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  • #168665
    Tift
    Participant

      Elizabeth Barrett's custom was to write alone and not show her work to anyone.
      During the two years of her courtship with Robert Browning (1845-46) she wrote
      a series of sonnets intended for her future husband's eyes alone.  One day in
      early 1847, married and living in Florence, she appeared behind him, held him
      by the shoulder to prevent his turning and at the same time pushed a packet of papers
      into the pocket of his coat.  She told him to read that, and to tear it up if he did not like it;
      and then she fled to her own room.   

      Browning said “I dared not reserve to myself the finest sonnets written in any language
      since Shakespeare's.”  Which is how her Sonnets From the Portuguese came about.

      Sonnet 35

      If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
      And be all to me? Shall I never miss
      Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
      That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
      When I look up, to drop on a new range
      Of walls and floors … another home than this?
      Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
      Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?
      That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
      To conquer grief, tries more … as all things prove;
      For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
      Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
      Yet love me—wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
      And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

      #168666
      Bambigurl

        The world is made of halves.There are things that hurt and things that heal. There is a person born and and a person dying in this second. Life is short and cruel and beautiful and complicated, but it's worth to be lived  …even if just for the better half…

        Good Bones

        By Maggie Smith

        Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
        Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
        in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
        a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
        I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
        fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
        estimate, though I keep this from my children.
        For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
        For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
        sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
        is at least half terrible, and for every kind
        stranger, there is one who would break you,
        though I keep this from my children. I am trying
        to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
        walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
        about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
        right? You could make this place beautiful.

        #168667
        Soniaslut
        Participant

                                    Nemesis
                                  H. P. Lovecraft

              Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
                    Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,
              I have liv’d 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 whirl’d 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-fork’d lightning is rending,
                    That resound with hysterical cries;
          With the moans of invisible daemons that out of the green waters rise.

              I have plung’d like a deer thro’ the arches
                    Of the hoary primordial 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 thro’ dead branches above.

              I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
                    That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
              I have drunk of the fog-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 scann’d the vast ivy-clad palace,
                    I have trod its untenanted hall,
              Where the moon writhing up from the valleys
                    Shews the tapestried things on the wall;
          Strange figures discordantly woven, which I cannot endure to recall.

              I have peer’d from the casement in wonder
                    At the mouldering meadows around,
              At the many-roof’d 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-deck’d 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 Arctic 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.

              Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
                    Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,
              I have liv’d 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.

          #168668
          Stone
          Participant

            09cf02456565779b865a2886c3c2eb0f.jpg

            #168669
            Bambigurl

              How to See Deer
              Philip Booth

              Forget roadside crossings.
              Go nowhere with guns.
              Go elsewhere your own way,

              lonely and wanting. Or
              stay and be early:
              next to deep woods

              inhabit old orchards.
              All clearings promise.
              Sunrise is good,

              and fog before sun.
              Expect nothing always;
              find your luck slowly.

              Wait out the windfall.
              Take your good time
              to learn to read ferns;

              make like a turtle:
              downhill toward slow water.
              Instructed by heron,

              drink the pure silence.
              Be compassed by wind.
              If you quiver like aspen

              trust your quick nature:
              let your ear teach you
              which way to listen.

              You've come to assume
              protective color; now
              colors reform to

              new shapes in your eye.
              You've learned by now
              to wait without waiting;

              as if it were dusk
              look into light falling:
              in deep relief

              things even out. Be
              careless of nothing. See
              what you see.

              #168670
              Soniaslut
              Participant

                The Stone Troll
                Samwise Gamgee(J. R. R. Tolkien

                The Stone Troll is a poem composed by Samwise Gamgee and recorded in the Red Book of Westmarch. Sam recited this poem when Aragorn and the hobbits were resting in the shade of the trolls who had been turned into stone during Bilbo Baggins' adventure with the Dwarves.

                Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
                And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
                For many a year he had gnawed it near,
                For meat was hard to come by.
                Done by! Gum by!
                In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
                And meat was hard to come by.

                Up came Tom with his big boots on.
                Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
                For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim.
                As should be a-lyin' in the graveyard.
                Caveyard! Paveyard!
                This many a year has Tim been gone,
                And I thought he were lyin' in the graveyard.'

                'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
                But what be bones that lie in a hole?
                Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
                Afore I found his shinbone.
                Tinbone! Thinbone!
                He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
                For he don't need his shinbone.'

                Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
                Without axin' leave should go makin' free
                With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
                So hand the old bone over!
                Rover! Trover!
                Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
                So hand the old bone over!'

                'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,
                'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
                A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
                I'll try my teeth on thee now.
                Hee now! See now!
                I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
                I've a mind to dine on thee now.'

                But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
                He found his hands had hold of naught.
                Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
                And gave him the boot to larn him.
                Warn him! Darn him!
                A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
                Would be the way to larn him.

                But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
                Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
                As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
                For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
                Peel it! Heal it!
                Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
                And he knew his toes could feel it.

                Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
                And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
                But Troll don't care, and he's still there
                With the bone he boned from its owner.
                Doner! Boner!
                Troll's old seat is still the same,
                And the bone he boned from its owner!

                #168672
                Tift
                Participant

                  I love the small details of life and this is full of them

                  Rupert Brooke  These I Have Loved



                  These I have loved:
                  White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
                  Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
                  Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
                  Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
                  Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
                  And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
                  And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
                  Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
                  Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
                  Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
                  Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
                  Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
                  Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
                  The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
                  The good smell of old clothes; and other such—
                  The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
                  Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
                  About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .
                                    Dear names,
                  And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
                  Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
                  Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
                  Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
                  Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
                  Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
                  That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
                  And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
                  Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
                  Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
                  And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
                  And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—
                  All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
                  Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
                  Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
                  To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
                  They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
                  Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
                  And sacramented covenant to the dust.
                  ——Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
                  And give what's left of love again, and make
                  New friends, now strangers. . . .
                              But the best I've known
                  Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
                  About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
                  Of living men, and dies.
                              Nothing remains.

                  O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
                  This one last gift I give: that after men
                  Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
                  Praise you, 'All these were lovely'; say, 'He loved.'

                  #168674
                  Soniaslut
                  Participant

                    Wimpy's Poem For The Sea Hag
                    By E. C. Segar

                    We slew our foes,
                      My sweetheart and me
                    And streams of Corpuscles
                      Flowed to the sea

                    All over the walls and on the floor
                    Were buckets and buckets and buckets of Gore

                    We stepped on their necks,
                      On those slippery decks,
                    As my sweety and me went aft.
                      And amid all this,
                      She gave me a kiss,
                    And amid all this we laughed!

                    For she was the Hag of the Seven Seas,
                      And I was her understudy,
                    And never a tremor ran through her knees,
                      Though decks were befouled and ruddy.

                    In the depth of her eyes
                      Was the Blue of the Skies
                    As well as the shadows of night.
                      And I'll sing her love's song
                    E'en though she's all wrong
                      For I, too, am not in the right.

                    #168675
                    Soniaslut
                    Participant

                      [img]https://i.imgur.com/WZm88yM.jpg?1[/img]

                      #168676
                      Tift
                      Participant

                        I love this for it's simplicty, the beauty of it's imagery.

                        Marianne Moore – “The Steeple-Jack”

                        Dürer would have seen a reason for living
                        in a town like this, with eight stranded whales
                        to look at; with the sweet sea air coming into your house
                        on a fine day, from water etched
                        with waves as formal as the scales
                        on a fish.

                        One by one in two’s and three’s, the seagulls keep
                        flying back and forth over the town clock,
                        or sailing around the lighthouse without moving their wings —
                        rising steadily with a slight
                        quiver of the body — or flock
                        mewing where

                        a sea the purple of the peacock’s neck is
                        paled to greenish azure as Dürer changed
                        the pine green of the Tyrol to peacock blue and guinea
                        gray. You can see a twenty-five-
                        pound lobster; and fish nets arranged
                        to dry. The

                        whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt
                        marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the
                        star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so
                        much confusion. Disguised by what
                        might seem the opposite, the sea-
                        side flowers and

                        trees are favored by the fog so that you have
                        the tropics first hand: the trumpet-vine,
                        fox-glove, giant snap-dragon, a salpiglossis that has
                        spots and stripes; morning-glories, gourds,
                        or moon-vines trained on fishing-twine
                        at the back door;

                        cat-tails, flags, blueberries and spiderwort,
                        striped grass, lichens, sunflowers, asters, daisies —
                        yellow and crab-claw ragged sailors with green bracts — toad-plant,
                        petunias, ferns; pink lilies, blue
                        ones, tigers; poppies; black sweet-peas.
                        The climate

                        is not right for the banyan, frangipani, or
                        jack-fruit trees; or for exotic serpent
                        life. Ring lizard and snake-skin for the foot, if you see fit;
                        but here they’ve cats, not cobras, to
                        keep down the rats. The diffident
                        little newt

                        with white pin-dots on black horizontal spaced-
                        out bands lives here; yet there is nothing that
                        ambition can buy or take away. The college student
                        named Ambrose sits on the hillside
                        with his not-native books and hat
                        and sees boats

                        at sea progress white and rigid as if in
                        a groove. Liking an elegance of which
                        the sourch is not bravado, he knows by heart the antique
                        sugar-bowl shaped summer-house of
                        interlacing slats, and the pitch
                        of the church

                        spire, not true, from which a man in scarlet lets
                        down a rope as a spider spins a thread;
                        he might be part of a novel, but on the sidewalk a
                        sign says C. J. Poole, Steeple Jack,
                        in black and white; and one in red
                        and white says

                        Danger. The church portico has four fluted
                        columns, each a single piece of stone, made
                        modester by white-wash. Theis would be a fit haven for
                        waifs, children, animals, prisoners,
                        and presidents who have repaid
                        sin-driven

                        senators by not thinking about them. The
                        place has a school-house, a post-office in a
                        store, fish-houses, hen-houses, a three-masted schooner on
                        the stocks. The hero, the student,
                        the steeple-jack, each in his way,
                        is at home.

                        It could not be dangerous to be living
                        in a town like this, of simple people,
                        who have a steeple-jack placing danger signs by the church
                        while he is gilding the solid-
                        pointed star, which on a steeple
                        stands for hope.

                        #168677
                        Tift
                        Participant

                          Juan’s Song
                          By Louise Bogan

                          When beauty breaks and falls asunder 
                          I feel no grief for it, but wonder.
                          When love, like a frail shell, lies broken, 
                          I keep no chip of it for token.
                          I never had a man for friend
                          Who did not know that love must end. 
                          I never had a girl for lover
                          Who could discern when love was over. 
                          What the wise doubt, the fool believes—
                          Who is it, then, that love deceives?

                          #168678
                          Stone
                          Participant

                            Printable-Arbor-Day-Poem.jpg

                            #168679
                            Soniaslut
                            Participant

                              WITCH WIFE
                              By Edna St. Vincent Millay


                              She is neither pink nor pale,
                              And she never will be all mine;
                              She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
                              And her mouth on a valentine.

                              She has more hair than she needs;
                              In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
                              And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
                              Or steps leading into the sea.

                              She loves me all that she can,
                              And her ways to my ways resign;
                              But she was not made for any man,
                              And she never will be all mine.

                              #168680
                              Tift
                              Participant

                                The Cross of Snow
                                By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

                                In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
                                  A gentle face — the face of one long dead —
                                  Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
                                  The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
                                Here in this room she died; and soul more white
                                  Never through martyrdom of fire was led
                                  To its repose; nor can in books be read
                                  The legend of a life more benedight.        (blessed)
                                There is a mountain in the distant West
                                  That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
                                  Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
                                Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
                                  These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
                                  And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

                                                ===============

                                (Longefellow's wife, Fanny died in 1861 when her
                                dress caught fire: he too was burned trying to
                                save her.  The poem was found in his portfolio
                                after his death in 1892)

                                #168681
                                Tift
                                Participant

                                  The Ragged Wood
                                  By William Butler Yeats

                                  O, hurry, where by water, among the trees,
                                  The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh,
                                  When they have looked upon their images
                                  Would none had ever loved but you and I!

                                  Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed
                                  Pale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky,
                                  When the sun looked out of his golden hood?
                                  O, that none ever loved but you and I!

                                  O hurry to the ragged wood, for there
                                  I will drive all those lovers out and cry
                                  O, my share of the world, O, yellow hair!
                                  No one has ever loved but you and I

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