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Thread: Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

  1. #141
    came back haunted Array EJCC's Avatar
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    Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
    by Billy Collins
    (my favorite poet)


    First, her tippet made of tulle,
    easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
    on the back of a wooden chair.

    And her bonnet,
    the bow undone with a light forward pull.

    Then the long white dress, a more
    complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
    buttons down the back,
    so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
    before my hands can part the fabric,
    like a swimmer's dividing water,
    and slip inside.

    You will want to know
    that she was standing
    by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
    motionless, a little wide-eyed,
    looking out at the orchard below,
    the white dress puddled at her feet
    on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

    The complexity of women's undergarments
    in nineteenth-century America
    is not to be waved off,
    and I proceeded like a polar explorer
    through clips, clasps, and moorings,
    catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
    sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

    Later, I wrote in a notebook
    it was like riding a swan into the night,
    but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
    the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
    how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
    how there were sudden dashes
    whenever we spoke.

    What I can tell you is
    it was terribly quiet in Amherst
    that Sabbath afternoon,
    nothing but a carriage passing the house,
    a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

    So I could plainly hear her inhale
    when I undid the very top
    hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

    and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
    the way some readers sigh when they realize
    that Hope has feathers,
    that reason is a plank,
    that life is a loaded gun
    that looks right at you with a yellow eye.
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do
    you?

    ESTJ - LSE - ESTj (mbti/socionics)
    1w2/7w6/3w4 so/sx (enneagram)
    lawful good (D&D) / ravenclaw or gryffindor (HP) / boros legion (M:TG)
    conscientious > sensitive > serious (oldham)
    want to ask me something? go for it!

  2. #142
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Array Mole's Avatar
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    The Idea of a Dog

    The idea of a Rottweiler grew legs
    And walked. Its big, square head
    Atop the solid, barreled torso
    Looked up, waiting for instruction
    Or embrace. The idea was obedient,
    Faithful, intimidating to others,
    But the idea was lopsided.
    So the idea developed a twin brother.
    Now, in my head, I'd say "sit"
    And they would, dogs in duplicate,
    Each reflecting the other identically.
    I could see myself walking the streets
    Flanked by muscles moving in tandem
    Over the powerful shoulders
    Of my synchronized keepers.
    Perhaps I'd redden my lips,
    Wear sunglasses
    And a very short skirt.

    - Frieda Hughes.
    There is NOTHING--absolute nothing--half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing.
    Click on http://www.online-literature.com/grahame/windwillows/1/

    Understanding McLuhan 1974 - Full lecture Living in an Acoustic World | University of South Florida - YouTube

  3. #143
    Senior Member Array FC3S's Avatar
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    "We entreat thee from violence refrain,
    for nothing more do we disdain,
    For in so doing all that we might gain,
    would be forever lost, like tears in rain."
    ESTP - Definition: "Love" is making a shot to the knees of a target a 120 km away, with an aratech sniper rifle and tri-light scope.

  4. #144
    Senior Member Array matmos's Avatar
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    evidently chicken town

    the fucking cops are fucking keen
    to fucking keep it fucking clean
    the fucking chief's a fucking swine
    who fucking draws a fucking line
    at fucking fun and fucking games
    the fucking kids he fucking blames
    are nowehere to be fucking found
    anywhere in chicken town

    the fucking scene is fucking sad
    the fucking news is fucking bad
    the fucking weed is fucking turf
    the fucking speed is fucking surf
    the fucking folks are fucking daft
    don't make me fucking laugh
    it fucking hurts to look around
    everywhere in chicken town

    the fucking train is fucking late
    you fucking wait you fucking wait
    you're fucking lost and fucking found
    stuck in fucking chicken town

    the fucking view is fucking vile
    for fucking miles and fucking miles
    the fucking babies fucking cry
    the fucking flowers fucking die
    the fucking food is fucking muck
    the fucking drains are fucking fucked
    the colour scheme is fucking brown
    everywhere in chicken town

    the fucking pubs are fucking dull
    the fucking clubs are fucking full
    of fucking girls and fucking guys
    with fucking murder in their eyes
    a fucking bloke is fucking stabbed
    waiting for a fucking cab
    you fucking stay at fucking home
    the fucking neighbors fucking moan
    keep the fucking racket down
    this is fucking chicken town

    the fucking train is fucking late
    you fucking wait you fucking wait
    you're fucking lost and fucking found
    stuck in fucking chicken town

    the fucking pies are fucking old
    the fucking chips are fucking cold
    the fucking beer is fucking flat
    the fucking flats have fucking rats
    the fucking clocks are fucking wrong
    the fucking days are fucking long
    it fucking gets you fucking down
    evidently chicken town

    John Cooper Clarke

    YouTube - John Cooper Clarke Chicken Town

  5. #145
    Member Array Rikka's Avatar
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    The heart asks pleasure first (Emily Dickinson)

    The heart asks pleasure first
    And then, excuse from pain-
    And then, those little anodynes
    That deaden suffering;

    And then, to go to sleep;
    And then, if it should be
    The will of its Inquisitor,
    The liberty to die.
    <a href=http://sohaila.mypersonality.info target=_blank><img src=http://badges.mypersonality.info/badge/0/11/113155.png border=0 alt= /></a>

  6. #146
    Senior Member Array Tiltyred's Avatar
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    SIR GALAHAD
    by
    ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

    My good blade carves the casques of men,
    My tough lance thrusteth sure,
    My strength is as the strength of ten,
    Because my heart is pure.
    The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
    The hard brands shiver on the steel,
    The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
    The horse and rider reel:
    They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
    And when the tide of combat stands,
    Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
    That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

    How sweet are looks that ladies bend
    On whom their favours fall!
    For them I battle till the end,
    To save from shame and thrall:
    But all my heart is drawn above,
    My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:
    I never felt the kiss of love,
    Nor maiden's hand in mine.
    More bounteous aspects on me beam,
    Me mightier transports move and thrill;
    So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
    A virgin heart in work and will.

    When down the stormy crescent goes,
    A light before me swims,
    Between dark stems the forest glows,
    I hear a noise of hymns:
    Then by some secret shrine I ride;
    I hear a voice but none are there;
    The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
    The tapers burning fair.
    Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
    The silver vessels sparkle clean,
    The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
    And solemn chaunts resound between.

    Sometime on lonely mountain-meres
    I find a magic bark;
    I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
    I float till all is dark.
    A gentle sound, an awful light!
    Three angels bear the holy Grail:
    With folded feet, in stoles of white,
    On sleeping wings they sail.
    Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
    My spirit beats her mortal bars,
    As down dark tides the glory slides,
    And star-like mingles with the stars.

    When on my goodly charger borne
    Thro' dreaming towns I go,
    The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
    The streets are dumb with snow.
    The tempest crackles on the leads,
    And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
    But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
    And gilds the driving hail.
    I leave the plain, I climb the height;
    No branchy thicket shelter yields;
    But blessed forms in whistling storms
    Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

    A maiden knight--to me is given
    Such hope, I know not fear;
    I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
    That often meet me here.
    I muse on joy that will not cease,
    Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
    Pure lilies of eternal peace,
    Whose odours haunt my dreams;
    And, stricken by an angel's hand,
    This mortal armour that I wear,
    This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
    Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

    The clouds are broken in the sky,
    And thro' the mountain-walls
    A rolling organ-harmony
    Swells up, and shakes and falls.
    Then move the trees, the copses nod,
    Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
    "O just and faithful knight of God!
    Ride on! the prize is near."
    So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
    By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
    All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
    Until I find the holy Grail.

  7. #147
    Senior Member Array
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    AFTER ALL THIS
    By Richard Jackson

    After all this love, after the birds rip like scissors
    through the morning sky, after we leave, when the empty
    bed appears like a collapsed galaxy, or the wake of
    disturbed air behind a plane, after that, as the wind turns
    to stone, as the leaves shriek, you are still breathing
    inside my own breath. The lighthouse on the far point
    still sweeps away the darkness with the brush of an arm.
    The tides inside your heart still pull me towards you.
    After all this, what are these words but mollusk shells
    a child plays with? What could say more than the eloquence
    of last night's constellations? or the storm anchored by
    its own flashes behind the far mountains? I remember
    the way your body wavers under my touch like the northern
    lights. After all this, I want the certainty of hidden roots
    spreading in all directions from their tree. I want to hear
    again the sky tangled in your voice. Some nights I can
    hear the footsteps of the stars. How can these words
    ever reveal the secret that waits in their sleeping light?
    The words that walk through my mind say only what has
    already passed. Beyond, the swallows are still knitting
    the wind. After a while, the smokebush will turn to fire.
    After a while, the thin moon will grow like a tear in a curtain.
    Under it, a small boy kicks a ball against the wall of
    a burned out house. He is too young to remember the war.
    He hardly knows the emptiness that kindles around him.
    He can speak the language of early birds outside our window.
    Someday he will know this kind of love that changes
    the color of the sky, and frees the earth from its moorings.
    Sometimes I kiss your eyes to see beyond what I can imagine.
    Sometimes I think I can speak the language of unborn stars.
    I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this,
    these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think,
    what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because
    these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life
    that isn't yours, and no death you couldn't turn into a life.
    I-71%, N-80%, F-74%, P-96%

  8. #148
    Nips away your dignity Array Fluffywolf's Avatar
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    [YOUTUBE="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKNl5OK1Yew"]A manly man[/YOUTUBE]

  9. #149
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Array Mole's Avatar
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    Here is a poem by a young Australian poet who has just published her first book of poems.

    You can read it and hear her read it to you by clicking on -

    "Paradise" - By Emma Jones - Slate Magazine

  10. #150
    Kraken down on piracy Array Lux's Avatar
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    Dissolute by D. H. Lawrence

    Many years have I still to burn, detained
    Like a candle flame on this body; but I enshine
    A darkness within me, a presence which sleeps contained
    In my flame of living, her soul enfolded in mine.

    And through these years, while I burn on the fuel of life,
    What matter the stuff I lick up in my living flame,
    Seeing I keep in the fire-core, inviolate,
    A night where she dreams my dreams for me, ever the same
    "It is not length of life, but depth of life." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

    "Thought breeds thought." ~ Henry David Thoreau

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