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Thread: Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

  1. #341


    Quote Originally Posted by Noon View Post
    "Fool, there's no destination to arrive at.
    Loved one and lover and love are infinite."
    The best stanza from And Death Shall Have No Dominion by Dylan Thomas:

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Dead men naked they shall be one
    With the man in the wind and the west moon;
    When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
    They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
    Though they go mad they shall be sane,
    Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
    Though lovers be lost love shall not;
    And death shall have no dominion.

  2. #342
    Senior Member Array Noon's Avatar
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    Jul 2010


    Quote Originally Posted by Nicodemus View Post
    The best stanza from And Death Shall Have No Dominion by Dylan Thomas:

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Dead men naked they shall be one
    With the man in the wind and the west moon;
    When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
    They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
    Though they go mad they shall be sane,
    Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
    Though lovers be lost love shall not;
    And death shall have no dominion.
    This is great!

  3. #343
    Senior Member Array Dannik's Avatar
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    Dec 2013


    this is an excerpt from a poem i like, called:
    Thunder Sun

    we came here the summer before last.
    We were a circle of friends,
    and we talked to one another
    through our minds.

    We liked to drive around the lake,
    in wet clothes and music.
    And if we were lucky
    there was a detour,
    and traffic backed up
    for an hour or more.

    Sometimes the dust
    hung around us
    like the fifth member,
    and when we opened doors
    it paved our way.

    That was on the hot days,
    under the thunder sun,
    when we struck the backbone of the world
    and rang its note in the rock of our hearts.
    Likes Noon liked this post

  4. #344
    Senior Member Array Noon's Avatar
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    Jul 2010


    I liked this prose by Louise Erdrich


  5. #345


    William Blake

    "To See a World..."

    To see a World in a Grain of Sand
    And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
    Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
    And Eternity in an hour.

    A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
    Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
    A dove house fill’d with doves and pigeons
    Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
    A Dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate
    Predicts the ruin of the State.
    A Horse misus’d upon the Road
    Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
    Each outcry of the hunted Hare
    A fiber from the Brain does tear.

    He who shall train the Horse to War
    Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
    The Beggar’s Dog and Widow’s Cat,
    Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
    The Gnat that sings his Summer song
    Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.
    The poison of the Snake and Newt
    Is the sweat of Envy’s Foot.

    A truth that’s told with bad intent
    Beats all the Lies you can invent.
    It is right it should be so;
    Man was made for Joy and Woe;
    And when this we rightly know
    Thro’ the World we safely go.

    Every Night and every Morn
    Some to Misery are Born.
    Every Morn and every Night
    Some are Born to sweet delight.
    Some are Born to sweet delight,
    Some are Born to Endless Night.

  6. #346
    Crossing the Styx Array Dr Mobius's Avatar
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    Jul 2010
    7w8 sp/sx


    Ask Me No More

    Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
    The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
    With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
    But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
    Ask me no more.

    Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
    I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
    Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
    Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
    Ask me no more.

    Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:
    I strove against the stream and all in vain:
    Let the great river take me to the main:
    No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
    Ask me no more.

    Alfred Lord Tennyson
    Last edited by Dr Mobius; 06-03-2014 at 04:28 AM.
    But sail upon the wind of lamentation, my friends, and about your head row with your hands' rapid stroke in conveyance of the dead, that stroke which always causes the sacred slack-sailed, black-clothed ship Charon to pass over Acheron to the unseen land here Apollon does not walk, the sunless land that receives all men.

  7. #347
    Senior Member Array BWCB1890's Avatar
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    Apr 2014


    It little profits that an idle king,
    By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
    Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
    Unequal laws unto a savage race,
    That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
    I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
    Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
    Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
    That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
    Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
    Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
    For always roaming with a hungry heart
    Much have I seen and known; cities of men
    And manners, climates, councils, governments,
    Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
    And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
    Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
    I am a part of all that I have met;
    Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
    Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
    For ever and forever when I move.
    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
    As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
    Were all too little, and of one to me
    Little remains: but every hour is saved
    From that eternal silence, something more,
    A bringer of new things; and vile it were
    For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
    And this gray spirit yearning in desire
    To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

    This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
    To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
    Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
    This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
    A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
    Subdue them to the useful and the good.
    Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
    Of common duties, decent not to fail
    In offices of tenderness, and pay
    Meet adoration to my household gods,
    When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

    There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
    There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
    Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
    That ever with a frolic welcome took
    The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
    Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
    Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
    Death closes all: but something ere the end,
    Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
    Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
    The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
    The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
    Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
    'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
    Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
    We are not now that strength which in old days
    Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

  8. #348


    Rainer Maria Rilke

    "Elegy I"

    Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
    hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
    pressed me against his heart, I would perish
    in the embrace of his stronger existence.
    For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
    which we are barely able to endure and are awed
    because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
    Each single angel is terrifying.
    And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
    the surging call of my dark sobbing.
    Oh, to whom can we turn for help?
    Not angels, not humans;
    and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel
    little secure and at home in our interpreted world.
    There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside
    daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us
    stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving.
    Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind
    full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces.
    Whom would it not remain for -that longed-after,
    gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the
    solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers?
    Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the
    emptiness into the spaces we breath -perhaps the birds
    will feel the expanded air in their more ferven flight.

    Yes, the springtime were in need of you. Often a star
    waited for you to espy it and sense its light.
    A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
    or as you walked below an open window,
    a violin gave itself to your hearing.
    All this was trust. But could you manage it?
    Were you not always distraught by expectation,
    as if all this were announcing the arrival
    of a beloved? (Where would you find a place
    to hide her, with all your great strange thoughts
    coming and going and often staying for the night.)
    When longing overcomes you, sing of women in love;
    for their famous passion is far from immortal enough.
    Those whom you almost envy, the abandoned and
    desolate ones, whom you found so much more loving
    than those gratified. Begin ever new again
    the praise you cannot attain; remember:
    the hero lives on and survives; even his downfall
    was for him only a pretext for achieving
    his final birth. But nature, exhausted, takes lovers
    back into itself, as if such creative forces could never be
    achieved a second time.
    Have you thought of Gaspara Stampa sufficiently:

    that any girl abandoned by her lover may feel
    from that far intenser example of loving:
    "Ah, might I become like her!" Should not their oldest
    sufferings finally become more fruitful for us?
    Is it not time that lovingly we freed ourselves
    from the beloved and, quivering, endured:
    as the arrow endures the bow-string's tension,
    and in this tense release becomes more than itself.
    For staying is nowhere.

    Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints
    have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them
    clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly,
    kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was
    their listening. Not that you could endure
    the voice of God -far from it! But listen
    to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message
    that forms itself out of silence. They sweep
    toward you now from those who died young.
    Whenever they entered a church in Rome or Naples,
    did not their fate quietly speak to you as recently
    as the tablet did in Santa Maria Formosa?
    What do they want of me? to quietly remove
    the appearance of suffered injustice that,
    at times, hinders a little their spirits from
    freely proceeding onward.

    Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
    to no longer use skills on had barely time to acquire;
    not to observe roses and other things that promised
    so much in terms of a human future, no longer
    to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;
    to even discard one's own name as easily as a child
    abandons a broken toy.
    Strange, not to desire to continue wishing one's wishes.
    Strange to notice all that was related, fluttering
    so loosely in space. And being dead is hard work
    and full of retrieving before one can gradually feel a
    trace of eternity. -Yes, but the liviing make
    the mistake of drawing too sharp a distinction.
    Angels (they say) are often unable to distinguish
    between moving among the living or the dead.
    The eternal torrent whirls all ages along with it,
    through both realms forever, and their voices are lost in
    its thunderous roar.

    In the end the early departed have no longer
    need of us. One is gently weaned from things
    of this world as a child outgrows the need
    of its mother's breast. But we who have need
    of those great mysteries, we for whom grief is
    so often the source of spiritual growth,
    could we exist without them?
    Is the legend vain that tells of music's beginning
    in the midst of the mourning for Linos?
    the daring first sounds of song piercing
    the barren numbness, and how in that stunned space
    an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever,
    and the emptiness felt for the first time
    those harmonious vibrations which now enrapture
    and comfort and help us.

  9. #349
    pleonastic Array lumi's Avatar
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    Jan 2014
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    By Sylvia Plath

    Stasis in darkness.
    Then the substanceless blue
    Pour of tor and distances.

    God’s lioness,
    How one we grow,
    Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow

    Splits and passes, sister to
    The brown arc
    Of the neck I cannot catch,

    Berries cast dark

    Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
    Something else

    Hauls me through air—
    Thighs, hair;
    Flakes from my heels.

    Godiva, I unpeel—
    Dead hands, dead stringencies.

    And now I
    Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
    The child’s cry

    Melts in the wall.
    And I
    Am the arrow,

    The dew that flies
    Suicidal, at one with the drive
    Into the red

    Eye, the cauldron of morning.
    “If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn't part of ourselves doesn't disturb us.” - Hermann Hesse

  10. #350
    Symbolic Herald Array
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    Feb 2010


    Future Tense
    by Charles Wright

    All things in the end are bittersweet—
    An empty gaze, a little way-station just beyond silence.

    If you can’t delight in the everyday,
    you have no future here.

    And if you can, no future either.

    And time, black dog, will sniff you out,
    and lick your lean cheeks,
    And lie down beside you—warm, real close—and will not move.

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