Post Your Fave Poems

WishingICould

Well-known member
Ronita Lee. "What is love?"

What Is Love ?
and why does love never find me
Instead Broken Hearts Surround Me
And once again the wrong man found me
Saying he wouldn't hurt me
but in the end he didn't deserve me
What Is Love?
and why doesn't love know my name
I prayed to god that it would change
But true love never came
What Is Love?
I ask myself time after time,
why is love so blind,
or I shouldn't waist my time
I guess Broken Hearts are only made for me,
Because love finds everyone else but love never found me....
 

Xervello

Well-known member
Sylvia Plath's The Arrival of the Bee Box

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.
 

PseudoLoneWolf

Active member
A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?
 

PseudoLoneWolf

Active member
A part that I love from Oscar Wilde's "The Ballad Of Reading Gaol"

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
 

PseudoLoneWolf

Active member
Oscar Wilde's epitaph :

“And alien tears will fill for him
Pity’s long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.”
 

Xervello

Well-known member
Oscar Wilde: "In life there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what you want, the other is getting it."
 

Golem

Active member
I will post a poem in the original language because is very difficult to translate to english:

El Golem - Jorge Luis Borges

Si (como afirma el griego en el Cratilo)
el nombre es arquetipo de la cosa
en las letras de 'rosa' está la rosa
y todo el Nilo en la palabra 'Nilo'.

Y, hecho de consonantes y vocales,
habrá un terrible Nombre, que la esencia
cifre de Dios y que la Omnipotencia
guarde en letras y sílabas cabales.

Adán y las estrellas lo supieron
en el Jardín. La herrumbre del pecado
(dicen los cabalistas) lo ha borrado
y las generaciones lo perdieron.

Los artificios y el candor del hombre
no tienen fin. Sabemos que hubo un día
en que el pueblo de Dios buscaba el Nombre
en las vigilias de la judería.

No a la manera de otras que una vaga
sombra insinúan en la vaga historia,
aún está verde y viva la memoria
de Judá León, que era rabino en Praga.

Sediento de saber lo que Dios sabe,
Judá León se dio a permutaciones
de letras y a complejas variaciones
y al fin pronunció el Nombre que es la Clave,

la Puerta, el Eco, el Huésped y el Palacio,
sobre un muñeco que con torpes manos
labró, para enseñarle los arcanos
de las Letras, del Tiempo y del Espacio.

El simulacro alzó los soñolientos
párpados y vio formas y colores
que no entendió, perdidos en rumores
y ensayó temerosos movimientos.

Gradualmente se vio (como nosotros)
aprisionado en esta red sonora
de Antes, Después, Ayer, Mientras, Ahora,
Derecha, Izquierda, Yo, Tú, Aquellos, Otros.

(El cabalista que ofició de numen
a la vasta criatura apodó Golem;
estas verdades las refiere Scholem
en un docto lugar de su volumen.)

El rabí le explicaba el universo
"esto es mi pie; esto el tuyo, esto la soga."
y logró, al cabo de años, que el perverso
barriera bien o mal la sinagoga.

Tal vez hubo un error en la grafía
o en la articulación del Sacro Nombre;
a pesar de tan alta hechicería,
no aprendió a hablar el aprendiz de hombre.

Sus ojos, menos de hombre que de perro
y harto menos de perro que de cosa,
seguían al rabí por la dudosa
penumbra de las piezas del encierro.

Algo anormal y tosco hubo en el Golem,
ya que a su paso el gato del rabino
se escondía. (Ese gato no está en Scholem
pero, a través del tiempo, lo adivino.)

Elevando a su Dios manos filiales,
las devociones de su Dios copiaba
o, estúpido y sonriente, se ahuecaba
en cóncavas zalemas orientales.

El rabí lo miraba con ternura
y con algún horror. '¿Cómo' (se dijo)
'pude engendrar este penoso hijo
y la inacción dejé, que es la cordura?'

'¿Por qué di en agregar a la infinita
serie un símbolo más? ¿Por qué a la vana
madeja que en lo eterno se devana,
di otra causa, otro efecto y otra cuita?'

En la hora de angustia y de luz vaga,
en su Golem los ojos detenía.
¿Quién nos dirá las cosas que sentía
Dios, al mirar a su rabino en Praga?
 

5arah

Well-known member
In a Disused Graveyard
By Robert Frost

The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
"The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay."
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can't help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.


Jabberwocky
By Lewis Caroll

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

"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 hast 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.
 

5arah

Well-known member
Holy Sonnet 10
By John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.
 
Anger of Soul

The sorrowful sorrow
Tears and tax's
Making a mindful mind - full
Of all that this world offers
Nail and rock
Spite and froth
Anger of (the) soul
Eating flesh of the heart
Deepening to the darker
Recess
Fingers claw, desperate
Wanting, beyond want - HUNGER
Where are you?
Sobs of salt
Can you hear me?
The world has a decibel of a billion
And I am one
 
Dull into White

Shining,
Shine
The dull becomes bright white
Letting in You despite
Despite, I become bright white

Like a bride anticipates
The moment of the kiss
Linger
Lingering
The moment of a veil removed

Before the raining
Rain
It was always just waiting
Drenched and glistening
For the dew of your tears

I wait for you, Wait for you, Wait for you
Despite pain
Knowing that the birth
Will be all I hold dear
When eternity calls my first breath
 
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The Nothing Same

The world is glossed
Blur.
Dizziness
The talk is old
People shuffle, muffled
I can no longer understand their movement
My feet lift and fall
I work, I function
I am nothing more
Same path, same - same - same
All is same
Dice it, mince it, bake it, kill it; it’s the same
The walk; the same
The talk; the same
The life; the same
If it is all the same, then why discriminate?
Let the blur carry you to the same. same. same. end.
 

Xervello

Well-known member
Holy Sonnet 10
By John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.



Donne! What a brilliant writer. :)

His poetry was central to that Emma Thompson movie Wit.
 

Xervello

Well-known member
Earlier this morning I watched that movie Mask again. It's about the real life story of a boy who grew up with a deformed face. In it, Eric Stoltz (who plays him) recites a poem that the real Rocky Dennis wrote. I thought I'd post it. It's sweet and moving in a way that only an innocent could articulate.


These things are good:
ice cream and cake,
a ride on a harley,
seeing monkeys in the trees,
the rain on my tongue,
and the sun shining on my face.

These things are a drag:
dust in my hair,
holes in my shoes,
no money in my pocket,
and the sun shining on my face.
 

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nodejesque

Well-known member
Sonnet XVII
By Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.





SONETO XVII

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores, y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde, te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres, tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía, tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
 
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LoyalXenite

Well-known member
By Mary Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain.
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am the morning hush.
I am the graceful rush
of beautiful birds in circling flight.
I am the star shine of the night.
I am the flowers that bloom.
I am in a quiet room.
I am the birds that sing.
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
 

everdeenkatniss

Well-known member
This is Just to Say,” William Carlos Williams

We love this poem for its sheer deliciousness. It reads like a piece of the most beautifully written found poetry — a note taped to the icebox door. Succinct, simple, and yet juicy, the limited lines profess a narrative far beyond what actually exists on the page.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
 

Xervello

Well-known member
"A Strike in Fairyland" by Arthur Guiterman

There's terrible trouble in Fairyland,
I hear from a humming-bird fresh from the border,
The impudent sprites of that airy strand
Refusing to follow the good old order.

The elves have deserted both field and glade--
"So tired of tending the thankless flowers!"
The gnomes have abandoned their pick and spade,
Demanding more wages and shorter hours.

The nixes and mermaids have swum ashore;--
"The waters are damp, chill, and uninviting."
The witches will dwell in the woods no more;
Apartments they want, with electric lighting.

The monarchs are throwing their scepters down--
"It's wearisome work--this eternal reigning!"
The queens push their honey aside, and frown,
And all through the palace there's complaining.

The royal-born youths of the golden clime
Play football and hockey, and each professes
The utmost aversion to wasting time
In rescuing maidens with golden tresses.

And the maidens deplorable taste evince;
Her nose in the air, each vows, defiant,
That sooner than mate with a stupid prince
She'd marry an ogre or lovely giant!

While the dragon roars from his gloomy hall
(And, oh, it isn't a theme for laughter!):
"I've swallowed the princess, crown and all,
And I'm to 'live happily ever after.'"
 
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