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Thread: Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

  1. #161
    Ghost Monkey Soul Array Vizconde's Avatar
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    This is a poem apparently about a child's death that my aunts (one who had one of their children die at an early age) or it could be simply a child growing up from things childish. They had me memorize and give me a silver dollar when I would recite it to them as a young child.

    Little Boy Blue
    by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

    The little toy dog is covered with dust,
    But sturdy and stanch he stands;
    And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
    And his musket moulds in his hands.
    Time was when the little toy dog was new,
    And the soldier was passing fair;
    And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
    Kissed them and put them there.

    "Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
    "And don't you make any noise!"
    So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
    He dreamt of the pretty toys;
    And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
    Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
    Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
    But the little toy friends are true!

    Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
    Each in the same old place---
    Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
    The smile of a little face;
    And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
    In the dust of that little chair,
    What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
    Since he kissed them and put them there.
    I redact everything I have written or will write on this forum prior to, subsequent with and or after the fact of its writing. For entertainment purposes only and not to be taken seriously nor literally.

    Quote Originally Posted by Edgar View Post
    Spamtar - a strange combination of boorish drunkeness and erudite discussions, or what I call "an Irish academic"

  2. #162
    Senior Member Array syndatha's Avatar
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    I found this poem several years ago, a woman expressing her feelings for her rottweiler. My parents train rottweilers, and I'm quite ambivalent towards them, because I have two children, and the dogs are not safe with children... This poem reminds me of the special relationship that my parents probably have with said dogs:

    Things You Have Taught Me
    by Lisa M Tidrow
    Friday, July 26, 2002

    Friendship is like two entwining vines
    Not just I'll be yours if you'll be mine
    Nor do you sample it to see how you'll fare
    Friendship is an agreement of love that we share.

    You stole my heart and you dwell in my soul
    You're the missing piece which makes me whole
    Your devotion to me was entirely new
    But it brought me closer and closer to you.

    When I am sad you kiss away my tears
    You share my hopes, my dreams and my fears
    As you lay your head on my lap you seem to say
    That you'll be here for me each and every day.

    Unconditional love is what you're about
    Your trusting gaze leaves no doubt
    You would follow me to the ends of the earth
    You teach me to know my own self-worth.

    You are my Rottie my canine creature
    You are my familiar, you are my teacher
    You are my beginning, my middle, my end
    You are first and foremost, my friend.

    Friendship is like two entwining vines
    Not just I'll be yours if you'll be mine
    Nor do you sample it to see how you'll fare
    Friendship is an agreement of love that we share

    A tribute to my Rottweiler, Xena.

  3. #163
    Temporal Mechanic. Array Lexicon's Avatar
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    Most anything by Frost, Dickinson, or Rimbaud.
    I won't add lyricists.. meh, it's all intertwined anyhow..
    03/23 06:06:58 EcK: lex
    03/23 06:06:59 EcK: lex
    03/23 06:21:34 Nancynobullets: LEXXX *sacrifices a first born*
    03/23 06:21:53 Nancynobullets: We summon yooouuu
    03/23 06:29:07 Lexicon: I was sleeping!



    04/25 04:20:35 Patches: Don't listen to lex. She wants to birth a litter of kittens. She doesnt get to decide whats creepy

    02/16 23:49:38 ygolo: Lex is afk
    02/16 23:49:45 Cimarron: she's doing drugs with Jack

    03/05 19:27:41 Time: You can't make chat morbid. Lex does it naturally.

  4. #164
    Senior Member Array InsatiableCuriosity's Avatar
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    Default Favourite Poetry

    In the lists of favourite things I thought this would be a good new thread. Poetr has been a part of my life since I was a small child. My Mum tells the story of me waking her up on the morning of her birthday (when I was 5) reciting

    The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
    Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
    Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
    Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
    fromEdward Fitzgerald's translation of the poem The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, 1859
    I love poetry well written and will add just one more here:

    The following is the Man From Ironbark by AB Paterson and is an absolute hoot!! I particularly loved the description in bold/italic:

    It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
    He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down,
    He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
    Until at last, in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
    'Ere! shave my beard and wiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
    I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'


    The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
    He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:
    He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
    He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that might be,
    And when he saw our friend arrive, he wispered, 'Here's a lark!
    Just watch me catch him all alive, this man fron Ironbark.'


    There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
    Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;

    To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,
    'I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'
    And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark;
    'I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'


    A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
    Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
    He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
    Then dashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
    Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark -
    No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark.


    He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
    And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
    He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murderous foe:
    'You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go
    I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murderous shark!
    But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."


    He lifted u his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
    He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
    He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;
    He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
    And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
    And 'Murder!, bloody murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.


    A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
    He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
    And when at last the barber spoke, and said, 'Twas all in fun -
    'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'
    'A joke!' he cried. 'By George, that's fine, a lively sort of lark;
    I'd like to catch that murderous swine some night in Ironbark.'


    And now while round the shearing floor the listening shearers gape,
    He tells the story O'er and O'er, and brags of his escape.
    'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, by George, I've had enough,
    One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'
    And whether he's believed or not, there's one thing to remark,
    That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.


    "Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent and original manner possible."
    — Richard P. Feynman

    "Never tell a person a thing is impossible. G*d/the Universe may have been waiting all this time for someone ignorant enough of the impossibility to do just that thing."
    author unknown

  5. #165
    THIS bitch Array stringstheory's Avatar
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    mmmm poetry.

    The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
    is one of my all-time favourites.

    S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
    A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
    Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
    Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
    Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
    Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


    LET us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky
    Like a patient etherised upon a table;
    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats
    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
    Streets that follow like a tedious argument
    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question …
    Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time
    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;
    Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
    Time to turn back and descend the stair,
    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
    [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
    [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
    Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

    For I have known them all already, known them all:—
    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
    I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
    The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
    And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
    When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
    Then how should I begin
    To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all—
    Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
    [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
    It is perfume from a dress
    That makes me so digress?
    Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
    And should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?
    . . . . .
    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
    And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
    Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
    Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
    . . . . .
    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
    Smoothed by long fingers,
    Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
    Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
    But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
    Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
    I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
    I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
    And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
    And in short, I was afraid.

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
    Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
    Would it have been worth while,
    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
    To have squeezed the universe into a ball
    To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
    To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
    Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
    If one, settling a pillow by her head,
    Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
    That is not it, at all.”

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    Would it have been worth while,
    After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
    After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
    And this, and so much more?—
    It is impossible to say just what I mean!
    But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
    Would it have been worth while
    If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
    And turning toward the window, should say:
    “That is not it at all,
    That is not what I meant, at all.”
    . . . . .
    No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
    Am an attendant lord, one that will do
    To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
    Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
    Deferential, glad to be of use,
    Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
    Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
    At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
    Almost, at times, the Fool.

    I grow old … I grow old …
    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
    Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
    When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
    By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

    I also like slam poetry; Beau Sia is one of my favourites

    [YOUTUBE="CUrWUktNK6Y"]Love[/YOUTUBE]
    (NSFW)


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  6. #166
    Senior Member Array InsatiableCuriosity's Avatar
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    Loved The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

    I was looking at a few contemporary books on poetry in the bookshop and saw that lyrics were appearing there and that John Lennon and Bob Dylan were very prominent.

    The lyrics of this song by Aussie band Redgum (the song is very evocative of the era - it is about to those lost and changed in the war in Vietnam) is one I think will become part of future annals of Aussie poetry:
    I Was Only 19 (A Walk in the Light Green)
    John Schumann: Universal Music Publishing Pty Ltd

    YouTube - ‪Redgum - I Was Only 19 (1983)‬‎

    Mum and Dad and Denny saw the passing out parade at Puckapunyal,
    (1t was long march from cadets).
    The Sixth Battalion was the next to tour and it was me who drew the card…
    We did Canungra and Shoalwater before we left.

    And Townsville lined the footpath as we marched down to the quay;
    This clipping from the paper shows us young and strong and clean;
    And there's me in my slouch hat, with my SLR and greens…
    God help me, I was only nineteen.

    From Vung Tau riding Chinooks to the dust at Nui Dat,
    I'd been in and out of choppers now for months.
    But we made our tents a home, VB and pin-ups on the lockers,
    and an Asian orange sunset through the scrub.

    And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
    And night time's just a jungle dark and a barking M16?
    And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
    God help me, I was only nineteen.

    A four week operation, when each step could mean your last one on two legs:
    it was a war within yourself.
    But you wouldn't let your mates down 'til they had you dusted off,
    so you closed your eyes and thought about something else.

    Then someone yelled out "Contact"', and the bloke behind me swore.
    We hooked in there for hours, then a God almighty roar;
    Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon: -
    God help me, he was going home in June.

    1 can still see Frankie, drinking tinnies in the Grand Hotel
    on a thirty-six hour rec. leave in Vung Tau.
    And I can still hear Frankie lying screaming in the jungle.
    'Till the morphine came and killed the bloody row

    And the Anzac legends didn't mention mud and blood and tears,
    and stories that my father told me never seemed quite real
    I caught some pieces in my back that I didn't even feel…
    God help me, I was only nineteen.

    And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
    And why the Channel Seven chopper chills me to my feet?
    And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
    God help me,
    I was only nineteen.
    "Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent and original manner possible."
    — Richard P. Feynman

    "Never tell a person a thing is impossible. G*d/the Universe may have been waiting all this time for someone ignorant enough of the impossibility to do just that thing."
    author unknown

  7. #167
    full of love Array Kingfisher's Avatar
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    BLUEBIRD
    charles bukowski-


    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I'm not going
    to let anybody see
    you.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the whores and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    he's
    in there.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    works?
    you want to blow my book sales in
    Europe?

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody's asleep.
    I say, I know that you're there,
    so don't be
    sad.
    then I put him back,
    but he's singing a little
    in there, I haven't quite let him
    die
    and we sleep together like
    that
    with our
    secret pact
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do
    you?

  8. #168

    Default

    Take this kiss upon the brow!
    And, in parting from you now,
    Thus much let me avow—
    You are not wrong, who deem
    That my days have been a dream;
    Yet if hope has flown away
    In a night, or in a day,
    In a vision, or in none,
    Is it therefore the less gone?
    All that we see or seem
    Is but a dream within a dream.

    I stand amid the roar
    Of a surf-tormented shore,
    And I hold within my hand
    Grains of the golden sand—
    How few! yet how they creep
    Through my fingers to the deep,
    While I weep—while I weep!
    O God! can I not grasp
    Them with a tighter clasp?
    O God! can I not save
    One from the pitiless wave?
    Is all that we see or seem
    But a dream within a dream?

    'A Dream Within a Dream' by Edgar Allan Poe.

  9. #169
    Senior Member Array InsatiableCuriosity's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Nicodemus View Post
    'A Dream Within a Dream' by Edgar Allan Poe.
    Thisis beautiful!
    "Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent and original manner possible."
    — Richard P. Feynman

    "Never tell a person a thing is impossible. G*d/the Universe may have been waiting all this time for someone ignorant enough of the impossibility to do just that thing."
    author unknown

  10. #170
    Artisan Conquerer Array Halla74's Avatar
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    One of my favorites:

    SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
    by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

    "She walks in beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that's best of dark and bright
    Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
    Thus mellow'd to that tender light
    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

    One shade the more, one ray the less,
    Had half impair'd the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress,
    Or softly lightens o'er her face;
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

    And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
    But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
    A heart whose love is innocent!"
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