Potato50012 wrote:
Roses, are red,
Violets, are blue,
I am glad to be here,
With all of you.
So sweet, thanks! 😁
Poetry
Sort:
You are welcome.
Sep 13, 2019
0
#24
Potato50012 wrote:
You are welcome.
You seem really gifted! Keep it up. 😉
Thanks.
Sep 14, 2019
0
#26
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
- Unknown
Sep 14, 2019
0
#27
CatsWithWings00 wrote:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
- Unknown
Hey! That’s beautiful!
Sep 14, 2019
0
#28
Just found it online and thought the exact same thing; reason for posting. 😁
Sep 14, 2019
0
#30
MugOfAllTrades wrote:
Thank you for sharing!
Love to share things like this with others; it might inspire someone down the track. 
Sep 14, 2019
0
#31
CatsWithWings00 wrote:
MugOfAllTrades wrote:
Thank you for sharing!
Love to share things like this with others; it might inspire someone down the track.
True!
Sep 14, 2019
0
#33
Will I ever see you
And do you miss me, too?
Because as we met, and before I knew,
I grew really fond of you
but now I'm feeling blue.
The days are long,
The years short,
There will never be enough,
Time to cavort.
Time flies, like a swallow, and I sit here, like a rock, staring at 64 squares, of 32 blacks and, 32 whites, but inside, me is a mighty battle, an insatiable thirst, to deliver, one day, that venus-fly-trap.
Philip Larkin ...This be the verse
They fxxk you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fxxked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself
Lady Lazarus
BY SYLVIA PLATH
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)
- Related
Roses, are red,
Violets, are blue,
I am glad to be here,
With all of you.