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Thread: Favorite Poems

  1. #121
    “You are so... 11:59” Kalimtari's Avatar
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    A cold rain starting

    A cold rain starting
    And no hat --
    So?


    Matsuo Basho

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    A snowy morning

    A snowy morning--
    by myself,
    chewing on dried salmon.


    Translated by Robert Hass
    Matsuo Basho

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    A bee

    A bee
    staggers out
    of the peony.


    Translated by Robert Hass
    Matsuo Basho

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    a strange flower

    a strange flower
    for birds and butterflies
    the autumn sky


    Matsuo Basho

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    A wild sea

    A wild sea-
    In the distance over Sado
    The Milky Way



    Matsuo Basho

  6. #126
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    MYTHOPOEIA

    "You look at trees and label them just so,
    (for trees are 'trees,' and growing is 'to grow');
    you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
    one of the many minor globes of Space:
    a star's a star, some matter in a ball
    compelled to courses mathematical
    amid the regimented, cold, Inane,
    where destined atoms are each moment slain.
    At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
    (and must), but only dimly apprehend,
    great processes march on, as Time unrolls
    from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
    and as on page o'erwritten without clue,
    with script and limning packed of various hue,
    an endless multitude of forms appear,
    some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
    each alien, except as kin from one
    remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
    God made the petrous rocks, the arboreal trees,
    tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
    homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
    with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
    The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
    green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
    thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
    slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
    these each are duly registered and print
    the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
    Yet trees are not 'trees,' until so named and seen --
    and never were so named, till those had been
    who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
    faint echo and dim picture of the world,
    but neither record nor a photograph,
    being divination, judgement, and a laugh,
    response of those that felt astir within
    by deep monition movements that were kin
    to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
    free captives undermining shadowy bars,
    digging the foreknown from experience
    and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
    Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves,
    and looking backward they beheld the elves
    that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
    and light and dark on secret looms entwined.
    He sees no stars who does not see them first
    of living silver made that sudden burst
    to flame like flowers beneath an ancient song,
    whose very echo after music long
    has since pursued. There is no firmament,
    only a void, unless a jewelled tent
    myth-woven and elf-patterned; and no earth,
    unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
    The heart of man is not compound of lies,
    but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
    and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
    man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
    Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
    and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
    his world-dominion by creative act:
    not his to worship the great Artefact,
    man, sub-creator, the refracted light
    through whom is splintered from a single White
    to many hues, and endlessly combined
    in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
    Though all the crannies of the world we filled
    with elves and goblins, though we dared to build
    gods and their houses out of dark and light,
    and sow the seeds of dragons, 'twas our right
    (used or misused). The right has not decayed.
    We make still by the law in which we're made.
    Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
    our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
    Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
    or some things fair and others ugly deem?
    All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
    fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain
    not for itself to be desired, but ill;
    or else to strive or to subdue the will
    alike we're graceless; and of Evil this
    alone is dreadly certain: Evil is.
    Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate,
    that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
    that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
    though small and bare, upon a clumsy loom
    weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
    hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.
    Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
    their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
    and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
    a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.
    Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
    of things not found within recorded time.
    It is not they that have forgot the Night,
    or bid us flee to organized delight,
    in lotus-isles of economic bliss
    forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
    (and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
    bogus seduction of the twice seduced).
    Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
    and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
    They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
    and yet they would not in despair retreat,
    but oft to victory have turned the lyre
    and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
    illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
    with light of suns as yet by no man seen.
    I would that I might with the minstrels sing
    and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
    I would be with the mariners of the deep
    that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
    and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
    for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
    I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
    that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
    impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
    to mint in image blurred of distant king,
    or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
    heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.
    I will not walk with your progressive apes,
    erect and sapient. Before them gapes
    the dark abyss to which their progress tends --
    if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
    and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
    unfruitful course with changing of a name.
    I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
    denoting this and that by this and that,
    your world immutable wherein o part
    the little maker has with maker's art.
    I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
    nor cast my own small golden scepter down.
    * * *
    In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
    from gazing upon everlasting Day
    to see the day-illumined, and renew
    from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
    Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
    that all is as it is, and yet made free:
    Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
    garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
    Evil will not see, for evil lies
    not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
    not in the source but in malicious choice,
    and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
    In Paradise they no more look awry;
    and though they make anew, they make no lie.
    Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
    and poets shall have flames upon their head,
    and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
    there each shall choose for ever from the All."
    -J.R.R. Tolkien

  7. #127
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  8. #128
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    A beautiful day where I live today. A perfect day to read and listen to poetry, drink lemonade on the swing on the deck, while looking out on my backyard, the woods, the river before me. Screw work. I will not miss this perfection. Here, have a drink, a sandwich, and enjoy some poetry with me.

    My view.



    **********************************
    The first poetry I ever heard in my life was "A Child's Garden of Verses," read to me by my mother before bedtime.

    "A Child's Garden of Verses," by Robert Louis Stevenson, Illustrated by E. Mars and M.H. Squire




    BED IN SUMMER

    In winter I get up at night
    And dress by yellow candle-light.
    In summer, quite the other way,
    I have to go to bed by day.

    I have to go to bed and see
    The birds still hopping on the tree,
    Or hear the grown-up people's feet
    Still going past me in the street.

    And does it not seem hard to you
    When all the sky is clear and blue,
    And I should like so much to play,
    To have to go to bed by day?




    MY SHADOW

    I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
    And what can be the use of him is more than I can see,
    He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
    And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

    The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
    Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
    For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
    And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

    He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
    And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
    He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
    I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

    One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
    I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
    But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
    Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.


    THE SWING

    How do you like to go up in a swing,
    Up in the air so blue?
    Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
    Ever a child can do!

    Up in the air and over the wall,
    Till I can see so wide,
    Rivers and trees and cattle and all
    Over the countryside—

    Till I look down on the garden green,
    Down on the roof so brown—
    Up in the air I go flying again,
    Up in the air and down!



    GOOD AND BAD CHILDREN

    Children, you are very little,
    And your bones are very brittle;
    If you would grow great and stately,
    You must try to walk sedately.

    You must still be bright and quiet,
    And content with simple diet;
    And remain, through all bewild'ring,
    Innocent and honest children.

    Happy hearts and happy faces,
    Happy play in grassy places—
    That was how, in ancient ages,
    Children grew to kings and sages.

    But the unkind and the unruly,
    And the sort who eat unduly,
    They must never hope for glory—
    Theirs is quite a different story!

    Cruel children, crying babies,
    All grow up as geese and gabies,
    Hated, as their age increases,
    By their nephews and their nieces.

    *****************************************
    Haiku by Me.


    ******************************************

    Poem written by my grandmother, the original Marusya, to my grandfather, when she was stuck in Ukraine and he was in America.

    Out of a far land
    a warm greeting flies
    to the faraway country, to America,
    right to my husband
    to cheer his heart.
    Accept this picture in hand
    and don’t forget the one you left.

    I will think of you
    when you are at work
    and in that sad moment
    I will pray to God for you.

    ~Maria

    The original.



    ********************************************

    Nothing like an Englishman reading Shakespeare.

    My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)

    My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
    Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
    If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
    If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
    I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
    But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
    And in some perfumes is there more delight
    Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
    I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
    That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
    I grant I never saw a goddess go;
    My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
    And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
    As any she belied with false compare.




    **********************************************

    I read this at a poetry festival in high school and fell in love with Sylvia Plath.

    Tulips by Sylvia Plath. Read by the author in the video. Plath was married to English Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes. She committed suicide by sticking her head in an oven.



    *********************************************

    I did a reading of this for a Spanish course at university, and fell in love with Pablo Neruda.

    La Muerta

    Si de pronto no existes,
    si de pronto no vives,
    yo seguiré viviendo.

    No me atrevo,
    no me atrevo a escribirlo,
    si te mueres.

    Yo seguiré viviendo.

    Porque donde no tiene voz un hombre
    allí, mi voz.

    Donde los negros sean apaleados,
    yo no puedo estar muerto.
    Cuando entren en la cárcel mis hermanos
    entraré yo con ellos.

    Cuando la victoria,
    no mi victoria,
    sino la gran Victoria llegue,
    aunque esté mudo debo hablar:
    yo la veré llegar aunque esté ciego.

    No, perdóname.
    Si tú no vives,
    si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú
    te has muerto,
    todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho,
    lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día,
    la nieve quemará mi corazón,
    andaré con frío y fuego
    y muerte y nieve,
    mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes, pero seguiré vivo,
    porque tú me quisiste sobre
    todas las cosas indomable,
    y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre
    sino todos los hombres


    English Translation.

    The Dead Woman

    If suddenly you do not exist,
    if suddenly you no longer live,
    I shall live on.
    I do not dare,
    I do not dare to write it,
    if you die.

    I shall live on.

    For where a man has no voice,
    there, my voice.

    Where blacks are beaten,
    I cannot be dead.
    When my brothers go to prison
    I shall go with them.

    When victory,
    not my victory,
    but the great victory comes,
    even though I am mute I must speak;
    I shall see it come even
    though I am blind.

    (My favorite part of this poem.)

    No, forgive me.
    If you no longer live,
    if you, beloved, my love,
    if you have died,
    all the leaves will fall in my breast,
    it will rain on my soul night and day,
    the snow will burn my heart,
    I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,
    my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but
    I shall stay alive,
    because above all things
    you wanted me indomitable,
    and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man
    but all mankind.


    The last part of the poem, read by Alan Rickman, from the Anthony Minghella film, "Truly, Madly, Deeply."



    ****************************************

    Taras Shevchenko is Ukraine’s most praised poet. His life and legacy are especially valued for the spirit of freedom that he put in his poems. Shevchenko lived only 47 years. The first 24 years he spent as a serf and the last 10 years he lived in exile, punished by Russian emperor Nicholas I for participating in a secret political organization.

    My favorite poem by Shevchenko.

    It Makes No Difference To Me

    It makes no difference to me,
    If I shall live or not in Ukraine
    Or whether any one shall think
    Of me 'mid foreign snow and rain.
    It makes no difference to me.

    In slavery I grew 'mid strangers,
    Unwept by any kin of mine;
    In slavery I now will die
    And vanish without any sign.
    I shall not leave the slightest trace
    Upon our glorious Ukraine,
    Our land, but not as ours known.
    No father will remind his son
    Or say to him, "Repeat one prayer,
    One prayer for him; for our Ukraine
    They tortured him in their foul lair."

    It makes no difference to me,
    If that son says a prayer or not.
    It makes great difference to me
    That evil folk and wicked men
    Attack our Ukraine, once so free,
    And rob and plunder it at will.
    That makes great difference to me.


    --St. Petersburg Citadel Prison May, 1847
    Last edited by Marusya; 06-04-2015 at 07:03 PM.

  9. #129
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    The Tyger
    BY WILLIAM BLAKE

    Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
    In the forests of the night;
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies.
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand, dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder, & what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? & what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain,
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp,
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

    When the stars threw down their spears
    And water'd heaven with their tears:
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger Tyger burning bright,
    In the forests of the night:
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

    Fire and Ice
    BY ROBERT FROST

    Some say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I’ve tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To say that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice.

    Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    BY ROBERT FROST

    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.


    When someone shows you their true colors believe them.

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    Senior Member Blue Fox's Avatar
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    Resumé
    By Dorthy Parker

    Razors pain you;
    Rivers are damp;
    Acids stain you;
    And drugs cause cramp.
    Guns aren't lawful;
    Nooses give;
    Gas smells awful;
    You might as well live.



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