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POEM


  • 3 years ago · Quote · #61

    suezy

    I have read many poems before and is this my favorite ? No. But anyone can post what they like on here and I just wanted to share so there was no need for bad comments from others

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #62

    suezy

    Thanks ciljettu , you are correct:)

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #63

    cosmicjack

    It wasnt a nasty comment. And anyone can post anything on here, and i did. I was just curious about what the thing was about this poem you wanted to share.  Just opening the discussion. 

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #64

    CBA

    Also remember ciljettu talks only to women. Though that isn't necessarily poetic.

    If you are really intested in poetry, suezy, do you mind if I linked you to some where English was the writer's first language? Then we could move on from there...

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #65

    suezy

    I wasn't talking about you but the others. This poem relates to one of my groups. I posted it there and on here also

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #66

    suezy

    You can post sure cba

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #67

    cosmicjack

    I am sure there are some poems written where English was not the writer's first language, that may also be worth a mention too..

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #68

    suezy

    I'm open to reading anything as long as its not foul :)

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #69

    CBA

    Does it matter if it isn't printed against a silk background, or doesn't have a silhouette against a sunset/sunrise?

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #70

    corrijean

    e.e. cummings is one of my favorite poets.

    if up's the word;and a world grows greener
    minute by second and most by more-
    if death is the loser and life is the winner
    (and beggars are rich but misers are poor)
    -let's touch the sky:
    with a to and a fro
    (and a here there where) and away we go

    in even the laziest creature among us
    a wisdom no knowledge can kill is astir-
    now dull eyes are keen and now keen eyes are keener
    (for young is the year,for young is the year)
    -let's touch the sky:
    with a great(and a gay
    and a steep)deep rush through amazing day

    it's brains without hearts have set saint against sinner;
    put gain over gladness and joy under care-
    let's do as an earth which can never do wrong does
    (minute by second and most by more)
    -let's touch the sky:
    with a strange(and a true)
    and a climbing fall into far near blue

    if beggars are rich(and a robin will sing his
    robin a song)but misers are poor-
    let's love until noone could quite be(and young is
    the year,dear)as living as i'm and as you're
    -let's touch the sky:
    with a you and a me
    and an every(who's any who's some)one who's we

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #71

    suezy

    Gees! No it doesn't lol

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #72

    suezy

    Thank you corrijean for sharing

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #73

    cosmicjack

    This is my third favourite cummings poem.

    i like my body when it is with your
    body. It is so quite a new thing.
    Muscles better and nerves more.
    i like your body. i like what it does,
    i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
    of your body and its bones, and the trembling
    -firm-smooth ness and which I will
    again and again and again
    kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
    i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
    of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
    over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

    and possibly i like the thrill
    of under me you quite so new

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #74

    cosmicjack

    But if its rhyming you after there is Yeats,

     

    UTUMN is over the long leaves that love us,
    And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
    Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
    And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.
     
    The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
    And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
    Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
    With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
     
  • 3 years ago · Quote · #75

    corrijean

    I like Ogden Nash because his poems are so funny.

    Common Cold

    Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
    You shall not sneer at me.
    Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
    Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
    I contemplate a joy exquisite
    I'm not paying you for your visit.
    I did not call you to be told
    My malady is a common cold.

    By pounding brow and swollen lip;
    By fever's hot and scaly grip;
    By those two red redundant eyes
    That weep like woeful April skies;
    By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
    By handkerchief after handkerchief;
    This cold you wave away as naught
    Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

    Give ear, you scientific fossil!
    Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
    The Cold of which researchers dream,
    The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
    This honored system humbly holds
    The Super-cold to end all colds;
    The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
    The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

    Bacilli swarm within my portals
    Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
    But bred by scientists wise and hoary
    In some Olympic laboratory;
    Bacteria as large as mice,
    With feet of fire and heads of ice
    Who never interrupt for slumber
    Their stamping elephantine rumba.

    A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
    Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
    Don Juan was a budding gallant,
    And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
    The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
    And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
    Oh what a derision history holds
    For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!

    Ogden Nash
  • 3 years ago · Quote · #76

    CBA

    Love for something beyond...well, just beyond:

    If I should die, think only this of me:

    That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

     

    And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
    Or romantic love:

    Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
    Which I gaze on so fondly today,
    Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms,
    Like fairy wings fading away
    Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
    Let thy loveliness fade as it will;
    And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
    Would entwine itself verdantly still.
    It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
    And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
    That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
    To which time will but make thee more dear.
    No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
    But as truly loves on to the close:
    As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
    The same look which she turned when he rose.
  • 3 years ago · Quote · #77

    netzach

    A Tale Of Society As It Is: From Facts, 1811

    I.
    She was an aged woman; and the years
    Which she had numbered on her toilsome way
    Had bowed her natural powers to decay.
    She was an aged woman; yet the ray
    Which faintly glimmered through her starting tears, 
    Pressed into light by silent misery,
    Hath soul's imperishable energy.
    She was a cripple, and incapable
    To add one mite to gold-fed luxury:
    And therefore did her spirit dimly feel 
    That poverty, the crime of tainting stain,
    Would merge her in its depths, never to rise again.

    II.
    One only son's love had supported her.
    She long had struggled with infirmity,
    Lingering to human life-scenes; for to die, 
    When fate has spared to rend some mental tie,
    Would many wish, and surely fewer dare.
    But, when the tyrant's bloodhounds forced the child
    For his cursed power unhallowed arms to wield--
    Bend to another's will--become a thing
    More senseless than the sword of battlefield--
    Then did she feel keen sorrow's keenest sting;
    And many years had passed ere comfort they would bring.

    III.
    For seven years did this poor woman live
    In unparticipated solitude. 
    Thou mightst have seen her in the forest rude
    Picking the scattered remnants of its wood.
    If human, thou mightst then have learned to grieve.
    The gleanings of precarious charity
    Her scantiness of food did scarce supply. 
    The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dwelt
    Within her ghastly hollowness of eye:
    Each arrow of the season's change she felt.
    Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run,
    One only hope: it was—once more to see her son. 

    IV.
    It was an eve of June, when every star
    Spoke peace from Heaven to those on earth that live.
    She rested on the moor. 'Twas such an eve
    When first her soul began indeed to grieve:
    Then he was here; now he is very far. 
    The sweetness of the balmy evening
    A sorrow o'er her aged soul did fling,
    Yet not devoid of rapture’s mingled tear:
    A balm was in the poison of the sting.
    This aged sufferer for many a year 
    Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed

    A sigh--and turning round, clasped William to her breast!

    V.
    And, though his form was wasted by the woe
    Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak,
    Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded cheek 
    Of slavery's violence and scorn did speak,
    Yet did the aged woman's bosom glow.
    The vital fire seemed re-illumed within
    By this sweet unexpected welcoming.
    Oh, consummation of the fondest hope 
    That ever soared on Fancy's wildest wing!
    Oh, tenderness that foundst so sweet a scope!
    Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty sway,
    When THOU canst feel such love, thou shalt be great as they!

    VI.
    Her son, compelled, the country's foes had fought, 
    Had bled in battle; and the stern control
    Which ruled his sinews and coerced his soul
    Utterly poisoned life's unmingled bowl,
    And unsubduable evils on him brought.
    He was the shadow of the lusty child 
    Who, when the time of summer season smiled,
    Did earn for her a meal of honesty,
    And with affectionate discourse beguiled
    The keen attacks of pain and poverty;
    Till Power, as envying her this only joy,
    From her maternal bosom tore the unhappy boy.

    VII.
    And now cold charity's unwelcome dole
    Was insufficient to support the pair;
    And they would perish rather than would bear
    The law's stern slavery, and the insolent stare 
    With which law loves to rend the poor man's soul--
    The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking noise
    Of heartless mirth which women, men, and boys
    Wake in this scene of legal misery.
    ... 

    Percy Bysshe Shelley
    ( limericks & poetry different subject-matter )
  • 3 years ago · Quote · #78

    corrijean

    CBA wrote:

    Love for something beyond...well, just beyond:

    If I should die, think only this of me:

    That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

     

    And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
    Or romantic love:

    Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,Which I gaze on so fondly today,Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms,Like fairy wings fading awayThou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,Let thy loveliness fade as it will;And around the dear ruin each wish of my heartWould entwine itself verdantly still.It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,To which time will but make thee more dear.No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,But as truly loves on to the close:As the sunflower turns on her god when he setsThe same look which she turned when he rose.

    You have to wait out Barney. Around 25 second mark.

    That actor has a great voice, IMO:

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #79

    corrijean

    Nice one, Netzach.

  • 3 years ago · Quote · #80

    CBA

    Love - for someone who's put up for you for years...


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