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Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

magpie

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Beyond the Ash Rains
by Agha Shahid Ali

"What have you known of loss
That makes you different from other men?"
— Gilgamesh


When the desert refused my history,
Refused to acknowledge that I had lived
there, with you, among a vanished tribe,

two, three thousand years ago, you parted
the dawn rain, its thickest monsoon curtains,

and beckoned me to the northern canyons.
There, among the red rocks, you lived alone.
I had still not learned the style of nomads:

to walk between the rain drops to keep dry.
Wet and cold, I spoke like a poor man,

without irony. You showed me the relics
of our former life, proof that we’d at last
found each other, but in your arms I felt

singled out for loss. When you lit the fire
and poured the wine, “I am going,” I murmured,
repeatedly, “going where no one has been
and no one will be… Will you come with me?”
You took my hand, and we walked through the streets

of an emptied world, vulnerable
to our suddenly bare history in which I was,

but you said won’t again be, singled
out for loss in your arms, won’t ever again
be exiled, never again, from your arms.
[MENTION=9627]Xann[/MENTION]
 

Frosty

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Was introduced to this one today. I like it. I find poetry in general... I really like it but at the same time- well. Its such a personal thing. I hate the idea of there being good and poetry- poetry just IS. But at the same time there are things that make me run from poetry- such as when I feel its cheap, pretentious, or ‘trying too hard’. Im going to stop I think. I just realized I sort of insulted this poem that Im going to post... not my intention but lets see if I can... well- not my intent. My intent was to say- you can find negative qualities in anything-like the ones I mentioned- and STILL have something-good. Because it just existing AS is, without being perfect... makes it... worth it? In a way?

Anyways. My intro is longer than the poem! Aurgh!

Expect death. In every line,
Death is a metaphor that stands
For nothing, represents itself,
No goods for sale. It enters
Whether or not your house
Is dirty. Whether or not
You are clean, you arrive late
Because you don’t believe
Her when, sobbing as usual,
She calls to say if you don’t stop
Your brother, she will kill him
This time. Why rush? By now,
You think she likes it, his hands
Slapping her seven shades of red.
Besides, your brother is much
Bigger than you—once you tried
Pulling him off the woman he loves
And lost a tooth. Expect to lose
Again as you stand for nothing
Over his body, witness or
Reporter, murderer or kin.
 

Lady Lazarus

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For years, copying other people, I tried to know myself.
From within, I couldn’t decide what to do.
Unable to see, I heard my name being called.
Then I walked outside.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the door sill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.
 

The Cat

Just a Cat who hangs out at the Crossroads
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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?

 

Deprecator

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My Dearest Enigma,

In the once lovely forum the two of us met, and no matter what else happens it'll be something that I'll never forget.

Luckily it started when your posts created quite the stir, and with them came your mystery and your allure.

Obviously I was transfixed and spellbound beyond measure, and formulating my initial responses were the greatest of all pleasures.

Very patiently I'd wait for you to reply, and if you had ever chosen to ignore me then it would have been depressing to never learn why.

Eventually the flattery within your feedback become the most delicate of delights, and this had absolutely nothing to do with you being white.

You were sweet and cared enough about my feelings to at least pretend that I was funny, and this alone made me want to give you something special from me.

Of course it was so exciting to think that I could have been worthy of your kisses, as each and every one of them would have fulfilled the greatest of my wishes.

Until recently all I could think about was you... and I once felt so lucky to think that you might have sometimes thought about me too.
 

Lady Lazarus

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Book of Isaiah, Part I
BY ANNE CARSON

I.

Isaiah awoke angry.

Lapping at Isaiah’s ears black birdsong no it was anger.

God had filled Isaiah’s ears with stingers.

Once God and Isaiah were friends.

God and Isaiah used to converse nightly, Isaiah would rush into the garden.

They conversed under the Branch, night streamed down.

From the sole of the foot to the head God would make Isaiah ring.

Isaiah had loved God and now his love was turned to pain.

Isaiah wanted a name for the pain, he called it sin.

Now Isaiah was a man who believed he was a nation.

Isaiah called the nation Judah and the sin Judah’s condition.

Inside Isaiah God saw the worldsheet burning.

Isaiah and God saw things differently, I can only tell you their actions.

Isaiah addressed the nation.

Man’s brittleness! cried Isaiah.

The nation stirred in its husk and slept again.

Two slabs of bloody meat lay folded on its eyes like wings.

Like a hard glossy painting the nation slept.

Who can invent a new fear?

Yet I have invented sin, thought Isaiah, running his hand over the knobs.

And then, because of a great attraction between them—

which Isaiah fought (for and against) for the rest of his life—

God shattered Isaiah’s indifference.

God washed Isaiah’s hair in fire.

God took the stay.

From beneath its meat wings the nation listened.

You, said Isaiah.

No answer.

I cannot hear you, Isaiah spoke again under the Branch.

Light bleached open the night camera.

God arrived.

God smashed Isaiah like glass through every socket of his nation.

Liar! said God.

Isaiah put his hands on his coat, he put his hand on his face.

Isaiah is a small man, said Isaiah, but no liar.

God paused.

And so that was their contract.

Brittle on both sides, no lying.

Isaiah’s wife came to the doorway, the doorposts had moved.

What’s that sound? said Isaiah’s wife.

The fear of the Lord, said Isaiah.

He grinned in the dark, she went back inside.
 

Firebird 8118

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There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild-plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
 

Tengri

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Mar 19, 2016
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Oak.

I am the Roof-tree and the Keel;
I bridge the seas for woe and weal.

Fir.

High o’er the lordly oak I stand,
And drive him on from land to land.

Ash.

I heft my brother’s iron bane;
I shaft the spear, and build the wain.

Yew.

Dark down the windy dale I grow,
The father of the fateful Bow.

Poplar.

The war-shaft and the milking-bowl
I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.

Olive.

The King I bless; the lamps I trim;
In my warm wave do fishes swim.

Apple-tree.

I bowed my head to Adam’s will;
The cups of toiling men I fill.

Vine.

I draw the blood from out the earth;
I store the sun for winter mirth.

Orange-tree.

Amidst the greenness of my night,
My odorous lamps hang round and bright.

Fig-tree.

I who am little among trees
In honey-making mate the bees.

Mulberry —tree.

Love’s lack hath dyed my berries red:
For Love’s attire my leaves are shed.

Pear-tree.

High o’er the mead-flowers’ hidden feet
I bear aloft my burden sweet.

Bay.

Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown
Of living song and dead renown!

William Morris
 

Wunjo

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"How do I love thee?", Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets From The Portuguese: 43.

"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."
 

Esmeralda

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“Spirit
is Life
It flows thru
the death of me
endlessly
like a river
unafraid
of becoming
the sea”

~ Gregory Corso


I love how, in the moment of death, the spirit is seen like this indomitable, brave force that does not hesitate in joining the universal energy, "a river unafraid of becoming the sea".
 

Lady Lazarus

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Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses
your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its
heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the
daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem
less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that
pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the
winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within
you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy
in silence and tranquillity:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by
the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has
been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has
moistened with His own sacred tears.
 

Coriolis

Si vis pacem, para bellum
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This one was written by a former colleague in Florida who went by the name Charlemagne:

The Pilgrim

In shadowed place, by shadows bound
Where Shadows move, but make no sound
A moment's wait brings clear to sight
The borderland of Day and Night.

Upon this plain of place between,
With Dawn's horizon sharp and keen,
A Shadow paused on shadowed way
To see the kingdom of the Day.

He found a world of many hues
Unlike the oceanic blues
That ruled the realm of shadows deep;
The place that is the home to sleep.

The Shadow Pilgrim felt the air,
Knew sights and sounds and textures fair.
He heard the words the waking speak;
Felt sunlight fall on Shadow cheek.

Green of forest! Tawn of grain!
The sizzling scent of Summer rain.
Beauty in her daylit guise
Brought shadow tears to shadow eyes.

But swiftly . . . far too soon, it seems . . .
Daylight gave away its dreams.
With sad precision shadows know,
He marked the fading sunset glow.

Then Shadow left the world so bright,
Returning to the arms of Night.
And never spoke a shadow word;
Nor ever shadow footstep heard.

But night would never wear as old,
And stars would never shine so cold.
For all, he knows, has much to say;
And Night's the other half of Day.

. . . In shadowed place by shadows bound,
A thoughtful shadow may be found,
Who casts what shadows as he might;
A Shadow with a soul of Light.
 

senza tema

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It's the right day for this one. And still pretty fucking timely.

September 1, 1939
W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
 

Wunjo

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"...And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In Rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till Thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more."

— Lord Byron
 

Wunjo

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"Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?
Without its climax, death, what savour hath
Life? An impeccable machine, exact
He paces an inane and pointless path
To glut brute appetites, his sole content
How tedious were he fit to comprehend
Himself! More, this our noble element
Of fire in nature, love in spirit, unkenned
Life hath no spring, no axle, and no end.

His body a bloody-ruby radiant
With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer

Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant
On Eden's imbecile perimeter.
He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience."

— Aleister Crowley, Hymn to Lucifer
 

PumpkinMayCare

𝓛ιкєтнє𝓓єνi lмαу
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Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s "Ulysses".

"It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
it may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And though we are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are—

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will;
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
 

Metis

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May 2, 2008
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2,534
The Name of Arthur
As sung by Maddy Prior
YouTube


The poet and the troubadour have stolen my name.
They poached my true story and gave me false fame.
I was a ruler, a warrior, an emperor, a chief.
I fought for my people. I fought for my belief.

I fought for law and order in fear of chaos’ reign
To keep out the butchery of hellhounds’ fateful bane.
I fought against savages of iron, flesh, and bone
To keep them from ravaging my family and home.

But now they turned me to a gentleman of pallid livery,
A puppet for their musings, their whims of chivalry.
But I fought no imaginings of courtly smiles and lies.
I fought murderous men with evil in their eyes.

The poet and the troubadour have stolen my name.
They poached my true story and gave me false fame.
I was a ruler, a warrior, an emperor, a chief.
I fought for my people. I fought for my belief.
 

senza tema

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I heard this one in church this morning when I was very low and it made me feel better.

I Go Down To The Shore by Mary Oliver

I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
what shall–
what should I do? And the sea says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.
 

senza tema

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The Parable of the Old Man and the Young by Wilfred Owen

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
 

Lady Lazarus

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No Coward Soul Is Mine
BY EMILY BRONTË

No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee

There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.
 
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