17052 Players currently online!
Man vs. Machine - good luck!
Turn-based games at any time!
Vote for the best move to win!
Do you have what it takes?
Sharpen your tactical vision!
Get advice and game insights!
Learn from top players & pros!
View millions of master games!
Your virtual chess coach!
Perfect your opening moves!
Test your skills vs. computer!
Find the right private coach!
Can you solve it each day?
Bring it all together!
Beginners, start here!
Make friends & play team games!
News from the world of chess!
Search all Chess.com members!
Find local clubs & events!
Who's the best of your friends?
Read what members are saying!
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
Thanks ciljettu , you are correct:)
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.
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...
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
You can post sure cba
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..
I'm open to reading anything as long as its not foul :)
Does it matter if it isn't printed against a silk background, or doesn't have a silhouette against a sunset/sunrise?
e.e. cummings is one of my favorite poets.
if up's the word;and a world grows greenerminute 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 goin even the laziest creature among usa 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 gayand a steep)deep rush through amazing dayit'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 blueif beggars are rich(and a robin will sing hisrobin a song)but misers are poor-let's love until noone could quite be(and young isthe year,dear)as living as i'm and as you're-let's touch the sky:with a you and a meand an every(who's any who's some)one who's we
Gees! No it doesn't lol
Thank you corrijean for sharing
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
But if its rhyming you after there is Yeats,
I like Ogden Nash because his poems are so funny.
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!
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:
I.She was an aged woman; and the yearsWhich she had numbered on her toilsome wayHad bowed her natural powers to decay.She was an aged woman; yet the rayWhich faintly glimmered through her starting tears, Pressed into light by silent misery,Hath soul's imperishable energy.She was a cripple, and incapableTo 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 childFor his cursed power unhallowed arms to wield--Bend to another's will--become a thingMore 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 liveIn unparticipated solitude. Thou mightst have seen her in the forest rudePicking the scattered remnants of its wood.If human, thou mightst then have learned to grieve.The gleanings of precarious charityHer scantiness of food did scarce supply. The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dweltWithin 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 starSpoke peace from Heaven to those on earth that live.She rested on the moor. 'Twas such an eveWhen first her soul began indeed to grieve:Then he was here; now he is very far. The sweetness of the balmy eveningA 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 woeWhich 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 withinBy 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 controlWhich ruled his sinews and coerced his soulUtterly 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 beguiledThe 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 doleWas insufficient to support the pair;And they would perish rather than would bearThe 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 noiseOf heartless mirth which women, men, and boysWake in this scene of legal misery....
You have to wait out Barney. Around 25 second mark.
That actor has a great voice, IMO:
Nice one, Netzach.
Love - for someone who's put up for you for years...
what to do about opponents like this
by marcosite a few minutes ago
Who is good at the Ruy Lopez?
by tubebender a few minutes ago
Italian game 3...h6
by Spanish_Bishop 3 minutes ago
10/23/2014 - Weaving The Web
by Ray-D-OActive 4 minutes ago
Standard Ratings Boost
by coriantumr 14 minutes ago
Why, oh why can't I improve?
by sluck72 15 minutes ago
How do normal people become 2100 players
by Debistro 17 minutes ago
Can you get into a Maroczy Bind safely from every variation of the Sicilian?
by Fixing_A_Hole 19 minutes ago
Drawing a 2700 GM...as black!
by SmyslovFan 20 minutes ago
Post your chess/chess.com haikus
by ozzie_c_cobblepot 22 minutes ago
Why Join | Chess Topics |
Help & Support |
© 2014 Chess.com
• Chess - English
We are working hard to make Chess.com available in over 70 languages. Check back over the year as we develop the technology to add more, and we will try our best to notify you when your language is ready for translating!