View Full Version : Poetry

2006-03-18, 08:49 PM
Purpose of thread: Post any poetry you like, have written, or wish to find.

For my part, I'd like to know if anyone knows the author and title of a poem that contains the line: 'Do you remember an inn, Miranda?'

Jack Squat
2006-03-18, 09:02 PM
you mean this poem?

Tarantela, by Hilaire Belloc

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the shredding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in-
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
in the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.

Google is my friend ;D

One of My favorites
Song of Myself #52 - Walt Whitman
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the
shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

Don't make me post the entire poem ::)

2006-03-18, 09:06 PM
One of my all time favorites.


Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos."

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.

I suppose I'll post some of my own later.

2006-03-18, 09:07 PM
One of My favorites
Song of Myself #52 - Walt Whitman
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
* * * * of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the
* * * * shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

Don't make me post the entire poem ::)

Walt Whitman? Eww...literally gay poety...

Jack Squat
2006-03-18, 09:20 PM
I was about to respond with O Captain, My Captain, but I remembered that was Whitman too.
here's another one I like, by Poe


Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfum'd sea,
The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the beauty of fair Greece,
And the grandeur of old Rome.

Lo ! in that little window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The folded scroll within thy hand —
A Psyche from the regions which
Are Holy land !
If no one's guessed, I find transindentalistic poetry among the most interesting, and as such am a big fan of The Dead Poet's Society.

Ego Slayer
2006-03-18, 09:25 PM
One of my all time favorites.

*gasp!* I actually understood some of that! ^_^

2006-03-18, 09:29 PM
One of mine, Dark Stallion might compose and sing to this one.


sirens of the auburn sea,
starry waves parting at their feet.
astral strings calling to me,
softly plucking heartstrings,
the lyres of twisted wings,
from torn seams of broken beings.
ethereal rhythm; anvil of the sea,
carving this echoing key,
foaming door of the sea,
wide open at their feet.
twist and pull,
open yourself like a fool.

the fanfare of flight,
to which we drown.
no breath in sight,
no reason to frown.
salvation in the azure angels,
floating to their heavenly above,
the passing sighs of beryl jewels,
the drowning hope of beloved fools,
watch them fly from your grasping gloves.
halos playing to the sea light,
saviors dimming from your sight,
like luna’s diamonds,
fading to unseen islands.

succumb all.
succumb to the great sea.
bring out your downfall.
just twist that key

Eh, I don't know. Poetry was never something I prided myself on, just something I do, or err did ::)

2006-03-18, 09:29 PM
Wow, thanks jacksquat! ;D My mother's been looking for that for years!
Google is not my friend, apparently.

Here's on I found in someone's sig on the Wizards boards. Can anyone tell me who the author is?

A Mercenary's Love Song

My Lady sings with a sultry voice, of promises to be,
Of when she'll take me inher arms and set my spirit free.

My Lady's touch is ever near, and yet so far away.
I've sought so long her sweet caress, it will be mine someday.

My Lady's eyes are watching me as I prepare for war.
She stands upon the battlefield, like so many times before.

The battle cries, a comrade dies, and falls to her embrace.
And in her arms she takes him now, unto his resting place.

Another time she'll come for me, as I breathe my final breath,
And hold me for a little while, my mistress, Lady Death.

Jack Squat
2006-03-18, 10:21 PM
It's Rick Smith from what I found.

EDIT: Couldn't get the page with it on to load

2006-03-18, 10:24 PM

2006-03-19, 12:08 AM
two of my favorites - one's actually lyrics to a song

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

To laugh often and much
to win the respect of intelligent people
and affection of children; to earn the
appreciation of honest critics and
endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty, to find the best
in others; to leave the world a bit
better, whether by a healthy child
a garden patch or redeemed
social condition; to know even
one life has breathed easier because
you have lived. This is to have

Shed a Little Light
by James Taylor

Let us turn our thoughts today
To Martin Luther King
And recognize that there are ties between us
All men and women
Living on the earth
Ties of hope and love
Sister and brotherhood
That we are bound together
In our desire to see the world become
A place in which our children
Can grow free and strong
We are bound together
By the task that stands before us
And the road that lies ahead
We are bound and we are bound

2006-03-19, 12:16 AM
The Adept - C. Vincent Metzen

I have walked the paths, the shadowed roads, the lead to Terror's breast.
I have plumbed the depths of Hatred's womb, and scaled Destruction's crest.

For every secret left unveiled, for every power learned,
I'd sell the remnants of my soul, regardless how it burned.
And still I sought a higher wisdom few could have attained,
Though I found it, it would leave me - broken, damned and drained.

For now I find this power learned is more unto a curse.
My spirit burns with every spell and each irreverant verse.
Despite this strength and knowledge earned, I have paid a heavy toll.
Never should've traded power for my own immortal soul.

2006-03-19, 01:58 AM
Robert Frost
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This is one of the few poems I have commited to memory. This is mostly because while I was in my High School Choir, we sang this as a song, and it is by far one of my favorite songs we ever did. It sounds really cool and kinda creepy, and I can't read this poem without singing it in my head or even aloud.

2006-03-19, 07:56 AM
The American Rebellion
by Rudyard Kipling

Note: read *both* parts before you get hot under the collar.

* * * * *T'was not while England's sword unsheathed
* * * * *Put half a world to flight,
* * * Nor while their new-built cities breathed
* * * * *Secure behind her might;
* * * Not while she poured from Pole to Line
* * * * *Treasure and ships and men--
* * * These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
* * * * *They did not quit her then!

* * * Not till their foes were driven forth
* * * * *By England o'er the main--
* * * Not till the Frenchman from the North
* * * * Had gone with shattered Spain;
* * * Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
* * * * *No hostile flag unrolled,
* * * Did they remember that they owed
* * * * *To Freedom--and were bold!


The *snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
*The ice on the Delaware, *
But the poor dead soldiers of King George
*They neither know nor care.

Not though the earliest primrose break
*On the sunny side of the lane,
And scuffling rookeries awake
*Their England' s spring again.

They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
*Or the ice melts out of the bay:
And the men that served with Washington
*Lie all as still as they.

They will not stir though the mayflower blows
*In the moist dark woods of pine,
And every rock-strewn pasture shows
*Mullein and columbine.

Each for his land, in a fair fight,
*Encountered strove, and died,
And the kindly earth that knows no spite
*Covers them side by side.

She is too busy to think of war;
*She has all the world to make gay;
And, behold, the yearly flowers are
*Where they were in our fathers' day!

Golden-rod by the pasture-wall
*When the columbine is dead,
And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
*Bright as the blood they shed.

As valid in 2006 as it was the day he wrote it. Kipling lost his own son in WW1.

A lot of people hate Kipling for what they see as being his flag-waving jingoism. That's an entirely fallacious judgement made by a bunch of snobbish Bloomsbury pseudo-intellectuals who thought poetry had to be about the sort of elevated semtiments that they believed the working classes couldn't possibly hope to understand. Really? They should have read "Recessional" or "If" before passing judgements like that.

Archonic Energy
2006-03-19, 08:36 AM
By W. H. Davies

WHAT is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?—
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

I've always been partial to a bit of shakesphere

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

a line i used from R & J in a letter to someone...

"Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That i shall say goodbye till it be 'morrow."
it didn't work.

Edit: format changed to match other entrys
title of sonnet 18 added

2006-03-19, 10:58 AM
Contemporary poetry from my home messageboard:
Wednesday's Ashes (http://www.themightypen.net/index.php?showtopic=8653), Cyril Darkcloud, 2003?
Arabia (http://www.themightypen.net/index.php?showtopic=13271), Cerulean, 2000?
There are many good poems there but these are my best-loved.

If someone hadn't mentioned Kipling already, I would have; if I had to confine myself to reading five authors for the rest of my life, Kipling would be one of them (William Golding the second, and the rest nebulous).

"The Garden of Love", from Songs of Experience, William Blake, 1794

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briers my joys and desires.

T.S. Eliot is faaaaaaar too lengthy to quote within a thread but those are poems I can sink into, and wander around in, and never find the way out.

2006-03-19, 11:12 AM
My favourite poem isn't really anything to do with role play or fantasy, but I just love it.

"WARNING" - Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-03-19, 12:57 PM
How can no one have yet mentioned The Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll?

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

My other favorite poem is Ode, which you can find by scrolling down a few posts to the topic, 'We are the music makers...'

2006-03-19, 01:54 PM
What a cool thread. Hats off to you Dhavaer.

Oh, John Keats. *Any* of his 1820 odes (Grecian Urn, Autumn, Melancholy). Read them aloud. ;D

2006-03-19, 02:35 PM
This is a little intimidating. Here I am, looking at some truly great poems from some of the all-time greats, and I've got nothing to add but my own stuff. Which I'm still going to do, since I'm interested in any critique people are willing to give me. Just... don't expect Shakespeare.

The Second Truth From the Left

On a cloudless day, I stared into the sky,
and it stopped being the sky.
blue had an imperfection.
The bird circled once, twice…

A mockery, not part
of the whole. And then I
wanted to fly, too, and feel the wind whipping
my hair.
But god damn biology, that rotten bastard telling me
it was all impossible. Telling me
People. Don’t. Fly.

Well, so what? The
freedom is what matters. Not
impossible. No ‘You can’t.’
The clouds are in my grasp.
The sky is mine.

No more bird. I
knew I was a fool. Tattered feathers, my dream,
burn up in the sun. Not impossible. No, you can’t.
The sky still isn’t the sky. It’s just blue.
I won’t let my hopes reach there again. But,
the sky is mine, and still, I’ll…

Just… wish.

2006-03-19, 03:45 PM
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvel

Had we but world enough, and time, *
This coyness, Lady, were no crime *
We would sit down and think which way *
To walk and pass our long love's day. *
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side * * * * *5
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide *
Of Humber would complain. I would *
Love you ten years before the Flood, *
And you should, if you please, refuse *
Till the conversion of the Jews. * 10
My vegetable love should grow *
Vaster than empires, and more slow; *
An hundred years should go to praise *
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; *
Two hundred to adore each breast, * 15
But thirty thousand to the rest; *
An age at least to every part, *
And the last age should show your heart. *
For, Lady, you deserve this state, *
Nor would I love at lower rate. * 20
*But at my back I always hear *
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; *
And yonder all before us lie *
Deserts of vast eternity. *
Thy beauty shall no more be found, * 25
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound *
My echoing song: then worms shall try *
That long preserved virginity, *
And your quaint honour turn to dust, *
And into ashes all my lust: * 30
The grave 's a fine and private place, *
But none, I think, do there embrace. *
*Now therefore, while the youthful hue *
Sits on thy skin like morning dew, *
And while thy willing soul transpires * 35
At every pore with instant fires, *
Now let us sport us while we may, *
And now, like amorous birds of prey, *
Rather at once our time devour *
Than languish in his slow-chapt power. * 40
Let us roll all our strength and all *
Our sweetness up into one ball, *
And tear our pleasures with rough strife *
Thorough the iron gates of life: *
Thus, though we cannot make our sun * 45
Stand still, yet we will make him run. *

2006-03-22, 01:49 PM
One I really like:

Nothing Gold Can Stay - Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief.
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

What may be my family's unofficial creed, my grandfather's favorite, my father's as well, and mine to strive to live up to:

If - Rudyard Kipling

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

2006-03-22, 02:43 PM
Here are two of my favourite poems I learnt in school so everyone probably knows them, but as they haven't been mentioned yet I feel I should include them, especially the latter. They give two completely different interpretations of war (Crimea and World War One respectively for anyone wondering.)

The Charge of the Light Brigade

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.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

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

- Alfred Lord Tennyson


Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

- Wilfred Owen (1893 - 4th November 1918.)

2006-03-22, 02:50 PM
Three words: "the war poets" (http://www.sonnets.org/wwi.htm).

Sassoon, Owen, Graves, but not that sentimental propagandist Brooke (Peace (http://www.sonnets.org/wwi.htm#001) was a bad joke, but The Soldier (http://www.sonnets.org/wwi.htm#005) was ok). >:(

If you can still write beautiful poetry even in the living hell of the Western Front then odds are that you probably have something worthwhile to say.

by Siegfried Sassoon

Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit,
He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows
Each flash and spouting crash,--each instant lit
When gloom reveals the streaming rain. He goes
Heavily, blindly on. And, while he blunders,
"Could anything be worse than this?"--he wonders,
Remembering how he saw those Germans run,
Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees:
Green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one
Livid with terror, clutching at his knees. . .
Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs . . . "O hell!"
He thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell
Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads
Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds."

2006-03-22, 04:18 PM
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They **** 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 ****ed 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.

and for a lighter mood:

Pam Ayres - Clamp the Mighty Limpet

I am Clamp the Mighty Limpet -
I am solid, I am stuck
I am welded to the rockface
With my superhuman suck
I live along the waterline
And in the dreary caves
I am Clamp the Mighty Limpet
I am Ruler of the Waves.

What care I for the shingle,
For the dragging of the tide,
With my unrelenting sucker
And my granite underside?
There's only one reward
For those who come to prise at me
And that's to watch their fingernails
As they go floating out to sea.

Don't upset me, I'm a limpet
Though it's plankton I devour
Be very, very careful!
I can move an inch an hour!
Don't poke me or prod me
For I warn you - if you do
You stand there for a fortnight
And I might be stuck on you!

2006-03-23, 07:53 PM
My favorite Poe poem is the one where he...

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained "the power of words"- denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words- two foreign soft dissyllables-
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I cannot write- I cannot speak or think-
Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams.
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates- thee only.

Yeah, that one. He's just like - I can't describe how I feel for you, so I'm not even going to try, but it is so totally awesome.

2006-03-23, 11:42 PM
I have three to contribute. One by Shel Silverstein, one by Theodore Roethke, and one by me. Well, the one by me is actually a song, but I like the way it turned out.

(I love this poem and have it on my wall. It's my favorite Silverstein piece and a great one to cheer myself up when I'm out of sorts.)

Listen to the Mustn'ts
By Shel Silverstein

Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,
Listen to the DON'TS,
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS,
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me-
ANYTHING can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.

(I love the lyrical style in this one. Try reading it out loud and whispering the last line in each stanza- it sounds even better aloud than written.)

I Knew a Woman
By Theodore Roethke

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)

(I wrote this a few months back about a snotty, aloof co-worker. He's someone that I pity a great deal.)
By Tadakimacun

He reminds me of royalty-
His bearing brightly brings to mind
The best shades of nobility
Spoiled prince hoarding his words
For a sparkling new crown;
See it balanced on his brow
As his nose he looks down

At the rabble-rousers rising right before his eyes
Loudly, blindly worshipping the blatant fam'ly ties

Tell me how could someone who seems
Carved from living stone
Practice this pretense to stay aloof and alone....?

I bear silent witness to this facade of not-care;
But underneath his nonchalance I see a person there

No, I'm not wrong; before too long
His bearing wanes, his sadness grows
As he forgets how to be strong;
Village raises child who grows to defend his home-
A man can only perish when
He tries to live alone...

Watch the rabble-rousers rising right before his eyes
Loudly building homage to the blatant fam'ly ties

Tell me how the prince now feels,
Trapped in living stone
Spoiled prince now gets his wish to always be alone...

I bear silent witness as his heart's wish becomes real
Watch a single tear fall down...
And he learns how to feel.

2006-03-24, 03:06 AM
Good old Shel Silverstein! Another three by him (all quoted from memory - can't find them on the Net):

The walrus got braces
And that's why his face is
A tangle of wires and steel.
He'll sit and he'll wait
Till his tusks are both straight,
And then think how much happier he'll feel!
But meanwhile they're ruining his meal.

I am a dry-stone-waller.
All day long, I dry-stone-wall.
Of all appalling callings, dry-stone-walling's
Worst of all.

If you are a dreamer, come in!
If you are a dreamer,
A wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er,
A magic bean buyer,
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire!
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin,
Come in! Come in!

2006-03-24, 03:08 AM
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout would not take the garbage out!

Shel Silverstein is officially awesome.

2006-04-19, 12:59 AM

by H. P. Lovecraft.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the frog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figurres discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Artic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

but... aren't we violating copyrights by posting poems of other people - even if they are dead - here? I just wondered...

2006-04-19, 01:33 AM
(Three short, light hearted poems.)

Jack Sprat could eat no fat
His wife could eat no lean
And so between the both of them
They licked the plater clean

I've never seen a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you here and now
I'd rather see than be one.

I saw the duck upon a lake.
His grace could not be beat
And yet I knew beneath the drake
There worked his frenzied feat.

(I always think of this when I think that others have perfect lives.)

2006-04-19, 05:02 AM
Here's one of my latest, where I try a modern style on (meaning condensed in imagery and metaphor, as opposed to the long-windedness of epic verse).

Ophelia: a Dirge

Unbeloved, you have given me strange flowers:
Swamp lilies, tangled foxglove, water hyacinths;
dark irises in your white eyes, your hair
a bouquet from a flooded garden,
and out of season. You smile,
your hair wet, face pale, mouth still--and I, there:
head bowed; arms full of you;

2006-04-19, 08:05 AM
One that struck me while in school, proof that no matter what the teachers/professors try do do about it - some works will stick in our minds as interesting:

"We Real Cool"
by Gwendolyn Brooks


We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Mr Croup
2006-04-19, 10:02 AM
Here are a couple of my favorite poems.


even in calmer times
have I ever
dreamed of
bicycling through that
wearing a


-Charles Bukowski

A Study of Reading Habits

When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my coat and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.

- Philip Larkin

2006-04-19, 02:30 PM
Here's one of my latest, where I try a modern style on (meaning condensed in imagery and metaphor, as opposed to the long-windedness of epic verse).

Ophelia: a Dirge

Unbeloved, you have given me strange flowers:
Swamp lilies, tangled foxglove, water hyacinths;
dark irises in your white eyes, your hair
a bouquet from a flooded garden,
and out of season. You smile,
your hair wet, face pale, mouth still--and I, there:
head bowed; arms full of you;

I like this one a lot. Very nice.

2006-04-20, 01:24 AM
Here's some Emily Dickinson:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant-
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind-

2006-04-20, 03:42 AM
I like this one a lot. Very nice.

Thankee. :) Here's another.

Her mouth tastes of nicotine,
her nervous habit,
and the cherry of her lipstick,
still the same.
She comes to me, sometimes,
an old flame, and I do not
deny her; I once burned for her,
and when she comes
bringing the taste of ashes, my heart
still hammers in my chest, to match
the pounding in her head.
I soothe it, gently, with
soft fingers and
softer kisses,
and her eyes shut, drowning the world
out. Only then, in
a kind of darkness,
does she undress, folding her clothes
into a neat stack.
The bed creaks and the sound
grates, but she lies down beside me,
her hands on my chest,
and mine rising to meet
her breasts, round,
and heavy with sorrow
as they never were before.
We move amidst our ashes,
our sharp gasps hot, like
embers, and if she weeps, or if
I do, then we won’t mention it,
and it won’t mean anything, like
exhaled smoke in the wind—
Like it never happened..

2006-07-28, 01:34 PM
Noticed this thread, and thought I'd post something here...

Night, by me. (:D)

A whispering wind,
A cloudy cover,
Over the sky,
The moon is shining,
Up in the sky.
The stars twinkle,
In the midnight light,
The sky is all alight.
The moon above,
The ground below,
Darkness, everywhere,
Standing outside,
The wind, blowing through
Your moonlit hair.
Everyone is dreaming,
'Cept for me and you,
The night is full of wonders,
And one of them,
One of them is you.
I can't help but smile,
In the brisk night air,
And your pretty face,
So wonderful, so fair.
I look above me,
The wonders I see,
Are nothing compared,
To you and me.

2006-07-28, 03:24 PM
Poetry is my not-so-secret obsession. *I love to write and read it, as well as critique, talk about, and look at it xD

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas

2006-07-28, 03:36 PM
Heres a sloppily written Haiku that I did a year back... note how it doesnt fit in with the sylables.

At the amusement park
Roller coaster is fast
people throw up

2006-07-28, 03:59 PM
What a great thread.

Here's two of my very favourte, by the wonderful Charles Causley.

Innocent's Song

Who's that knocking on the window,
Who's that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Laying on the kitchen floor?

Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?

Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?

Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?

Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?

Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:

Herod is his name.

What Has Happened To Lulu?

What has happened to Lulu, mother?
What has happened to Lu?
There's nothing in her bed but an old rag-doll
And by its side a shoe.

Why is her window wide, mother,
The curtain flapping free,
And only a circle on the dusty shelf
Where her money-box used to be?

Why do you turn your head, mother,
And why do tear drops fall?
And why do you crumple that note on the fire
And say it is nothing at all?

I woke to voices late last night,
I heard an engine roar.
Why do you tell me the things I heard
Were a dream and nothing more?

I heard somebody cry, mother,
In anger or in pain,
But now I ask you why, mother,
You say it was a gust of rain.

Why do you wander about as though
You don't know what to do?
What has happened to Lulu, mother?
What has happened to Lu?

2006-07-29, 03:49 AM
You know, I keep meaning to write a response villainelle to Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, but never do...

2006-07-29, 04:24 AM
That poem reminded me of this one, by Iron & Wine:

Cinder and Smoke
Give me your hand
The dog in the garden row is covered in mud
And dragging your mother’s clothes
Cinder and smoke
The snake in the basement
Found the juniper shade
The farmhouse is burning down

Give me your hand
And take what you will tonight, I'll give it as fast
And high as the flame will rise
Cinder and smoke
Some whispers around the trees
The juniper bends
As if you were listening

Give me your hand
Your mother is drunk as all the firemen shake A photo from father’s arms
Cinder and smoke
You’ll ask me to pray for rain
With ash in your mouth
You’ll ask it to burn again

2006-07-29, 07:24 AM
I've never seen a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you here and now
I'd rather see than be one.by Gelett Burgess.

Also by Gelett Burgess:

Ah, Yes! I wrote "The Purple Cow".
I'm sorry, now, I wrote it.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I'll kill you if you quote it.

2006-07-29, 02:42 PM
Heres a sloppily written Haiku that I did a year back... note how it doesnt fit in with the sylables.

At the amusement park
Roller coaster is fast
people throw up

The Orange Zergling,
Made a not so great haiku,
So I quoted it.

(EDIT: Not saying it's bad, it's just... not a haiku... :P)


Ego Slayer
2006-07-29, 02:56 PM
The Orange Zergling,
Made a not so great haiku,
So I quoted it.

That's just too good. ;D

2006-07-29, 02:59 PM
That's just too good. ;D
*bows* Thank you. ;)

EDIT: Here's some more...

A Day to Remember, by Me.

As I hold your head
In my wilting arms,
I begin to cry,
And I wonder why,
You have left me sitting here,
Without a single hope,
I fall apart,
I mope.
Why did you leave me,
Oh, so very soon?
I cannot begin to wonder,
Why I lost you so soon,
You barely lived,
You life, shot down.
The better years,
You spent with us,
They are so few,
The better years,
I spent with you.
I leave you now,
Your cheeks are pale,
Your grip is cold,
Your heart, still.
Years from now,
When I cannot remember,
The way you smiled,
I'll still remember that day,
The day you left us, cold and stiff,
I'll miss you... forever...

(not linked to personal experience)

2006-08-02, 07:37 PM
Here's my favorite. I don't recall who the author was, but it's an SCA campfire recitation inspired by a true story about a guy who fell in love with a girl at the Pennsic War that he never got to speak to. When he finally did get to meet her properly a year later, she was already married, but she gave him a lock of her hair to remember her by.

The Valkyrie

Alone by the fire a warrior I knew
Told me this tale and I pray it is true.

From far Ansteiorra our dragonships came
To fight for good Halidar on Lillied plain.
My sword I had lent seeking honor and fame,
Or Odinn's great hall in the frey.
We charged into battle the sun bearing high,
Our battle cry sounding a victory nigh.
Our spears crossed their arrows like hawks in the sky,
Leaving many men dead on the way.
Sing me no songs of your angels, I pray,
For a Valkyrie found me in battle that day.

The battle grew long and the sun was like fire,
The heat burning down like a funeral pyre.
Though many I'd slain, soon my blood-lust did tire,
Struck down in the heat of the day.
The battle moved onward from where I was laid,
I drew off my helmet to rest in the shade,
When a soft even tred like the wind in a glade
Brought a Daughter of Asgard my way.
Sing me no songs of your angels, I pray,
For a Valkyrie found me in battle that day.

She gave me cool drink till my wits came again.
Before I could speak she was gone like the wind.
Had I but died, I could follow her then
But I lay with the living that day.
Long I have searched, a full year I have mourned
And told all my brothers this love I have borne.
But she is of Asgard and I of this shore,
So here with my brothers I stay.
Sing me no songs of your angels, I pray,
For a Valkyrie found me in battle that day.

True to this dream like the tale I have told,
Close to my heart a small pouch I still hold.
And in it a lock of her hair, pure as gold.
This I carry to battle this day.

Alone by the fire a warrior I knew,
Told me this tale and pray it is true.

2006-08-03, 05:54 PM
Here's one by yours truly,

The Beautiful

The Beautiful of bees that sting
only pollinates the Spring.

And the sounds that beg to listen -
from waxing toil, holes that glisten.

Sweets that you and I ne'er trample,
Only stinging bees dare sample

Truth in nature, always twisted.
Victims - unforgiving - miss it,

(the sting).

2006-08-03, 08:04 PM
The best of my very limited and uninspired ventures into poetry - written for a friend, not about myself :) -

res amarissima

a chance that he
who holds my heart
will ever know, or care:

cry against
the silence that
must soon become my share.

might have been,
he might have seen,
if they had not been 'we',

'love is blind',
and I, to hide,
thank God or Fate I'm free.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-08-03, 08:41 PM
My favorite poem and the source of my signature:

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamer of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties,
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

A breath of our inspiration,
Is the life of each generation.
A wondrous thing of our dreaming,
Unearthly, impossible seeming-
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present,
And their work in the world be done.

They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising.
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man's soul it hath broke,
A light that doth not depart
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man's heart.

And therefore today is thrilling,
With a past day's late fulfilling.
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of tomorrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for it's joy or it's sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory about us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing;
O men! It must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
A little apart from ye.

For we are afar with the dawning
And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry-
How, spite of your human scorning,
Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.

Great hail! we cry to the corners
From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers,
And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamt not before;
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-08-03, 08:44 PM
And here is a poem I wrote for one of my favorite characters in an old MUD of mine for a bardic contest. To put it in D&D terms he was basically a catfolk druid who'd survived most of his childhood alone in the wilds.


The Shadow of the Woods

Before mind pictures of darkness. Darkness with moss.
Where did I come from? I am deeply at loss.
Moss and needles of pine and the leaves of the oak..
I have mind pictures of the sky, of how the wind spoke.

Forest... jungle... wood?
I learned these mouth noises later when I could.
So inadequate these words, of the home of my kin
Better knew the robin's call, the song of the wren

And even more knowing was the owl and the bat
As were the gliding moth and the hungering rat.
Who could sense the forest without the great Gleam
For my after-dusk brothers were it's after-dusk dream.

Born into darkness, life at a nocturnal pace
Of this I am, of this star lighted place
Their pinpoints shown down through the canopy gloom
Under the glow of the great shining white moon

The forest, it protected, provided a home
It fed us, it sheltered, grown up from the loam.
The twisted trunks were the pillars of our living house
From the mightiest bear to the lowliest louse.

Of this I accepted, knowing nothing else more
The trees and the lakes and their lichen green shore
This was the center of my universe, the limit of all
Little did I know that my knowledge was small

One dusk I looked to the bank of an orange glowing lake
There I saw something like me, there must be a mistake
It raised it's furry maned head and blinked in surprise
It rose up, but stopped upon seeing the wary look in my eyes

To shorten my story I merely will say
That I met my friend and mentor that day
I learned much of the world and was never the same
But I am still one with the forest, and I'm certainly not tame...

2006-08-04, 12:48 AM
I would like to know who wrote this i cant find out and it didnt say where i got it.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought
and action--
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-08-04, 01:25 PM
I would like to know who wrote this i cant find out and it didnt say where i got it.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought
and action--
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

According to my Googling it appears to be written by Rabindranath Tagore.


2006-08-04, 01:39 PM
Ooooooh, a poetry thread! Yes!! i love the new set up of these boards!

One of my absolute favorites.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T. S. Eliot

S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it? ''
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?'' and, "Do I dare?''
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!'']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.''

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

2006-08-05, 12:34 AM
One of my favorite poems is the Fungi from Yuggoth. This is one of the segments.
XIII. Hesperia

The winter sunset, flaming beyond spires
And chimneys half-detached from this dull sphere,
Opens great gates to some forgotten year
Of elder splendours and divine desires.
Expectant wonders burn in those rich fires,
Adventure-fraught, and not untinged with fear;
A row of sphinxes where the way leads clear
Toward walls and turrets quivering to far lyres.

It is the land where beauty's meaning flowers;
Where every unplaced memory has a source;
Where the great river Time begins its course
Down the vast void in starlit streams of hours.
Dreams bring us close - but ancient lore repeats
That human tread has never soiled these streets.

2006-08-05, 09:13 AM
So many classics, and so many new ones.

Prufrock is lovely, kind of a bittersweet reading of an old man. I love it, and the Ode, and *goes bazonkers* I <3 dem all :B

2006-08-05, 06:07 PM
Ooh! Poetry, my secret love.
I really like that T.S. Eliot poem just a few posts above me. Another of his that I like is "The Hollow Men," which is depressing as Hell but still amazing.

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

Misha Kurtz - he dead.

A penny for the old guy.


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

2006-08-05, 06:27 PM
I write silly things.
Such as this, which I wrote in grade 8(ish):

The Puddle-Icky

I took a walk outside today,
I thought it’d be nice to get away.
I didn’t know the mistake I was making.
Hadn’t a clue ‘bout the risk I was taken.
Because as soon as I walked out that door,
my troubles multiplied by four.

Heed my warning and advice,
a walk in spring is never nice.
Because around this time of year
a creature comes that all should fear.
This dreaded beast of goop so sticky,
is known as the foul puddle-icky.

It drags you into jaws so great,
sending kids to their disgusting fate.
I met the puddle-icky that fateful day,
and since then my cloths have been stained all gray.

It started out as a normal walk.
Just a stroll around the block.
But I found something was blocking my way,
a pond of mud and leaves all brown and gray.

I stared at it for a little while.
At the gloop and guck smelly and vile.
For some reason it seemed to be a good place to play.
To splash and jump and spend the day.
But just as I jumped into the guck,
I found my rain boots had been stuck,

I looked down in alarm
to see the puddle had grown an arm!
I had walked into a monsters trap!
And would soon be eaten in a snap!
If I didn’t get unstuck
I would be the lunch of the guck.

So I abandoned my boots and, in dismay
I jumped out of the puddle to run away.
But the puddle-icky grabbed my leg,
and into the muckiness I was dragged.

As I was about to give in to the ick,
I reached out and grabbed a stick
And in what was nearly my final act
I beat of the vile puddles attack.

I jumped up and sprinted away.
Towards the door that would save the day.
I ran right in and slammed the door,
hoping that the puddle was no more.

But my troubles weren’t over yet.
On this you could surely bet.
For I happened to run into no one other
than my mud hating mother.

She stared at me and screamed in dismay,
“ How on earth did you get this way?”
I tried to tell her that it was the puddle-icky,
that had gotten me so muddy and sticky.

But she ignored me and I felt her wrath
when she stated, “ Get in the bath.”
So here I am in the midst of the bubbles,
scrubbing away my muddy troubles.

I will tell you one more time.
If you see a puddle of muck and grime.
And if it looks like fine place to play,
and laugh your cares and troubles away.
Go no further towards mud so sticky,
or face the danger of the puddle-icky.

2006-08-06, 12:49 AM
Horace Book I Ode XXXIV

Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Parcus deorum cultor et infrequens,
Insanientis dum sapientiae
Consultus erro, nunc retrorsum
Vela dare atque iterare cursus

Cogor relictos: namque Diespiter,
Igni corusco nubila dividens
Plerumque, per purum tonantes
Egit equos volucremque currum;

Quo bruta tellus et vaga flumina,
Quo Styx et invisi horrida Taenari
Sedes Atlanteusque finis
Concutitur. Valet ima summis

Mutare et insignem attenuat deus,
Obscura promens; hinc apicem rapax
Fortuna *** stridore acuto
Sustulit, hic posuisse gaudet.