Skip to content

Favourite Pomes

- Not logged in to forum -
Viewing 15 posts - 1 through 15 (of 156 total)
  • Author
    Posts
  • #168647
    Tift
    Participant

      Just for the natural things, simple and beautiful
      I have always loved this

      The Wood-Pile
      BY ROBERT FROST

      Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
      I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
      No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.'
      The hard snow held me, save where now and then
      One foot went through. The view was all in lines
      Straight up and down of tall slim trees
      Too much alike to mark or name a place by
      So as to say for certain I was here
      Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
      A small bird flew before me. He was careful
      To put a tree between us when he lighted,
      And say no word to tell me who he was
      Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
      He thought that I was after him for a feather—
      The white one in his tail; like one who takes
      Everything said as personal to himself.
      One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
      And then there was a pile of wood for which
      I forgot him and let his little fear
      Carry him off the way I might have gone,
      Without so much as wishing him good-night.
      He went behind it to make his last stand.
      It was a cord of maple, cut and split
      And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
      And not another like it could I see.
      No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
      And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
      Or even last year's or the year's before.
      The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
      And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
      Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
      What held it though on one side was a tree
      Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
      These latter about to fall. I thought that only
      Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
      Could so forget his handiwork on which
      He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
      And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
      To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
      With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

      #168648
      Jordan1
      Participant

        Probably most recently popularised by the movie Interstellar this one is one of my favourite poems:

        DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
        Dylan Thomas – 1914-1953
        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

        #168649
        Soniaslut
        Participant

          Song Of The Violet

          William Makepeace Thackeray
          1811-1863

          A humble flower long time I pined
          Upon the solitary plain,
          And trembled at the angry wind,
          And shrunk before the bitter rain.
          And oh! 'twas in a blessed hour
          A passing wanderer chanced to see,
          And, pitying the lonely flower,
          To stoop and gather me.

          I fear no more the tempest rude,
          On dreary heath no more I pine,
          But left my cheerless solitude,
          To deck the breast of Caroline.
          Alas our days are brief at best,
          Nor long I fear will mine endure,
          Though shelter'd here upon a breast
          So gentle and so pure.

          It draws the fragrance from my leaves,
          It robs me of my sweetest breath,
          And every time it falls and heaves,
          It warns me of my coming death.
          But one I know would glad forego
          All joys of life to be as I;
          An hour to rest on that sweet breast,
          And then, contented, die!

          #168650
          Kaitlyn1989
          Participant

            Song Of The Violet

            William Makepeace Thackeray
            1811-1863

            ;D i enjoyed that VERY much, Thank you.

            And here is one of MY favorite LOVE poems….

            Kahlil Gibran ~ On LOVE
            (1883 – 1931)


            When love beckons to you, follow him,
            though his ways are hard and steep.

            And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
            though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

            And when he speaks to you believe in him,
            though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

            For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
            Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning.

            Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
            So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
                                                  •
            Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
            He threshes you to make you naked.
            He sifts you to free you from your husks.
            He grinds you to whiteness.

            He kneads you until you are pliant;
            and then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
            that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

            All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart,
            and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

            But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure…
            Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of
            love’s threshing-floor, into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but
            not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

            Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
            Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; for love is sufficient unto LOVE.

            When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”

            And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you  worthy, directs your course.

            Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
            But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires…

            To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
            To know the pain of too much tenderness.
            To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
            And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

            To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
            To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
            To return home at eventide with gratitude;
            And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

            #168651
            Bambigurl


              Die gestundete Zeit – Ingeborg Bachmann (originally in German)

              There will be harder days coming.
              The for revocation deffered time is appearing at the horizon.
              Soon you gotta tie your shoes
              and chase the dogs back into the marsh's yards
              because the insides of the fish got cold in the wind
              Poorly is burning the light of the lupines.
              Your sight grooms in the fog.
              The for revocation deffered time is appearing at the horizon.

              Yonder, your loved one is sinking in the sand.
              He treads around her wafting hair,
              He's cutting her short.
              He commands her to keep still.
              He finds her mortal and willing to bid goodbye after every embracement.

              Don't look around.
              Tie your shoe.
              Chase the dogs back.
              Throw the fish into the sea.
              Quench the lupines.
              There will be harder days coming.

              #168652
              Soniaslut
              Participant

                [img]https://i.imgur.com/Zug9gNH.png?1[/img]

                #168653
                Soniaslut
                Participant

                  JUST DOING MY JOB

                  Clare Bevan

                  I'm one of Herod's Henchmen.

                  We don't have much to say,

                  We just charge through the audience

                  In a Henchman sort of way.

                  We all wear woolly helmets

                  To hide our hair and ears,

                  And Wellingtons sprayed silver

                  To match our tinfoil spears.

                  Our swords are made of cardboard

                  So blood will not be spilled

                  If we trip and stab a parent

                  When the hall's completely filled.

                  We don't look very scary,

                  We're mostly small and shy,

                  And some of us wear glasses,

                  But we give the thing a try.

                  We whisper Henchman noises

                  While Herod hunts for strangers,

                  And then we all charge out again

                  Like nervous Power Rangers.

                  Yet when the play is over

                  And Miss is out of breath

                  We'll charge like Henchmen through the hall

                  And scare our mums to death.

                  #168654
                  Bambigurl

                    I often think about this recently. It is not a happy one, but still…
                    It's not brave to smile in front of a loss, it's just easier sometimes.

                    Condolence
                    Poem By Dorothy Parker

                    They hurried here, as soon as you had died,
                    Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,
                    And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee,
                    And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed.
                    Gently they told me of that Other Side-
                    How, even then, you waited there for me,
                    And what ecstatic meeting ours would be.
                    Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried.

                    And when I smiled, they told me I was brave,
                    And they rejoiced that I was comforted,
                    And left to tell of all the help they gave.
                    But I had smiled to think how you, the dead,
                    So curiously preoccupied and grave,
                    Would laugh, could you have heard the things they said.
                    by Dorothy Parker

                    #168656
                    Soniaslut
                    Participant

                      BEASLEY STREET
                      Dr. John Cooper Clarke

                      Far from crazy pavements –
                      The taste of silver spoons
                      A clinical arrangement
                      On a dirty afternoon
                      Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud
                      Are rendered obsolete
                      The legal term is null and void
                      In the case of Beasley Street

                      In the cheap seats where murder breeds
                      Somebody is out of breath
                      Sleep is a luxury they don't need
                      – a sneak preview of death
                      Belladonna is your flower
                      Manslaughter your meat
                      Spend a year in a couple of hours
                      On the edge of Beasley Street

                      Where the action isn't
                      That's where it is
                      State your position
                      Vacancies exist
                      In an X-certificate exercise
                      Ex-servicemen excrete
                      Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies
                      In a box on Beasley Street

                      From the boarding houses and the bedsits
                      Full of accidents and fleas
                      Somebody gets it
                      Where the missing persons freeze
                      Wearing dead men's overcoats
                      You can't see their feet
                      A riff joint shuts – opens up
                      Right down on Beasley Street

                      Cars collide, colours clash
                      Disaster movie stuff
                      For a man with a Fu Manchu moustache
                      Revenge is not enough
                      There's a dead canary on a swivel seat
                      There's a rainbow in the road
                      Meanwhile on Beasley Street
                      Silence is the code

                      Hot beneath the collar
                      An inspector calls
                      Where the perishing stink of squalor
                      Impregnates the walls
                      The rats have all got rickets
                      They spit through broken teeth
                      The name of the game is not cricket
                      Caught out on Beasley Street

                      The hipster and his hired hat
                      Drive a borrowed car
                      Yellow socks and a pink cravat
                      Nothing La-di-dah
                      OAP, mother to be
                      Watch the three-piece suite
                      When shit-stoppered drains
                      And crocodile skis
                      Are seen on Beasley Street

                      The kingdom of the blind
                      A one-eyed man is king
                      Beauty problems are redefined
                      The doorbells do not ring
                      A lightbulb bursts like a blister
                      The only form of heat
                      Here a fellow sells his sister
                      Down the river on Beasley Street

                      The boys are on the wagon
                      The girls are on the shelf
                      Their common problem is
                      That they're not someone else
                      The dirt blows out
                      The dust blows in
                      You can't keep it neat
                      It's a fully furnished dustbin
                      Sixteen Beasley Street

                      Vince the ageing savage
                      Betrays no kind of life
                      But the smell of yesterday's cabbage
                      And the ghost of last year's wife
                      Through a constant haze
                      Of deodorant sprays
                      He says retreat
                      Alsations dog the dirty days
                      Down the middle of Beasley Street

                      People turn to poison
                      Quick as lager turns to piss
                      Sweethearts are physically sick
                      Every time they kiss
                      It's a sociologist's paradise
                      Each day repeats
                      On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy
                      Beastly Beasley Street

                      Eyes dead as vicious fish
                      Look around for laughs
                      If I could have just one wish
                      I would be a photograph
                      On a permanent Monday morning
                      Get lost or fall asleep
                      When the yellow cats are yawning
                      Around the back of Beasley Street

                      #168657
                      Soniaslut
                      Participant

                        The Tale Of Custard The Dragon
                        Ogden Nash

                        Belinda lived in a little white house,
                        With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
                        And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
                        And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

                        Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
                        And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
                        And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
                        But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

                        Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
                        And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
                        Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
                        And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

                        Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
                        And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
                        Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
                        But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

                        Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
                        Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
                        They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
                        At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

                        Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
                        And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
                        Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
                        When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

                        Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
                        And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
                        Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
                        For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

                        Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
                        And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
                        His beard was black, one leg was wood;
                        It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

                        Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
                        But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
                        Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
                        And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

                        But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
                        Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
                        With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
                        He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

                        The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
                        And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
                        He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
                        And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

                        Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
                        No one mourned for his pirate victim
                        Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
                        Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

                        But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
                        I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
                        And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
                        We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
                        And Custard said, I quite agree
                        That everybody is braver than me.

                        Belinda still lives in her little white house,
                        With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
                        And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
                        And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

                        Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
                        And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
                        Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
                        But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

                        #168659
                        Jordan1
                        Participant


                          The General
                          By Siegfried Sassoon

                          “Good-morning, good-morning!” the General said
                          When we met him last week on our way to the line.
                          Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
                          And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
                          “He's a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack
                          As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

                          But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

                          #168660
                          Bambigurl

                            Did you ever wish for wings? To be a bird flying over trees and forest that become sticks and points in the distance? I like this one. It means that somehow it all does not really matter, but you don't get sad about it. It's beautiful, melancholic and empowering… It means that sometimes it is just good to be, no matter what/who or when.

                            Wild Geese
                            by Mary Oliver

                            You do not have to be good.
                            You do not have to walk on your knees
                            For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
                            You only have to let the soft animal of your body
                            love what it loves.
                            Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
                            Meanwhile the world goes on.
                            Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
                            are moving across the landscapes,
                            over the prairies and the deep trees,
                            the mountains and the rivers.
                            Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
                            are heading home again.
                            Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
                            the world offers itself to your imagination,
                            calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
                            over and over announcing your place
                            in the family of things.

                            #168661
                            Soniaslut
                            Participant

                              When I Was Straight
                              Julie Marie Wade


                              I did not love women as I do now.
                              I loved them with my eyes closed, my back turned.
                              I loved them silent, & startled, & shy.

                              The world was a dreamless slumber party,
                              sleeping bags like straitjackets spread out on
                              the living room floor, my face pressed into a

                              slender pillow.

                              All night I woke to rain on the strangers’ windows.
                              No one remembered to leave a light on in the hall.
                              Someone’s father seemed always to be shaving.

                              When I stood up, I tried to tiptoe
                              around the sleeping bodies, their long hair
                              speckled with confetti, their faces blanched by the

                              porch-light moon.

                              I never knew exactly where the bathroom was.
                              I tried to wake the host girl to ask her, but she was
                              only one adrift in that sea of bodies. I was ashamed

                              to say they all looked the same to me, beautiful &
                              untouchable as stars. It would be years before
                              I learned to find anyone in the sumptuous,

                              terrifying dark.

                              #168662
                              Jordan1
                              Participant

                                Lady Lazarus. Read by the author Sylvia Plath herself.

                                https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkK2fwZfVjA

                                #168664
                                Soniaslut
                                Participant

                                  When My Mother Learns I Am A Lesbian
                                  Julie Marie Wade


                                  At first, silence, & then a thud of breath as if
                                  her throat has slid through the chute of her lungs
                                  & landed, heavy — like a stone — like a sword
                                  lodged suddenly inside it.

                                  “This explains why you don't wear make-up!” she wails.

                                  A snap — a pulsing panic pulled back & lightly
                                  camouflaged as fear: “What will I tell my friends?
                                  How can I tell my friends? I can never tell my friends!”
                                  Finally, fatigued & determined: “No one must know.”

                                  I give her permission to lie — privilege she takes
                                  as right. I promise her nothing has changed except
                                  the second chromosome of the body resting next to me.

                                  She asks, not wanting the answer: “I suppose you have
                                  to sleep in the same bed?”

                                  – No, in sleeping bags, Mom, cocooned on separate couches
                                  still wrapped in our swaddling clothes. –

                                  I could have said it, but I didn't.
                                  No tolerance for the Absurd.
                                  My mother's voice, all tissue paper & cellophane,
                                  turns tearful, liquid in its pain: “Where did we go wrong?”

                                  I want to tell her not to forgive me, plead through
                                  the twisted wires that she will not waste her prayers.

                                  “We raised you with God's laws,” she says.
                                  “We told you to be pure.”

                                  “You raised me to love,” I say.
                                  “You told me to be happy.”

                                  – But she didn't mean this way, didn't mean this way.
                                  Dear God, she didn't mean this way. –

                                  I watch out the window, sigh.
                                  Already prayers are streaming up the sky.

                                Viewing 15 posts - 1 through 15 (of 156 total)
                                • You must be logged in to reply to this topic.

                                Optimizing new Forum... Try it, and report bugs to support.