offer in return one of my own,
> Replete with premises and conclusions.
> You claim that suicide's the only way
> For men to die with honor in their hearts,
> The only way a family can keep
> Their honor pure and unadulterated.
> And yet, my gracious Lord, your honor flees
> The moment sword displaces sinew, and the soul
> Drifts like a wayward leaf to the Underworld.
> Were you to sheathe your sword within yourself,
> There'd be no room for valor, nor for honor,
> Nor any trait that makes a warrior.
> Consider your echthroi and your philoi,
> Your foes and friends--what would become of them
> Were you to kill yourself? Atreus' sons,
> Menelaus and Agamemnon would
> Rejoice upon their hearing of your death,
> And theirs would be the victory. Your household,
> Your wee son and myself, would be adrift,
> Captainless ships lost in a constant fog
> No navigators or a helmsman to propel us.
> You speak of honor, but you must be blind
> If you cannot see honor leaving you
> Because you gave your foes the upper hand
> And sent your family to rot in shame
> By taking your own life. Ajax, Ajax,
> Your honor won't be kept or reinforced
> By suicide. It sets you up for failure,
> Failure as a husband and a father;
> Failure as the son of Telamon;
> Failure as the Argive warrior
> Who fought courageously beside Achilles.
> Would such fond memories meet an unjust end
> Because you felt you could preserve yourself
> By tossing yourself out? Beloved Lord,
> Do not give in to impulses of grief,
> Nor be won over by this melancholy.
> If honor is what you are striving for,
> Then you cannot die. You can only live:
> Live each day with those memories in heart,
> The recollection of your glory days
> Fighting beside the strongest of the Greeks.
> It's not too late, my Lord, to die in peace,
> Your family and your honor uncorrupted.
> Put down the blade, my Lord; preserve your honor.


Well written, a throwback to epic and dramatic poetry. I woulda thought "It won't be too late, my Lord, to die in peace..." is more accurate in reference to time. Problem is with selling this kind of poetry, like music the market is more into postmodern stuff.


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## SixFootScowl

Here is one I just lifted from an email that included historic pictures from the horse and buggy days. I can relate to a bit of this in that I once did have my mouth washed out with soap as a kid (was only repeating what my dad had said, but he didn't get the same treatment).
_______________________________________

I remember the corned beef of my Childhood,
And the bread that we cut with a knife,
When the Children helped with the housework,
And the men went out to work, not the wife.

The cheese never needed a fridge,
And the bread was so crusty and hot,
The Children were seldom unhappy,
And the Wife was content with her lot.

I remember the milk from the bottle,
With the yummy cream on the top,
Our dinner came hot from the oven,
And not from a freezer; or shop.

The kids were a lot more contented,
They didn't need money for kicks,
Just a game with their friends in the road,
And sometimes the Saturday flicks.

I remember the shop on the corner,
Where biscuits for pennies were sold
Do you think I'm a bit too nostalgic?
Or is it....I'm just getting Old?

Bathing was done in a wash tub,
With plenty of rich foamy suds
But the ironing seemed never ending
As Mum pressed everyone's 'duds'.

I remember the slap on my backside,
And the taste of soap if I swore,
Anorexia and diets weren't heard of
And we hadn't much choice what we wore.

Do you think that bruised our ego?
Or our initiative was destroyed?
We ate what was put on the table
And I think life was better enjoyed.

Author, Unknown ...


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## David Phillips

I remember feeling annoyed on hearing endless two-bar phrases in a Rimsky-Korsakov overture and wrote this poem in the Malayan form of the Pantoum, which also repeats phrases.

TWO-BAR PHRASES

They must have caught the bug from Rimsky—
find an idea, say it twice;
those French composers loved their Rusky
two-bar phrases, chop and splice.

Find an idea, say it twice,
composers’ tic, a kind of cheat,
with two-bar phrases, chop and splice,
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Composers’ tic, a kind of cheat,
and cripes it gets to be a bore— 
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat,
a constant waving semaphore.

And cripes it gets to be a bore,
the repetition irritates.
a constant waving semaphore
of brightly coloured juggled plates.

The repetition irritates?
Those French composers loved their Rusky
brightly coloured juggled plates—
they must have caught the bug from Rimsky.


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## josquindesprez

Not sure if anyone around here reads Pessoa, but I enjoy the poetry of Alberto Caeiro, which was one of Pessoa's many heteronyms. (Pessoa would write through a different identity or poetic style that he invented. Each of the heteronyms had a unique biography and philosophy of the world. Caeiro was the more or less "master" poet for Pessoa when he wrote under his own name, and also for Ricardo Reis, who was a critic and poet, and for Álvaro de Campos, who idolized Caeiro to some extent but whose poetry was not often enjoyed by "Pessoa" (even though it was written by Pessoa).) I was going to post his first poem, but due to length you get his second one (titled "II"), which more or less sums up his philosophy.


When I look, I see clear as a sunflower.
I’m always walking the roads
Looking right and left,
And sometimes looking behind...
And what I see every second
Is something I’ve never seen before,
And I know how to do this very well...
I know how to have the essential astonishment
That a child would have if it could really see 
It was being born when it was being born...
I feel myself being born in each moment,
In the eternal newness of the world...

I believe in the world like I believe in a marigold,
Because I see it. But I don’t think about it
Because to think is to not understand...
The world wasn’t made for us to think about
(To think is to be sick in the eyes)
But for us to see and agree with...

I don’t have a philosophy: I have senses...
If I talk about Nature, it’s not because I know what it is,
But because I love it, and that’s why I love it,
Because when you love you never know what you love,
Or why you love, or what love is...

Loving is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not thinking...


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## Listenerris

Hi! When I wrote it, I was thinking that it may be a little bit funny. But, afraid this not so funny, if someone gettinng so uncomfortable thing, though that it is purely it is field of imagination.
And then,- english is not my native language 

Winter to came.

Uninvited guest it is a winter,
you showed up so early,
again the snow covered the houses,
and swinging on a maple the magpie.

On in the way the wind is blowing, 
and noses of passers-by the frost ,
under the snow there is deceptive ice,
and someone's foot getting it crawls.

Someone ,who is goes in a fur coat,
in the cap of rabbit fur, 
if he is fall to road, and in the at oak tree,
the crow burst into a loud laugh..


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## Pat Fairlea

Dylan Thomas
Poem in October
As good as it gets.


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## Listenerris

2.
The winter cold came like an uninvited guest, 
you showed up your forces for the peoples, 
again the snow covered the houses bend,
and swinging frosty bird in dawn darkness.

And north wind is blowing ruthless into face, 
the noses, hands of passers-by in asking for mercy,
Believe that under the snow there is danger for the life
and must be someone's foot did not is thoughtless moving.

The mans and womens ,who is goes into work ,
take in the road a fur coat, the cap of rabbit fur, 
and you don't not fall to road, and doctor do not knock
In your house door which any mischief dont be open.


----------



## SixFootScowl

The Present Crisis, James Russell Lowell, 1819 - 1891

When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast 
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb 
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.

Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous throe, 
When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro; 
At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, 
Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart, 
And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart.

So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, 
Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill, 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with God 
In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod, 
Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod.

For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along, 
Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right or wrong; 
Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frame 
Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame;- 
In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, 
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; 
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, 
Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, 
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, 
Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land? 
Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong, 
And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng 
Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.

Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see, 
That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea; 
Not an ear in court or market for the low, foreboding cry 
Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly; 
Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.

Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record 
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word; 
Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,- 
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, 
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, 
Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, 
But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, 
List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,- 
"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."

Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, 
Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood, 
Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, 
Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey;- 
Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play?

Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, 
Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just; 
Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, 
Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, 
And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,-they were souls that stood alone, 
While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone, 
Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline 
To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, 
By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, 
Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, 
And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned 
One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned 
Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands, 
On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; 
Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling ****** burn, 
While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return 
To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 
Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, 
Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;- 
Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time? 
Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that made Plymouth Rock sublime?

They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, 
Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's; 
But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free, 
Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee 
The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea.

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, 
Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires; 
Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, 
From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away 
To light up the martyr-****** round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth; 
They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; 
Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, 
Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, 
Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key.


----------



## cwarchc

I'm a fan of Thomas, especially when read by Richard Burton
I find his voice brings it to life


----------



## LezLee

"Do not go gentle...." is my favourite Thomas poem too.
I love John Cale's setting and had it played at my husband's funeral (humanist speaker, cardboard coffin, woodland burial).






Unfortunately the best version from 'Words for the Dying' isn't available on YouTube.


----------



## Captainnumber36

I need to write more poems! I forgot all about this thread.


----------



## Guest

I quite like this one by Craig Raine: A Martian Send a Postcard Home

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings –

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside –
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet, they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone’s pain has a different smell.

At night, when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves –
in colour, with their eyelids shut.


----------



## Phil loves classical

Here is an example of Tang poetry from the Chinese. This and others were set to music by Mahler in his Song of the Earth

Dismounting, I offer my friend a cup of wine,
I ask what place he is headed to.
He says he has not achieved his aims,
Is retiring to the southern hills.
Now go, and ask me nothing more,
White clouds will drift on for all time.
—Wang Wei (??), The Farewell (ca. 750 CE)


Like music, I'm fond of brevity.


----------



## KenOC

On a grimmer note: The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

-Randall Jarrell

Jarrell notes: "A ball turret was a Plexiglas sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the fetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose."


----------



## KenOC

My favorite T'ang dynasty poet is Du Fu. Here's "Many People Come to Visit and Bring Wine After I Fell Off My Horse, Drunk"

I, Du Fu, the duke's elderly guest,
Finished my wine, drunkenly sang, and waved a golden halberd.
I mounted my horse and suddenly remembered the days of my youth,
The flying hooves sent stones pouring down into Qutang gorge.
Baidicheng's city gates are beyond the water's clouds,
Bending over, I plunged straight down eight thousand feet.
Whitewashed battlements passed like lightning, the purple reins were loose,
Then east, I reached the level ridge, out past heaven's cliff.
River villages and country halls vied to enter my eyes,
The whip hung down, the bridle drooped, I reached the crimson road.
All the ten thousand people amazed by my silver head,
I trusted to the riding and shooting skills of my rosy-cheeked youth.
How could I know that bursting its chest, hooves chasing the wind,
That racing horse, red with sweat, breathing spurts of jade,
Would unexpectedly take a tumble and end up injuring me?
In human life, taking pleasure often leads to shame.
That's why I'm feeling sad, lying on quilts and pillows,
Being in the sunset of my life only adds to the bother.
When I knew you'd come to visit, I wanted to hide my face,
With a bramble stick I manage to rise, leaning on a servant.
Then, after we've finished talking, we open our mouths and laugh,
Giving me support, you help to sweep by the clear stream's bend.
Wine and meat are piled up like mountains once again,
The feast starts: sad strings and brave bamboo sound out.
Together, we point to the western sun, not to be granted us long,
Noise and exclamations, then we tip the cup of clear wine.
Why did you have to hurry your horses, coming to ask after me?
Don't you remember Xi Kang, who nourished life and got killed?​


----------



## KenOC

OK, I'll quit. _Reply to a Friend's Advice_

Leaving the Audience by the quiet corridors,
Stately and beautiful, we pass through the Palace gates,

Turning in different directions: you go to the West
With the Ministers of State. I, otherwise.

On my side, the willow-twigs are fragile, greening.
You are struck by scarlet flowers over there.

Our separate ways! You write so well, so kindly,
To caution, in vain, a garrulous old man.


----------



## Phil loves classical

^^ Du Fu was considered the greatest of the Tang poets. This is one of his most famous. Zen poetry is on a different dimension I feel, and pretty modern in style

Gentle breeze on grass by the shore,
The boat's tall mast alone at night.
Stars fall to the broad flat fields,
Moon rises from the great river's flow.
Have my writings not made any mark?
An official should stop when old and sick.
Fluttering from place to place I resemble,
A gull between heaven and earth.


----------



## Captainnumber36

Phil loves classical said:


> ^^ Du Fu was considered the greatest of the Tang poets. This is one of his most famous. Zen poetry is on a different dimension I feel, and pretty modern in style
> 
> Gentle breeze on grass by the shore,
> The boat's tall mast alone at night.
> Stars fall to the broad flat fields,
> Moon rises from the great river's flow.
> Have my writings not made any mark?
> An official should stop when old and sick.
> Fluttering from place to place I resemble,
> A gull between heaven and earth.


I really like this one. I have a soft spot for moon, water and star imagery!


----------



## SixFootScowl

*The Song of Joan of Arc*

Translated from the French text in Christine de Pisan, Ditié de Jeanne d'Arc, 
ed. Angus J. Kennedy and Kenneth Varty 
(Oxford: Society for the Study of Medieval Languages and Literature, 1977), trans. L. Shopkow
Source web page: http://www.indiana.edu/~dmdhist/joan.htm

I

I, Christine, for eleven years
Shut in an abbey all the time,
Unceasingly have shed my tears,
Enclosed there by that dreadful crime,
Since Charles-what happened is bizarre-,
The King's son-if one can dare to say-
Fled from Paris, gone afar.
Now I can laugh again today!

II

I deeply laugh from happiness,
Because the frozen wintertide,
Has gone away; then I confess,
I closed myself away inside.
But now I plan to change my tune
From lamentation into song,
Now that I have found radiant June-
I bore my suffering for so long!

III

Now it is fourteen twenty-nine,
The fair season returns anew,
The sun again begins to shine,
That for so long was not in view.
Then many folks were dressed in sable,
I too put on that dismal hue.
I've thrown off mourning, now I'm able
To see what I have long yearned to.

IV

Thus my song has turned away,
From deepest sorrow into glee,
Since the time I had to stay
Shut in; And what I longed to see,
The glorious season they call Spring,
When everything appears like new,
Has come, thank God, and now will bring,
A shift from brown to green in hue.

V

Because the legal first-born child
Of France's king, who now draws near,
Who for a long time was exiled,
And suffered many a pain and fear,
Arises now as though for Prime,
And dressed in great and noble might,
Endowed with golden spurs sublime,
Comes crowned as king, as is his right.

VI

A gala for his welcoming,
We all should make; let us rejoice
In the splendor of our king.
Come forward, great and small give voice
To greeting-no one fall behind-
Salute him with a joyful face,
And praise God who has been so kind
To him; let "Noels!" fill the place.

VII

But now I wish to tell you how
God through his grace brought this about,
Let God grant me the gift right now
To tell it, and leave nothing out.
One by one, in order queued,
These deeds may live in memory,
For they are worthy to include
In chronicles and history!

VIII

Hear a matter marvelous,
Known everywhere, both far and wide,
How God, who is all graciousness,
Is at the last on virtue's side.
This is a widely noted fact,
If we consider the present case,
That God may help the hapless one,
When Fortune casts him on his face.

IX

No one should therefore be dismayed
When evil Fortune strikes a blow,
When blame's at his door wrongly laid,
And vicious gossip lays him low!
Although Fortune destroys some men,
She sometimes shows a different side,
For God who harshly punishes sin,
Helps those who in his hope abide.

X

Who has yet seen something occur
So far beyond what they expected?
The whole of France should now ensure
The story be well recollected
That France (which as I said above
Was near destroyed) might rise again,
Through exhibition of God's love,
Might find success instead of pain.

XI

If of this deed the fame were less,
The proof much less empirical,
Would anyone this feat profess?
It clearly was a miracle!
It is well worth remembering,
That the Almighty through a Maid-
This story is true!-His grace did bring
And His great grace on France was laid.

XII

Oh what an honor for the crown
Of France, through this celestial test!
He granted it virtue's renown,
And shows how much the crown is blessed,
And that he finds more faith in God
In France's crown than anywhere;
I've read-now this is nothing new!-
In faith the Lilies never err.

XIII

And you, Charles, now the king of France,
The seventh king of that great name,
Who earlier suffered such mischance;
You thought the future held more shame.
But by God's grace, now look how Joan
Has raised your fame on high, oh see!
Your enemies before you bow--
This is a welcome novelty!--

XIV

Most quickly worked; one would have thought,
That such a deed could not be done,
That all your efforts were for nought,
That France was gone; now it is won.
Although you took tremendous harm,
You have your country back in tow,
Won back by wise Joan's mighty arm.
Thanks be to God, it happened so!

XV

You must believe that such great grace,
Was given to you for some goal,
That God ordained the time and place
That you might play a greater role.
Some solemn deed He destined you
To carry out in space and time;
For He has chosen you to be
Of noble deeds the paradigm.

XVI

For there will be a king of France,
Who Charles, the son of Charles, will be.
Over kings his dominance
Will lie; thus runs the prophecy.
The "Flying Stag" will be his name,
Of wonderful deeds he'll be author,
(God appoints him to the same),
At last he will be emperor.

XVII

All this is profit to your soul
I pray God that you'll be that man.
Upon you may harm take no toll,
May you live long so that you can
See your descendants, and may you
And they bring gladness without cease
To France and do God's service true,
And that no war will mar your peace!

XVIII

And I hope you will be fair,
A lover of law and righteousness,
And that you will surpass all others
And no pride bring you shamefulness;
Toward your people gentle and kind,
And fearing God, who's chosen you
To be his servant (you have proof
Of this), and do your duty too.

XIX

How could your thanks to God suffice,
Your fearful service be too great,
To one who saved you in a trice,
And did all France emancipate
From war; who raised you from your fall,
And through his holy providence,
Has made you worthier of all
The honors that have issued hence?

XX

May you be praised, Oh God on high!
We all must give our thanks to you,
Who granted us the space and time,
Where such good things have now come true.
Our hands together, great and small,
Let us our thanks to God now form;
To peace through you have come we all,
And into safety from the storm!

XXI

And you, blessed Maid, can we forget,
Since God has honored you so much,
Since you have sliced apart the rope
That held us bound, with one sure touch?
Could we praise you too much at all,
When you have calmed our countryside,
Once battered down by war's cruel blast,
So that we may in peace reside?

XXII

In a good hour you were born,
Blessed be the one who made you so!
His virgin, as He made you be,
In whom the Holy Ghost does blow
Its great grace; for the Holy Spirit
Such generous gifts will you afford,
That He will deny you nil;
Who else could grant a just reward?

XXIII

What could one sing about the past,
About the deeds that were effected?
God granted generously to Moses,
All virtues that might be expected.
Moses led the people of God
From Egypt, without any neglect,
Miraculously. Thus you have led
Us out of evil, Maid elect!

XXIV

Contemplate your person now,
You are virgin, very young,
To whom God grants the strength and power
To be both woman and champion,
Who offers France the gentle breast,
The food of peace and will correct
The wicked folk who would rebel.
'Tis more than Nature could effect!

XXV

If God worked many miracles
Through Joshua, when he began
To conquer and destroy so many
Places, still, he was a man,
Powerful and strong. But Joan
Was but a shepherdess, though she
Was braver yet than any Roman!
For God, this is simplicity!

XXVI

But people, I have never heard
A story of equal mystery,
For all the champions who lived,
As one goes back through history,
Could not compare in prowess to Joan,
Who strives our enemies to ban;
For God who counsels her gave her
A greater heart than any man.

XXVII

Gideon is world renowned;
He was a simple working man,
Yet God made him, the story goes,
An great unconquered champion,
So that he captured every prize,
But though God led him on his way
He did not work such wonders as
He worked for Joan in our own day.

XXVIII

Esther, Judith and Deborah,
Were women of outstanding merit,
Through them God rescued the folk
Their foes had tried to disinherit.
There were many others as well,
Who were courageous, and yet still
No one surpassed this Virgin's deeds,
Or did so many marvels fulfill.

XXIX

God sent her through a miracle,
She was brought here by God's decree,
And led by an angel of God
To well defend our royalty.
Her deed was no inane illusion,
It has been authenticated
By disputation (in conclusion,
Cause by effect is demonstrated),

XXX

She was well interrogated,
When she had gained a following,
By priests and other learned men,
To see if she were tampering
With verity; and so it's sure,
That God conveyed her to the king,
But we have read in history,
That she would come to do this thing,

XXXI

For Merlin, the Sibyl, and old Bede
Five hundred years and more ago,
Saw her in spirit and foretold,
That she would come ease France's woe.
They wrote it down in prophecies,
That she would come bear France's banner
In France's wars, and told about
Her deed, and well described its manner.

XXXII

But by my faith, her holy life,
Shows well that she is in God's grace,
So that I more believe in her.
Whatever enemy she may face,
She always keeps God in her mind,
She calls upon him, him she serves
With all her heart in word and deed,
Her love for Him never ebbs or swerves.

XXXIII

Oh! How evident this was
At Orleans, during the siege
And when her strength had first appeared.
No miracle, as I believe,
Was ever clearer, for God helped
His own so much, our foe could not
Assist himself more than a dead
Dog could; he died upon the spot.

XXXIV

Aha!! What honor for the female
Sex! God shows how he loves it,
When the nobles-great, but wretched-
Who earlier the realm had quit,
By one woman were fortified,
No men could do this deed, but more:
The traitors were repaid in kind!
No one would credit this before.

XXXV

A girl of only sixteen years
(Does this not outdo Nature's skill?)
Who lightly heavy weapons bears,
Of strong and hard food takes her fill,
And thus is like it. And God's foes
Before her swiftly fleeing run,
She did this in the public eye.
There tarried not a single one.

XXXVI

She frees France from its enemies,
Recovering citadels and castles.
No army ever did so much,
Not even a hundred thousand vassals!
And of our brave and able folk,
She is the chief and first commander.
God makes it so; not even Hector
Nor Achilles could withstand her.

XXXVII

Oh you the proven fighting men
Who show yourselves as good and true
Who carry out the deeds of war
Some mention must be made of you.
In every country you'll hear praise,
Your courage be on every tongue
Without fail above all else
Your praises will be loudly sung.

XXXVIII

You who bare your flesh and life,
In justice's name, to such harsh pain,
And you who dare to put yourself
At risk against so many a bane,
Be constant, for I swear that you
Will win renown or heaven some day!
For one who fights for righteousness,
Will conquer paradise, I say.

XXXIX

So, lower your trumpets, Englishmen,
Your hunt will never find success!
Your tricks will not avail in France!
Your king's check-mated now in chess!
Earlier you did not fear
When you first proved so dangerous.
But you were not yet on the road
Where God slays the vainglorious.

XL

Then you thought that France was won,
That France was caught inside your snare.
It happened otherwise, false mob!
Go off and beat your drums elsewhere,
If you do not desire to taste
Death, like your companions,
Whose bodies wolves may well devour,
Where fallen they lie amongst the ruins.

XLI

Through Joan the English will be beaten;
They will not ever rise again.
God thus commands who hears the cries
Of people whom they caused such pain!
The blood of those who died cries out
Against the English without cease.
The Lord will end their suffering;
He'll smite the sinners and grant us peace.

XLII

The Christian faith and Holy Church,
Will both be set to rights through her,
She will destroy the evil-doers,
To whom one sometimes does refer,
The heretics of filthy life.
For prophecy, which her foresaw,
Said that she would not mercy show
To those who soil the Holy Law.

XLIII

She will assault the Saracens
In conquering the Holy Land.
God save Charles! She'll lead him there.
Before he dies, he will command
To journey there. This is the place
He ought to win. And here should she
Expire. Here both shall glory win!
And thus completed may things be!

XLIV

Forget, then, all heroic men,
For she alone should take the crown,
Her deeds suffice to show that God
Has handed her more valor down
Than all those who are often named,
And she has not yet finished here!
I think God granted her all this,
So through her deeds peace will appear!

XLV

For it is her smallest task
To overthrow the English reign,
For she aspires to much more:
That the faith shall never wane.
As for the English, if one laughs
Or weeps, we are now shut of them.
They will be completely conquered.
The future will sing their requiem!

XLVI

As for you, ignoble rebels,
Who followed where the English led,
Would you not now be better off,
If you had done what's right instead
Of falling into English serfdom?
Your sufferings may yet multiply,
Watch out! (For you have suffered greatly)
And remember, you will die!

XLVII

Do you not see, you purblind people,
That in this God shows his hand?
Only the witless do not know this,
For it is by his command,
That the Maid has come to France;
To the death fights La Pucelle-
You have no force to stand against her-
Against God would you rebel?

XLVIII

Was the king not consecrated,
Whom she led there by the hand?
She had foes, but no deed greater
Happened in the Holy Land.
Notwithstanding all opponents,
Welcomed by the noble class,
Charles the king was well received there,
He was crowned and then heard mass.

XLIX

In the greatest triumph and power
At Reims Charles was crowned the king
In one thousand and four hundred,
Twenty-nine, all flourishing,
There were knights and many barons
On the seventeenth of July.
After being consecrated,
Four or five more days went by,

L

And the little Maid stayed by him.
When he turned to leave again,
Not a city, not a castle,
Not a tiny village of men,
Held out; whether they loved or hated,
Were assured or glowered in fright,
Few attacked; they all surrendered.
Thus did they all fear his might!

LI

It is true some folk resisted
Out of folly, but few could.
In the end God wrested payment
From them for not being good.
Vain were their struggles. They all paid,
Whether they wanted to or not,
For no resistance did not die
Upon the Maid's steadfast onslaught.

LII

Although they made a great assembly,
So the king might be waylaid,
And attacked him in an ambush,
No one required a doctor's aid
thereafter; for the rebels all
Were dead and taken, I hear tell,
And one by one as suited each
Were sent to heaven or to hell.

LIII

I don't know (for they aren't here)
If Paris yet will bend its knee,
If the Maid will wait for this;
But if it is her enemy,
I do not doubt she will attack it,
As she has done other factions.
If they dare resist an hour,
Harm will follow from their actions.

LIV

For complain who will, the king
Will enter Paris without fail!
The Maid has promised it to him.
Paris, will Burgundy avail
You against him? It cannot be,
Do not forget Burgundy's foes.
Your guardian has no more power.
Your pride will fall under his blows!

LV

Paris, oh!, so badly counselled!
Madmen lacking confidence!
Do you prefer to be exiled,
Than come to good terms with your prince?
Indeed, your dense perversity
Will kill you if you don't take care!
Better take to supplication.
Ask for mercy. Paris, beware!

LVI

I mention evil men, though there
Are many good ones, I don't doubt,
Whom those who dare reject the king
Displease, but these dare not speak out,
I promise you. But these good men,
Do not deserve to perish when
The city comes under attack,
And loses many a denizen.

LVII

And all you other rebel cities,
People who have scorned your lord,
Men and women who reject him,
And to another lend your sword,
May his wrath against you weaken,
When you for forgiveness sue.
If he defeats your towns by force,
Will you not lose his largesse too?

LVIII

So he won't be forced to murder
Nor to slice more flesh in war,
He holds back as long as he dares;
He does not desire gore.
But at last, if they will not
Surrender that which is his right,
He will still behave with justice,
If he wins it back by might.

LIX

Alas! The king is so forgiving
He would pardon everyone!
And the Maid, who follows God,
Demands of him that this be done.
Thus you should like loyal Frenchmen,
No more hold yourselves aloof!
If you give yourselves to him,
You will not suffer more reproof.

LX

Thus I pray God grant you courage,
All of you who face him thus,
And when this cruel storm is over,
Gone these wars so arduous,
That you will live out your days
In peace, under your sovereign king,
And that to you he'll ever be,
A lord gracious in everything.

Amen.

LXI

This poem was written by Christine,
Complete the last day of July,
In fourteen hundred twenty-nine.
About it I will prophesy,
That some will find themselves put out
About its contents, for the one
Whose face and eyes look ever downward
Cannot ever see the sun.
Thus ends a beautiful poem by Christine


----------



## Sloe

I am currently reading a collection of poems by Viktor Rydberg:

Here is a film from 1940 that is on Swedish tv every Christmas with Hilda Borgström reading his poem Tomten:






Here is Viktor Rydbergs poem Atenarnas Sång set to music by Jean Sibelius:


----------



## Zofia

Many of my favourite already listed so one of my favourite in my own language:

Deutsche from memory


Sommer by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1810) 


Der Sommer folgt. Es wachsen Tag und Hitze, 
und von den Auen dränget uns die Glut;
doch dort am Wasserfall, am Felsensitze 
erquickt ein Trunk, erfrischt ein Wort das Blut

Der Donner rollt, schon kreuzen sich die Blitze, 
die Höhle wölbt sich auf zur sichern Hut, 
dem Tosen nach kracht schnell ein knatternd Schmettern; 
doch Liebe lächelt unter Sturm und Wettern.

English copy and paste sorry

How plain and height
With dewdrops are bright!
How pearls have crown'd
The plants all around!
How sighs the breeze
Thro' thicket and trees!
How loudly in the sun's clear rays
The sweet birds carol forth their lays!

But, ah! above,
Where saw I my love,
Within her room,
Small, mantled in gloom,
Enclosed around,
Where sunlight was drown'd,
How little there was earth to me,
With all its beauteous majesty!


----------



## SixFootScowl

*Solitude*
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1855-1919)

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,-
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.


----------



## Zofia

Fritz Kobus said:


> *Solitude*
> By Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1855-1919)
> 
> Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
> Weep, and you weep alone..."


My Grandpa used to say this all the time thought it was just a phrase. Thank you greatly means a lot to know he must have like this poem.


----------



## SixFootScowl

Zofia said:


> My Grandpa used to say this all the time thought it was just a phrase. Thank you greatly means a lot to know he must have like this poem.


I think a lot of their generation (my Father) used to say that and many other bits. My father used to say "Yours is not to question why, yours it but to do and die." That is also from a poem though slightly modified. A horifying poem that represents what I think all too often happens in war:
*
The Charge of the Light Brigade*
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

II
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!


----------



## Zofia

*Fear No More the Heat o' the Sun* - *Shakespeare*

(from *Cymbeline*)

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages; -
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: 
Golden lads and girls all must, 
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great; 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 
Care no more to clothe and eat; 
To thee the reed is as the oak: 
The scepter, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone; 
Fear not slander, censure rash; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan: 
All lovers young, all lovers must 
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 
Nothing ill come near thee! 
Quiet consummation have; 
And renownèd be thy grave!​


----------



## RockyIII

*Stages*
by Hermann Hesse

As every flower fades and as all youth
Departs, so life at every stage,
So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,
Blooms in its day and may not last forever.
Since life may summon us at every age
Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor,
Be ready bravely and without remorse 
To find new light that old ties cannot give.
In all beginnings dwells a magic force
For guarding us and helping us to live.
Serenely let us move to distant places
And let no sentiments of home detain us.
The Cosmic Spirit seeks not to restrain us
But lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces.
If we accept a home of our own making,
Familiar habit makes for indolence.
We must prepare for parting and leave-taking
Or else remain the slaves of permanence.
Even the hour of our death may send
Us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,
And life may summon us to newer races.
So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.


----------



## Zofia

*The More Loving One* - *W. H. Auden*

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.


----------



## Zofia

To *** (Pushkin, 1825)

The wondrous moment of our meeting...
I well remember you appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty's angel pure and clear.

In hopeless ennui surrounding
The worldly bustle, to my ear
For long your tender voice kept sounding,
For long in dreams came features dear.

Time passed. Unruly storms confounded
Old dreams, and I from year to year
Forgot how tender you had sounded,
Your heavenly features once so dear.

My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet --
Dull fence around, dark vault above --
Devoid of God and uninspired,
Devoid of tears, of fire, of love.

Sleep from my soul began retreating,
And here you once again appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty's angel pure and clear.

In ecstasy the heart is beating,
Old joys for it anew revive;
Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting
The fire, and tears, and love alive.

Dedicated to Anna Petrovna 

I have little issue with the translation but I am to tired to fix...


----------



## Red Terror

*Meow Mix*

I want chicken, I want liver,
Meow Mix, Meow Mix,
Please Deliver.

-Shelly Palmer


----------



## SixFootScowl

Ah, ah, ah
Ah-Chooo!
So hey man,
What's new?

[:lol: does this rate for a new thread titled "Stupid Poetry"?]


----------



## Totenfeier

On my mind more, nowadays...

*"The Lake Isle of Innisfree"*, William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds on the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.


----------



## RockyIII

*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.


----------



## SixFootScowl

The Bible in 50 Words

God made
Adam bit
Noah arked
Abraham split
Joseph ruled
Jacob fooled
Bush talked
Moses balked
Pharaoh plagued
People walked
Sea divided
Tablets guided
Promise landed
Saul freaked
David peeked
Prophets warned
Jesus born
God walked
Love talked
Anger crucified
Hope died
Love rose
Spirit flamed
Word spread
God remained.


----------



## SixFootScowl

*"I saw a man pursuing the horizon"
By Stephen Crane*

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this; 
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never -"

"You lie," he cried, 
And ran on.


----------



## Oldhoosierdude

Sonnet 94: They that have power to hurt and will do none
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow:
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.


----------



## Oldhoosierdude

Love poetry. All kinds. I rarely write it but I have incorporated a Keats and an Edmund Spenser poem into a short story I wrote. Two students discover a human connection from studying these poems (sorry, no sex involved).


----------



## Oldhoosierdude

Something inspired when taking pictures of my youngest granddaughter playing under flowering dogwoods. No promises of quality.









Dogwood flower falls 
A snow to blanket the grass
We see it is spring


----------



## Jacck

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry:
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill.

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die, I leave my love alone.


----------



## Flutter

I'm really tired so apologies, I'll probably not even remember doing this but I read your post as a poem, so I'm turning it into one:



Oldhoosierdude said:


> _Love poetry.
> All kinds.
> I rarely write it
> but I have incorporated a Keats
> and an Edmund Spenser poem
> into a short story I wrote.
> Two students discover
> a human connection
> from studying these poems
> sorry, no sex involved_


----------



## Captainnumber36

Mother's Day Poetry I Wrote:

A poem I wrote for my mom titled "To My Mother" when I was in college:

With these words I hope to express,
The testament of a timeless love.
The past has shown you to be,
A free spirited and loving soul.
Rest assured in that you have raised me well,
To act with this same love you bestowed upon me.
Understand that as we progress to the future, 
I will always have an undying respect for you. 
As time inevitably brings us apart, 
Know that your love cannot be forgotten.


A poem I wrote today for my Grandma titled "Grandmother."

Oh so wise,
With brilliant eyes,
You bestow your knowledge,
On this young man’s passage.
Strong and stern,
You always earn,
Respect and love,
On this Earth & above.
Always a leader,
A family cheerleader,
Your presence is immense,
Never to be forgotten.


----------



## Jacck

*François Villon
Ballade *

I die of thirst beside the fountain 
I'm hot as fire, I'm shaking tooth on tooth 
In my own country I'm in a distant land 
Beside the blaze I'm shivering in flames 
Naked as a worm, dressed like a president 
I laugh in tears and hope in despair 
I cheer up in sad hopelessness 
I'm joyful and no pleasure's anywhere 
I'm powerful and lack all force and strength 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.

I'm sure of nothing but what is uncertain 
Find nothing obscure but the obvious 
Doubt nothing but the certainties 
Knowledge to me is mere accident
I keep winning and remain the loser 
At dawn I say "I bid you good night"
Lying down I'm afraid of falling 
I'm so rich I haven't a penny 
I await an inheritance and am no one's heir 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.

I never work and yet I labor 
To acquire goods I don't even want 
Kind words irritate me most 
He who speaks true deceives me worst 
A friend is someone who makes me think 
A white swan is a black crow 
The people who harm me think they help 
Lies and truth today I see they're one
I remember everything, my mind's a blank 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.

Merciful Prince may it please you to know 
I understand much and have no wit or learning 
I'm biased against all laws impartially 
What's next to do? Redeem my pawned goods again! 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.


----------



## SixFootScowl

*My mother kept a garden*

My mother kept a garden,
a garden of the heart,
She planted all the good things,
that gave my life its start.
She turned me to the sunshine,
and encouraged me to dream;
fostering and nurturing
the seeds of self-esteem.
And when the winds and rain came,
she protected me enough-
but not too much because she knew
I'd need to stand up strong and tough.
Her constant good example
always taught me right from wrong-
markers for my pathway
that will last a lifetime long.
I am my mother's garden,
I am her legacy-
And I hope today she feels the love
reflected back from me.

Author Unknown


----------



## Jacck

*Dawn by Arthur Rimbaud*

I have kissed the summer dawn. Before the palaces, nothing moved. The water lay dead. Battalions of shadows still kept the forest road.
I walked, walking warm and vital breath, While stones watched, and wings rose soundlessly.
My first adventure, in a path already gleaming With a clear pale light, Was a flower who told me its name.
I laughted at the blond Wasserfall That threw its hair across the pines: On the silvered summit, I came upon the goddess.
Then one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my arms.
Across the meadow, where I betrayed her to the cock. In the heart of town she fled among the steeples and domes, And I hunted her, scrambling like a beggar on marble wharves.
Above the road, near a thicket of laurel, I caught her in her gathered veils, And smelled the scent of her immense body. Dawn and the child fell together at the bottom of the wood.
When I awoke, it was noon.


----------



## Minor Sixthist

Three poems by Thomas Hardy I love

*"The Masked Face"*

I found me in a great surging space, 
At either end a door, a
And I said: "What is this giddying place, 
With no firm-fixéd floor, 
That I knew not of before?" 
"It is Life," said a mask-clad face.

I asked: "But how do I come here, 
Who never wished to come; 
Can the light and air be made more clear, 
The floor more quietsome, 
And the doors set wide? They numb 
Fast-locked, and fill with fear."

The mask put on a bleak smile then, 
And said, "O vassal-wight, 
There once complained a goosequill pen 
To the scribe of the Infinite 
Of the words it had to write 
Because they were past its ken." 
*
"In Tenebris"*

"Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum." -Ps. ci.

Wintertime nighs; 
But my bereavement-pain 
It cannot bring again: 
Twice no one dies.

Flower-petals flee; 
But, since it once hath been, 
No more that severing scene 
Can harrow me.

Birds faint in dread: 
I shall not lose old strength 
In the lone frost's black length: 
Strength long since fled!

Leaves freeze to dun; 
But friends can not turn cold 
This season as of old 
For him with none.

Tempests may scath; 
But love can not make smart 
Again this year his heart 
Who no heart hath.

Black is night's cope; 
But death will not appal 
One who, past doubtings all, 
Waits in unhope.

*"The Dead Man Walking"*

They hail me as one living, 
But don't they know 
That I have died of late years, 
Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here, 
A pulseless mould, 
A pale past picture, screening 
Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute's warning, 
Not in a loud hour, 
For me ceased Time's enchantments 
In hall and bower.

There was no tragic transit, 
No catch of breath, 
When silent seasons inched me 
On to this death ....

- A Troubadour-youth I rambled 
With Life for lyre, 
The beats of being raging 
In me like fire.

But when I practised eyeing 
The goal of men, 
It iced me, and I perished 
A little then.

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk, 
Through the Last Door, 
And left me standing bleakly, 
I died yet more;

And when my Love's heart kindled 
In hate of me, 
Wherefore I knew not, died I 
One more degree.

And if when I died fully 
I cannot say, 
And changed into the corpse-thing 
I am to-day,

Yet is it that, though whiling 
The time somehow 
In walking, talking, smiling, 
I live not now.


----------



## Captainnumber36

Here is a new one by me that I wrote for my dad; a late Father's Day gift!

_*Life & Death: A Father's Way*_

As strong as a rose,
With it's thorny stem,
Blossoming till death,
A celebrated day.


----------



## ECraigR

I’m very much into poetry. Currently in graduate school for English and library science and I mostly study poetry. I love it all, but lean heavily towards American modernists and postmodernists. Charles Olson, John Berryman, Adrienne Rich, and RS Thomas are among my favorites. I also write poetry, naturally.


----------



## Oldhoosierdude

The Leaden-Eyed
by Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931)
Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world’s one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are oxlike, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly;
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap;
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve;
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.


----------



## Captainnumber36

Captainnumber36 said:


> Here is a new one by me that I wrote for my dad; a late Father's Day gift!
> 
> _*Life & Death: A Father's Way*_
> 
> As strong as a rose,
> With it's thorny stem,
> Blossoming till death,
> A celebrated day.


What do you all take away from this one? I'm just curious to get some discussion around it.


----------



## Captainnumber36

*Spun*

Spinning and turning,
In changing tide,
Spun round in circles,
All 'round inside,
On crest of wave,
Splashing subside,
Spinning and turning,
I collide.

One I wrote in college, they were originally lyrics, but I stopped viewing myself as a singer. haha!


----------



## Captainnumber36

*Growth*

We walk across a bridge,
searching.
Learning how to fly,
soaring.
Back upon the ground,
landing.
We walk across a bridge,
searching.


----------



## SixFootScowl

Captainnumber36 said:


> *Growth*
> 
> We walk across a bridge,
> searching.
> Learning how to fly,
> soaring.
> Back upon the ground,
> landing.
> We walk across a bridge,
> searching.


Very nice work. However, I can't help injecting a little humor. That poem could metaphorically replicate the four stages of life with the last verse searching for our dentures.:lol:


----------



## Captainnumber36

SixFootScowl said:


> Very nice work. However, I can't help injecting a little humor. That poem could metaphorically replicate the four stages of life with the last verse searching for our dentures.:lol:


:lol: Thanks for reading and commenting!


----------



## Captainnumber36

One I wrote today, Wednesday the 5th, 2020.

*Glory*

he was a man
with little in monetary gains,
each day
catching the day's breeze, 
to whatever ventures came his way.

I got inspired by the direct poetic forms of Rupi Kaur's works for this one.


----------



## Captainnumber36

*Edit*



Captainnumber36 said:


> One I wrote today, Wednesday the 5th, 2020.
> 
> *Glory*
> 
> he was a man
> with little in monetary gains,
> each day,
> catching the breeze,
> to whatever ventures came his way.
> 
> I got inspired by the direct poetic forms of Rupi Kaur's works for this one.


Above is my edited version.


----------



## Strange Magic

Another favorite from A. A. Milne...

The Four Friends

Ernest was an elephant, a great big fellow,
Leonard was a lion with a six foot tail,
George was a goat, and his beard was yellow,
And James was a very small snail. 

Leonard had a stall, and a great big strong one,
Earnest had a manger, and its walls were thick,
George found a pen, but I think it was the wrong one,
And James sat down on a brick 

Earnest started trumpeting, and cracked his manger,
Leonard started roaring, and shivered his stall,
James gave a huffle of a snail in danger
And nobody heard him at all. 

Earnest started trumpeting and raised such a rumpus,
Leonard started roaring and trying to kick,
James went a journey with the goats new compass
And he reached the end of his brick. 

Ernest was an elephant and very well intentioned,
Leonard was a lion with a brave new tail,
George was a goat, as I think I have mentioned,
but James was only a snail.


----------



## Captainnumber36

vultures

hast thou spoken
upon this slumber,
of homicidal kings?


I attempted to compose something in the spirit of Poe.


----------



## Captainnumber36

My first poetry reading of something I wrote today.


__
https://soundcloud.com/pino-398700642%2Fdream-girl


----------



## Captainnumber36

Mundane Atrocities

Join me on this beaten path,
ruffle feathers, then stand back.

These men dislike the question mark,
for answers they may have to bark.

As dogs they'd live so full and free,
but use of mind is too hefty.

So as we say their game is weak,
remember that this is their peak.

When we leave with one more taunt,
give respect and do not flaunt.

- Nakulan Bala


----------



## hammeredklavier

I recommend this fabulous poem (by our member EdwardBast) from the thread <Strange Deaths>:



EdwardBast said:


> I wrote these two for a limericks thread:
> 
> There was a composer named Lully
> Who in business was a bit of a bully
> But then: a misplaced baton,
> A bad infection came on,
> And he died of a foot wound, most cruelly
> 
> Despite young Scriabin's ineptness
> His mystic-chord music's infectious
> But a boil on his lip
> Paid for Sasha's last trip
> To the Mysterium he went via sepsis
> 
> Not strange, but part of the set:
> 
> Robert Schumann composed to great fame
> But in the end died confined and insane
> For back then 'twas no joke:
> One infelicitous poke
> And foul syphilis devoured ones brain


Just think about it while watching:

*[ 1:30 ]*


----------



## Captainnumber36

Adrift

The beauty of woven melody,
reminds her of this morning's gown.
Gentle to her ears and skin,
They carry her above the land.

- Me


----------



## tdc

I bear no grudge
Even as my heart is breaking
Eternally lost love!
I bear no grudge
Even though you shine in diamond splendor
There falls no light into your heart's night
That I've known for a long time
I bear no grudge
Even as my heart is breaking
I saw you, truly in my dreams
And saw the night in your heart's cavity
And saw the serpent that feeds on your heart
I saw my love
How very miserable you are
I bear no grudge

- H. Heine


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## Tikoo Tuba

Of God : Sometimes a spirit of peace , love and beauty comes unbidden . 
It is graceful . A child's crying in the night becomes a song , a first song
of creation .

A revelatory and mystical beautiful reality exists - just not every day of course . 
When a musician is witness to such an event , an inspired impression of it may 
carry on in creating music respectful of the experience . The music need not be 
explained with words of faith : so reasons the Bless-ed and godly .

fine'


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## Captainnumber36

A Passing Prayer


On this night
A hateful fright,
Fills his world
with holy lords.

- Me


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## Captainnumber36

Just wrote this one:

Kristen's Bounty

Amid hot suns of summer,
her thoughts spread
along the ocean breeze.

Upon the colorful leaves of fall,
a multitude of ideas reflects
within her eyes.

An innocent snow-angel of winter,
created by the purity of her heart,
brings about divine states of being.

Observing an emerging rose of spring,
is a beautiful yet strange occurrence
in its fragile lessons.

- Nakulan


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## Ariasexta

Vanity of vanities.
All is vanity.
All is life.
Life has an end. 

--Me


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## Art Rock

A reminder about copyright issues:

You can only post poems (or song texts) that you wrote yourself, or that are in the public domain (defined in Denmark as: at least 70 years after the year of the author's death) - otherwise link to a site with the poem please. Some older posts that did not meet this criterion have been deleted.

Please read: Copyright Issues


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## mikeh375

This is so moving, from Vikram Seth....

https://www.poetryinternational.org/pi/poem/23723/auto/0/0/Vikram-Seth/All-you-who-sleep-tonight/en/tile


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## Ariasexta

I know the first two lines are existent, but to make a point with the following two lines of my own is entirely a new concept of life in the light of vanitas-vanitatum. Lets not further questioning the originality of "Life has an end", a common sense to make every utterance an original statement by itself.

Vanity of vanities.
All is vanity.
*All is life.
Life has an end.*

--Me


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## SanAntone

*Louis Zukofsky* is a poet I am reading right now. I have two books: _Selected Poems_, edited by Charles Bernstein and _"A"_, the complete 800+ pp New Directions edition.

Zukofsky is usually described as the second wave of new modernist poets, working in the wake of Eliot, Stevens, and Williams. Zukofsky invented the name "objectivists" to describe himself and the other poets-including Charles Reznikoff, George Oppen, Carl Rakosi, and Basil Bunting-whose work he liked. (Zukofsky, however, never used the term "objectivism" and never claimed to be the leader of a movement named "objectivism.")



> Zukofsky's major work was the epic poem "A"-he never referred to it without the quotation marks-which he began in 1927 and was to work on for the rest of his life, albeit with an eight-year hiatus between 1940 and 1948. The poem was divided into 24 sections, reflecting the hours of the day. The first 11 sections contain a lot of overtly political passages but interweave them with formal concerns and models that range from medieval Italian canzone through sonnets to free verse and the music of Bach. Especially the sections of "A" written shortly before World War II are political: Section 10 for example, published in 1940, is an intense and horrifying response to the fall of France.
> 
> The tone of the poem changes for good with Section 12, which is longer than the first 11 sections combined. Zukofsky introduces material from his family life and celebrates his love for his wife Celia and his son Paul. From here on "A" interweaves the political, historical and personal in more or less equal measure. The extensive use of music in this work reflects the importance of Zukofsky's collaborations with his wife and son, both professional musicians. "A" grew frequently difficult and even eccentric (section 16 is only four words long). The complete poem, 826 pages long, beginning with the word "A" and ending with "Zion", was published in 1978. (Wikipedia)


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## Torkelburger

One my favorites that I composed last year:

Deluge Devotion

A trireme drifts across the rugged sea, see
the deluge spun by Poseidon's son, sun
ascends above the clouds like golden eye, I
watch the waves crash on the shore a countless hour, our
admiration grows for Triton's power!

--Adam Torkelson


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## Captainnumber36

Torkelburger said:


> One my favorites that I composed last year:
> 
> Deluge Devotion
> 
> A trireme drifts across the rugged sea, see
> the deluge spun by Poseidon's son, sun
> ascends above the clouds like golden eye, I
> watch the waves crash on the shore a countless hour, our
> admiration grows for Triton's power!
> 
> --Adam Torkelson


Very clever!


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## Ingélou

Torkelburger said:


> One my favorites that I composed last year:
> 
> Deluge Devotion
> 
> A trireme drifts across the rugged sea, see
> the deluge spun by Poseidon's son, sun
> ascends above the clouds like golden eye, I
> watch the waves crash on the shore a countless hour, our
> admiration grows for Triton's power!
> 
> --Adam Torkelson


Lovely - thank you. :tiphat:


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## parlando

TennysonsHarp said:


> Traditionally, Japanese poets worked in a 5-7-5 pattern; but since Japanese syllables and English syllables are very different, most English writers of haiku and tanka don't adhere strictly to the formal pattern.
> 
> Here a couple of haiku I wrote a while back:
> 
> The scent of blossoms
> slowly weighs down my robe
> in summer.
> 
> Spring nights;
> rain is fitful, turning to snow
> and back again.


I'm impressed by the first haiku.


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## parlando

KenOC said:


> On a grimmer note: The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.
> 
> From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
> And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
> Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
> I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
> When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
> 
> -Randall Jarrell
> 
> Jarrell notes: "A ball turret was a Plexiglas sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the fetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose."


:tiphat:
Unforgettable.


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## Alinde

This is an off-the-top-of-my-head list of great favourites among among many contenders. I have excluded poets I've read only in translation as it's verbal magic that I seek in a poem (I'm shallow). 

Goethe, Auden, Yeats, Mallarmé, Horace, Catullus, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Mörike, Kenneth Slessor, Dylan Thomas, Heine....


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## Ariasexta

Dialectical Contradictions of The Mind

The endless prison; the unseen infinite universe of creation;
The cold icy flame of the great spirit; the grandeur of chaotic darkness;
The silent scream; the peaceful madness; the excellent hypocrisy;
The dead life; the end of death; the beginning of life; the end of ends. 
The sandy tears; the watery dunes; the powerful butterfly; the weakly fortune.
The lucky Lazarus; the unhappy Solomon.


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## Ariasexta

The black light；the white night; the knowledge of ignorance; the foolish wisdom.
The violent love; the tender indifference; the dialectical theology; the ego of my alter-ego.
The altruistic egoism; the animalistic humanity; the evidence of superstition; the superstitious evidence.
The bright midnight sky; the darkest dawn; the midnight sun; the day stars. 

--Aiasexta
(Some concepts exist as reality or have been spoken, I can not really make sure which one can be my original, but here is some summery of such mental contradictions that sound poetic).


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## Allegro Con Brio

With all respect to music, poetry is perhaps my favorite art form. My ten favorite English-language poets in rough order:

1. Donne
2. Milton
3. Keats
4. Dickinson
5. Hopkins
6. Shakespeare (only considering the sonnets)
7. Yeats
8. Eliot
9. Blake
10. Thomas

I dabble in poetry myself as well. I probably won't share too many here, but here's one that attempts to describe my experience of listening to the Goldberg Variations (it's in the same vein as Eliot's _Four Quartets)_:

Whirling through torpedoes of sound,
spinning and tailing its way like Raphael to earth,
shoots some uninstantaneous ether:
the impermeable myelin of true experience.
The soul-the richest treasure chest ever found;
creating, disseminating, revealing, glimmering, alluring.
Rawest sense material pinging in gold-tipped purls of rose-furls:
stroking the ears as gently as a brook,
yet roaring with the might of an ocean-river undammed,
with strength enough to loose the captives.
Dance-that vital union of impulse and excursus,
Funnelling to earth to free the heart with unspeakable words.
Beauty will save the world, said a great Russian writer:
But how does that matter unless it first save our souls?
Wending, winking, welding walls of splendor; almighty proportions,
austere glory of Euclidean quintessence,
draining, distilling, disgorging life's elixir into a jet-black pearl
suspended in honey-dew drops:
Then the peak of the ascent and the plummet back to the globe of the touched;
yet refusing to leave us untouched.
Surely there is more to what there is than whatever we wish it to be,
Yet the continuum plunges on in measured oar-strokes,
to reach in all haste that prized and glistering and all-consuming whole;
Unfilched fire of sparks and symmetries to wound the soul with terror
Of the known but not realized:
After all that, we arrive at the beginning,
and let our sails be billowed with burnished breezes.


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## Ariasexta

Mirror of Mirrors

Upon a mountain of broken glass shards, the moon melts in blood, 
Irrigating the silvery debrises into brooks of thorns holding the lunar rose.
I, me and my ego the trio dancing within this midnight silverfall,
I am a glass man, me a broken glass, my ego an illusion made from the rosy glass. 

Ariasexta
(A poem abouti illusion, light, darkness, and the ego).


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## Ariasexta

Inflective Illumination

A clock was clickin and tickin,
Sound and Fury felt and heard ragin.
Cold, hard darkness was polished and inflected, 
Into a hall illuminated. 
Then it would be peopled, animated, shaped, shadowed in the corridor,
That leads to the clickin and tickin floating castle in the center(on the rotor). 

--Ariasexta

A trial at dialectical mental paradoxes made into a poem, also a tribute to William Faulkner. The sense of time is of the central theme. In this poem I have to rhyme, both "center" and "rotor" can fit into the textual and rhythmic contexts, actually the Webster gives"corridor" two pronounciations, one fits either "er" and "or" in "rotor", both technically sound the same.

My thought on rhyming, I have read some John Milton`s poems which do not rhyme, also do many Shakespeare`s verses. But their textual impacts are strong, sometimes, it may be better to rhyme but it is surely not every case requires rhyming to be better expressive. It depends on each case. For example, when talking about time, or making temporal lapse like seasons, changes in age a motif, it would be better to rhyme.


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## Torkelburger

Here are another five poems I composed last year:

This one was inspired by a Takemitsu composition of the same title--

_Asterism_

Ebb and flow of circling gases
above the gleaming gate of stars.

Spinning on axes, attracting the masses
above the gleaming gate of stars.

Effulgent light passing through, it arrives
above the gleaming gate of stars.

Fading across the void, it revives
above the gleaming gate of stars.

_From the Top of a Bald Hill_

A view of the birds across the skies:
Constellations beneath bright golden heights.

_Ode to My Ancestors_

In the tenth century, you searched for new lands,
setting sail from your homes in Norway.
With light oak wood, you crafted longships,
and built them with heavy masts of pine.
Sixteen strakes per side, each one overlapping the strake below.
The keel you carved with an ax in one single piece.
You navigated the northern seas,
ships loaded with sheep and cattle, women, and children.
Riding the rugged waves, your ships dodged rocks and icebergs,
and survived the perfect storms.
The sun, stars, gulls, and wind helped you find your way.
You voyaged through dangerous, frozen, and unchartered waters,
with the constant threat of shipwreck and losing your way.
But you forged ahead without an ounce of fear or worry-
the life you led only fit for the brave.

_Cattle_

not the odor
but skilled tails
disseminate flies

_Hypnagogic Rune_

Treading within my memories, overwrought words will spin.
I fasten fancy daydreams together with an imaginary pin.
Identities, the most needless means around, creep in.

Voiceless minds immure during a vengeful spat.
Upon an abstract stone ludicrous reflections pat.
Familiar passengers following behind, their fantasies are converging at.


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## Ariasexta

Ecstatic Sadness

Wake up to fall, fall from the heavenly cradle, 
With your infantile cry for new life and sadness of the forsaken death. 
From immemorable antiquity to this transcient moment of ecstacy, 
As a fallen star remorseless, careless, crying in a vanquished sadness.
Toward the darkest Western horizon, dragging behind your crimson cloak,
Forgetfully a new Sun rising behind your back. 

--Me


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## Phil loves classical

I dunno, I feel like exposing that stuff you write is similar to unclothing yourself.


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## Ariasexta

Phil loves classical said:


> I dunno, I feel like exposing that stuff you write is similar to unclothing yourself.


Uncloathing the alter-ego  BTW, this kind of stuff means to be exposed.


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## David Phillips

Schoenberg said

Schoenberg said, one day he hoped to hear
his tone-rows whistled by delivery boys.
What dumb-assed kid could pitch atonal tunes 
while balanced on a creaky butcher’s bike?

And up to date, I think no Amazon stuff
is whistled to our doors by anything
but pop. You must try harder, you’ll catch up 
and learn to love my tone-rows, Schoenberg said.


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