poetry

[Tom]

What is everyones favorite poem?

[Tom]

Re: poetry

Mine is:

She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to the tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One ray the more, one shade the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
-- Lord Byron, (George Gordon)


other than of course Don Juan by Lord Byron but I couldnt quote that here

[womanpraised]

Re: poetry

WOW... depends on the mood... For the sound and rythm...


Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night - Dylan Thomas

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.

My personal mottos...not the best poetry wise, but the ones I know that I know, and bring out again and again, and repeat often... Have the Cooke printed real pretty and framed, it hangs in my living room, where I pay my bills!


How Did You Die? - Edmund Vance Cooke



Did you tackle the trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?

Or did you hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh a trouble’s a ton or a trouble’s an ounce

Or a trouble is what you make it

And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts

But only how did you take it?



You are beaten to earth, Well well what’s that ?

Come up with a smiling face

It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there, that’s a disgrace.

The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce,

Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts,

But how did you fight and why?



And though you be done to death, what then?

If you battled the best you could

If you played your part in the world of men

Why the Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl;or comes with a pounce,

And whether it’s slow or spry,

It isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts,

But only, how did you die?


and...

Solitude

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

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

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

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Overall, my favorites are Frost, and Blake, who just gets me going... I used to be really huge on Bukowski, but find that our worldviews are so vastly opposite that I appreciate his work, the rythms and the imagery and word use... I rarely seek it out any more.


One of my fave subjects, I could go on all night. I will restrain myself from posting my whole file here..

Thanks Tom!

[Qjakal]

Re: poetry

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with and aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle -
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me -
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads -you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

[Miss Phode]

Re: poetry

Woman... woe-man... whoooa-man.
She was a thief, you got to believe, she stole my heart and my cat.
Judy, Betty, Josie and those hot Pussycats...
they made me horny, on Saturday morning...
girls of cartoo-ins will leave me in ruins...
I want to to be Betty's Barney.
Jane... get me off this crazy thing...
called love.

[woe]

Re: poetry

spring has sprung
the grass has rizz
where last year's reckless driver's is!

[woe]

Re: poetry

A green little chemist
on a green little day
mixed some green little chemicals
in a green little way.
Now the green grasses tenderly wave
over the green little chemist's
green little grave.

[Desertthorn]

Re: poetry

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

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in he11".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

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

[Heidi3]

Re: poetry

I have loved this since my early teens... and wish I could be as idealistic as I think this sounds!!! It has always been a relaxing reminder to me to kind of slow down and be more calm and lest vexing! ....however much as I would like to not...I fall pretty short of these ideals!
I wonder how many children of the 70's remember this one?


DESIDERATA

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
And remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly & clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull & ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud & aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain & bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing future of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.


Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity & disenchantment
it is perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue & loneliness.
Beyond wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees & the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labours & aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

[Brook]

Re: poetry

I'm a simple girl. LOL Shel Silverstein has always had my heart and always will.


LISTEN TO THE MUSTN'TS

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


My other favorites are the ones that taught my children to cross a street safely and to not pick their noses. LOL

I look to the left
I look to the right
Before I ever move my feet.
No cars to the left
No cars to the right
I guess it's safe to cross the street!


And...

WARNING
Inside everybody's nose
There lives a sharp-toothed snail.
So if you stick your finger in,
He may bite off your nail.
Stick it farther up inside,
And he may bite your ring off.
Stick it all the way, and he
May bite the whole darn thing off.



~Brook

[womanpraised]

Re: poetry

Fave Shel Silverstein...

Miss McTwitter, the babysitter
I think she's a little bit crazy
She thinks that a baby sitters
Supposed to sit on the baby..


But the picture is what made it... I wish I could remember the words to me first! That is some good stuff... I should go get a book for my boys..

THANKS BROOK!!!

[Desertthorn]

Re: poetry

wow, thats cute

When I was young and romantic, and in love with love, I just loved Rod McKuen.

And there you were.
Coming down the boardwalk
to me
just as though
we had planned it
to the last detail,
held a final countdown
to the crucial second.

What should I have done,
run ahead to meet you
stayed until you reached
your mark?

It was not until you passed,
that I made up my mind -
or had my mind
made up for me,
that I would follow you
up or down boardwalks -
home, to other beaches
other cities
other worlds.

But I turned too late
you were gone -
really gone.

Where were you hurrying?
Were you on your way away
or toward?

You were running
even as you walked.
I might have said slow down.
I have been there.
I have run too.
There, is always here.

One boardwalk
is like another
and so much time is wasted
crawling, cruising, walking down
so many planks, staircases,
walks made of board or hard cement
in this life and after
that when you finally
learn the lack of any real mystery
lurking on as yet unwalked
unmarked paths
there may not be
enough time left in life
to find your way back home again

[Miss Phode]

Re: poetry

WomanPraised. Did you know Shel Silverstein has a new book of poetry called Runny Babbit. He was my fav when I was a kid.

[Brook]

Re: poetry

A Light In The Attic
Where the Sidewalk Ends
Giving Tree
Giraffe And A Half - A HUGE preschooler/kindergarden hit. If you haven't checked it out, do so. It's so darn cute and the kids love the repetition!
Fallin Up
Missing Piece

Like I'm not adding Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook in! Shel Silverstein is part of what made my childhood magical, and he's helped me keep that same type of magic for my children. I love him for that.

I didn't know he had a new one out!! Off to Barnes & Noble I go! Thanks for the heads up Aphex!

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