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One word leads to another ...

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Post a poem ! of any sort !

Looking For Gold

A flavor like wild honey begins when you cross the river. On a sandbar sunlight stretches out it's limbs, or is it a sycamore, so brazen, so clean and bold ? You forget about gold. You stare-and a flavor is rising all the time from the trees. Back from the river,over by a thick forest, you feel the tide of wild honey flooding your plans,flooding the hours till they waver forward looking back. They can't return:that river divides more than two sides of your life. The only way is farther, breathing that country, becoming wise in it's flavor,a native of the sun.

-William Stafford

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No.

I saw a poet live last year. Some bloke called Mike Garry. It was, without question, the most pretentious thing I have ever seen in my life.

I really cant understand why people read poetry. Its not like I sit sit down and read the lyrics for song (unless, I cant decipher them). Or even going to poetry recitals. Just some person standing up, rambling on about nothing in particular.

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I May After Leaving You Walk Quickly or Even Run

Rain fell in a post-romantic way. Heads in the planets,toes tucked

under carpets,that's how we got our bodies through. The translator made the sign

for twenty horses backing away from a lump of sugar. Yes, you

When I said did you want me I meant me in the general sense

The drink we drank was cordial. In a spoon, the ceiling fan whirled.

The Old World smoked in the fireplace. Glum was the woman in the ostrich feather hat.

-Matthea Harvey

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White Towels

I have been studying the difference between solitude and loneliness, telling the story of my life to the clean white towels taken warm from the dryer. I carry them through the house as though they were my children asleep in my arms.

-Richard Jones

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Communication

I am talking to you about poetry and you say when do we eat. The worst of it is I'm hungry too.

-Alice Partnoy

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Confusion

When confusion reigns and the waitress begins to think that the hungry exist for her, and the air hostess begins to think that the passengers exist for her, and the pharmacist begins to think that the patient exists for her, and the reviewer begins to think that the author exists for her- and not the other way about:

When confusion reigns I too, my love, begin to think that you were made for me.

-Nino Nikolov

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Hunger

The fox you lug over your shoulder in a dark sack has cut a hole with a knife and escaped.

The sudden lightness makes you think you are stronger as you walk back to your small cottage through a forest that covers the world.

-Billy Collins

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This Is Just to Say

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

-William Carlos Williams

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The Taxi

When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face. Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night ?

  • Amy Lowell
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Open House

I work as hard as I can to have nothing to do.

Birds climb their rich ladder of choruses.

They have tasted the top of the tree, but they are not staying.

The whole sky says, Your move.

-Naomi Shihab Nye

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dont take this the wrong way mossy,you are F.A.F so do you really need poetry in your life? i dont1

:nuts:

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Poetry is like painting

Yep, I need it ....

I love it ...

Pictures for minds eyes !

:)

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mossy wrote: Communication

I am talking to you about poetry and you say when do we eat. The worst of it is I'm hungry too.

-Alice Partnoy

Confusion

When confusion reigns and the waitress begins to think that the hungry exist for her, and the air hostess begins to think that the passengers exist for her, and the pharmacist begins to think that the patient exists for her, and the reviewer begins to think that the author exists for her- and not the other way about:

When confusion reigns I too, my love, begin to think that you were made for me.

-Nino Nikolov

Those were both quite good, but the others were quite pretensious I might say. I myself have a bit of poetry, but would never post it on the internet. Poetry is good for the soul... but I find that most of it is just pretensious crap people shelve off thinking they are greater and smarter than what they really are....

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well, thats my culture for the day:nod:

you will never believe me

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Just read through the word association threads... They're poetry... Or ROCKET's posts... :nod:

Snorri xxx

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I wandered lonely as a cloud Cos i ain't got no fcuking mates!:lol:

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There once was a man from Chorley...

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who had a job in MaLawi:lol:

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His job was to scrub

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"It doesn't take a genius To tell me what I am Or lecture me with poetry And tell me that I can I don't remember What happened yesterday But I don't give a damn about What all those people say"

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BUT HE WENT TO THE pub:D

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ROCKET MICK1 wrote: BUT HE WENT TO THE pub:D

Indeed he did. :beer:

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There once was a man from Nantucket...

awwwww....fuck it...

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Excuse me for a long one...it's a poem written by John Peale Bishop (http://etcweb.princeton.edu/CampusWWW/Companion/bishop_john_peale.html), and it's an elegy about writer F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The Hours

  1. All day, knowing you dead, I have sat in this long-windowed room, Looking upon the sea and, dismayed By mortal sadness, thought without thought to resume Those hours which you and I have known----- Hours when youth like an insurgent sun Showered ambition on an aimless air, Hours foreboding disillusion, Hours which now there is none to share. Since you are dead, I live them all alone.

  2. A day like any day. Though any day now We expect death. The sky is overcast, And shuddering cold as snow the shoreward blast. And in the marsh, like a sea astray, now Waters brim. This is the moment when the sea Being most full of motion seems motionless. Land and sea are merged. The marsh is gone. And my distress, Is at the flood. All but the dunes are drowned. And brimming with memory I have found All hours we ever knew, but have not found The key. I cannot find the lost key To the silver closet you as a wild child hid.

  3. I think of all you did And all you might have done, before undone By death, but for the undoing of despair. No promise such as yours when like the spring You came, colors of jonquils in your hair, Inspired as the wind, when woods are bare And every silence is about to sing.

    None had such promise then, and none Your scapegrace wit or your disarming grace; For you were bold as was Danaë's son, Conceived like Perseus in a dream of gold. And there was none when you were young, not one, So prompt in the reflecting shield to trace The glittering aspect of a Gorgon age.

    Despair no love, no fortune could assuage... Was it a fault in your disastrous blood That beat from no fortunate god, The failure of all passion in mid-course? You shrank from nothing as from solitude, Lacking the still assurance, and pursued Beyond the sad excitement by remorse,

    Was it that having shaped your stare upon The severed head of time, upheld and blind, Upheld by the stained hair, And seen the blood upon that sightless stare, You looked and were made one With the strained of those sightless eyes? You looked, and were not turned to stone.

  4. You have outlasted the nocturnal terror, The head hanging in the hanging mirror, The hour haunted by a harrowing face.

    Now you are drunk at last. And that disgrace You sought in oblivious dives you have At last, in the dissolution of the grave.

  5. I have lived with you the hour of your humiliation. I have seen you turn upon the others in the night And of sad self-loathing Concealing nothing Heard you cry: I am lost! But you are lower! And you had that right. The damned do not so own to their damnation.

    I have lived with you some hours of the night, The late hour When the lights lower, The later hour When the lights go out,

    When the dissipation of the night is past,

    Hour of the outcast and the outworn whore, That is past three and not yet four-----

    When the old blackmailer waits beyond the door And from the gutter with unpitying hands Demands the same sad guiltiness as before,

    The hour of utter destitution When the soul knows the horror of its loss And the world knows too poor For restitution,

    Past three o'clock And not yet four----- When not pity, pride, Or being brave, Fortune, friendship, forgetfulness of drudgery Or of drug avails, for all has been tried, And nothing avails to save The soul from recognition of its night.

    The hour of death is always four o'clock. It is always four o'clock in the grave.

  6. Having heard the bare word that you had died, All day I have lingered in this lofty room, Locked in the light of sea and cloud, And thought, at the cost of sea-hours, to illume The hours that you and I have known, Hours death does not condemn, nor love condone.

    And I have seen the sea-light set the tide In salt succession toward the sullen shore And while the waves lost on the losing sand Seen shores receding and the sands succumb.

    The waste retreats; glimmering shores retrieve Unproportioned plunges; the dunes restore Drowned confines to the disputed kingdom----- Desolate mastery, since the dark has come.

    The dark has come. I cannot pluck you bays, Though here the bay grows wild. For fugitive As surpassed fame, the leaves this sea-wind frays. Why should I promise what I cannot give?

    I cannot animate with breath Syllables in the open mouth of death. Dark, dark. The shore here has a habit of light. O dark! I leave you to oblivious night!

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Another one of my favourites, by Lord Alfred Douglas.

Two Loves

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill, And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed Like a waste garden, flowering at its will With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed Black and unruffled; there were white lilies A few, and crocuses, and violets Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun. And there were curious flowers, before unknown, Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one That had drunk in the transitory tone Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades Of grass that in an hundred springs had been Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars, And watered with the scented dew long cupped In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt, A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair. And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across The garden came a youth; one hand he raised To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes Were clear as crystal, naked all was he, White as the snow on pathless mountains frore, Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes A marble floor, his brow chalcedony. And he came near me, with his lips uncurled And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth, And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend, Come I will show thee shadows of the world And images of life. See from the South Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.' And lo! within the garden of my dream I saw two walking on a shining plain Of golden light. The one did joyous seem And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids And joyous love of comely girl and boy, His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy; And in his hand he held an ivory lute With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair, And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute, And round his neck three chains of roses were. But he that was his comrade walked aside; He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight, And yet again unclenched, and his head Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death. A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold With the device of a great snake, whose breath Was fiery flame: which when I did behold I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth, Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.' Then straight the first did turn himself to me And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame, But I am Love, and I was wont to be Alone in this fair garden, till he came Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.' Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will, I am the love that dare not speak its name.'

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To end the RM limerick that was so rudely interrupted... :D

And now he feels quite poorly...

Thank you...

Snorri xxx

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Yes i do WISH they would get their own THREADs.:nono: :lol:

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They can have the Shed - I hear that's free...

Snorri xxx

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A Cat Walking Down The Street, A Dog Barking At It's Feet, A Pensioner Hobbling The Beat, A Hunk Of Metal Heat, They Meet!

A Screech, A Yelp, A Scream, One Less Life, An O.A.P Missing A Wife, Now He Has Only Dreams, Happy Nightmare Baby!

(circa 1981.)

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mossy wrote: Poetry is like painting

Yep, I need it ....

I love it ...

Pictures for minds eyes !

:)

so how's about you painting my bathroom for nowt then ? :evil4:

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