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Thread: Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

  1. #371
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    Jabberwocky
    By Lewis Carroll

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

    “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
    Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!”

    He took his vorpal sword in hand;
    Long time the manxome foe he sought—
    So rested he by the Tumtum tree
    And stood awhile in thought.

    And, as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
    Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

    One, two! One, two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
    He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

    “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
    O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
    He chortled in his joy.

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.
    「 」

    "Thông tin khá bổ ích, mong mọi người sẽ đóng góp nhiều hơn thông tin dạng như thế này để forum thêm phần đa dạng."-jasonrobert252

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  2. #372
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    I am a Peach Tree
    by: Li Bai (701-762)

    I am a peach tree blossoming in a deep pit.
    Who is there I may turn to and smile?
    You are the moon up in the far sky;
    Passing, you looked down on me an hour; then went on forever.

    A sword with the keenest edge,
    Could not cut the stream of water in twain
    So that it would cease to flow.
    My thought is like the stream; and flows and follows you on forever.
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  3. #373
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    Add a pair of wings
    To a pepper-pod, you would
    Make a dragonfly

    - Matsuo Basho

    <Background here>
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do
    you?

    ESTJ - LSE - ESTj (mbti/socionics)
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    want to ask me something? go for it!
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  4. #374
    Senior Member Array Ene's Avatar
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    The Cremation of Sam McGee
    By Robert W. Service


    There are strange things done in the midnight sun

    By the men who moil for gold;

    The Arctic trails have their secret tales

    That would make your blood run cold;

    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

    But the queerest they ever did see

    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

    I cremated Sam McGee.


    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

    Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

    Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."


    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

    Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

    If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

    It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.


    And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

    He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

    And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."


    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

    "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

    Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."


    A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

    And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

    And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.


    There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

    With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

    But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."


    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.


    And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

    And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

    And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.


    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

    Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."


    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

    Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

    The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

    And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.


    Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.


    I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

    But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

    I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.


    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

    And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

    It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—

    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."


    There are strange things done in the midnight sun

    By the men who moil for gold;

    The Arctic trails have their secret tales

    That would make your blood run cold;

    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

    But the queerest they ever did see

    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

    I cremated Sam McGee.
    A student said to his master: "You teach me fighting, but you talk about peace. How do you reconcile the two?" The master replied: "It is better to be a warrior in a garden than to be a gardener in a war." - unknown/Chinese

    http://www.typologycentral.com/forum...=61024&page=14

  5. #375
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    Get Drunk

    Always be drunk.
    That's it!
    The great imperative!
    In order not to feel
    Time's horrid fardel
    bruise your shoulders,
    grinding you into the earth,
    Get drunk and stay that way.
    On what?
    On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
    But get drunk.
    And if you sometimes happen to wake up
    on the porches of a palace,
    in the green grass of a ditch,
    in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
    your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
    ask the wind,
    the wave,
    the star,
    the bird,
    the clock,
    ask everything that flees,
    everything that groans
    or rolls
    or sings,
    everything that speaks,
    ask what time it is;
    and the wind,
    the wave,
    the star,
    the bird,
    the clock
    will answer you:
    "Time to get drunk!
    Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
    Get drunk!
    Stay drunk!
    On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"


    Charles Baudelaire Les Fleurs du mal (1857)
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  6. #376
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    The Wanderer

    Often the lone-dweller waits for favor,
    mercy of the Measurer, though he unhappy
    across the seaways long time must
    stir with his hands the rime-cold sea,
    tread exile-tracks. Fate is established!

    So the earth-stepper spoke, mindful of hardships,
    of fierce slaughter, the fall of kin:
    Oft must I, alone, the hour before dawn
    lament my care. Among the living
    none now remains to whom I dare
    my inmost thought clearly reveal.
    I know it for truth: it is in a warrior
    noble strength to bind fast his spirit,
    guard his wealth-chamber, think what he will.
    Weary mind never withstands fate,
    nor does troubled thought bring help.
    Therefore, glory-seekers oft bind fast
    in breast-chamber a dreary mind.
    So must I my heart –
    often wretched with cares, deprived of homeland,
    far from kin – fasten with fetters,
    since long ago earth covered
    my lord in darkness, and I, wretched,
    thence, mad and desolate as winter,
    over the wave’s binding sought, hall-dreary,
    a giver of treasure, where far or near
    I might find one who in mead-hall
    might accept my affection, or on me, friendless,
    might wish consolation, offer me joy.
    He knows who tries it how cruel is sorrow,
    a bitter companion, to the one who has few
    concealers of secrets, beloved friends.
    The exile-track claims him, not twisted gold,
    his soul-chamber frozen, not fold’s renown.
    He remembers hall-warriors and treasure-taking,
    how among youth his gold-friend
    received him at the feast. Joy has all perished!
    So he knows, who must of his lord-friend,
    of loved one, lore-sayings long time forgo.

    When sorrow and sleep at once together
    a wretched lone-dweller often bind,
    it seems in his mind that he his man-lord
    clasps and kisses, and on knee lays
    hands and head, as when sometimes before
    in yore-days he received gifts from the gift-throne.
    When the friendless man awakens again,
    he sees before him fallow waves,
    sea-birds bathing, wings spreading,
    rime and snow falling mingled with hail.
    Then are the heart’s wounds ever more heavy,
    sore after sweet – sorrow is renewed –
    when memory of kin turns through the mind;
    he greets with glee-staves, eagerly surveys
    companions of men. Again they swim away!
    Spirits of seafarers bring but seldom
    known speech and song. Care is renewed
    to the one who frequently sends
    over the wave’s binding, weary, his thought.

    Therefore, I know not, throughout this world,
    why thought in my mind does not grow dark
    when the life of men I fully think through,
    how they suddenly abandoned the hall,
    headstrong retainers. This Middle-Earth
    each of all days so fails and falls
    that a man gains no wisdom before he is dealt
    his winters in the world. The wise man is patient,
    not too hot-hearted, nor too quick tongued,
    nor a warrior too weak, nor too foolhardy,
    neither frightened nor fain, nor yet too wealth-greedy,
    nor ever of boasts too eager, before he knows enough.
    A warrior should wait when he speaks a vow,
    until, bold in mind, he clearly knows
    whither mind’s thought after will turn.
    A wise man perceives how ghastly it will be
    when all this world’s weal desolate stands,
    as now here and there across this Middle-Earth
    blown on by wind walls stand
    covered with rime, the buildings storm-shaken.
    The wine-halls molder, the wielder lies down
    deprived of rejoicing, warband all fallen,
    proud by the wall. Some war took utterly,
    carried on forth-way; one a bird bore off
    over the high holm ; one the hoar wolf
    dealt over to death, one a warrior,
    drear-faced, hid in an earth-cave.
    Thus the Shaper of men destroyed this earth-yard,
    until, lacking the cries, the revels of men,
    old giants’ work stood worthless.

    When he with wise mind this wall-stone
    and this dark life deeply thinks through,
    the wise one in mind oft remembers afar
    many a carnage, and this word he speaks:
    Where is the horse? Where the young warrior? Where now the gift-giver?
    Where are the feast-seats? Where all the hall-joys?
    Alas for the bright cup! Alas byrnied warrior!
    Alas the lord’s glory! How this time hastens,
    grows dark under night-helm, as it were not!
    Stands now behind the dear warband
    a wondrous high wall, varied with snake-shapes,
    warriors fortaken by might of the ash-spears,
    corpse-hungry weapons – famous that fate –
    and this stone-cliff storms dash on;
    snowstorm, attacking, binds all the ground,
    tumult of winter, when the dark one comes,
    night-shadow blackens, sends from the north
    rough hailstorm in anger toward men.
    All is the earth-realm laden with hardship,
    fate of creation turns world under heaven.
    Here goldhoard passes, here friendship passes,
    here mankind passes, here kinsman passes:
    all does this earth-frame turn worthless!
    So said the one wise in mind, at secret conclaves sat him apart.
    Good, he who keeps faith, nor too quickly his grief
    from his breast makes known, except he, noble, knows how beforehand
    to do cure with courage. Well will it be
    to him who seeks favor, refuge and comfort,
    from the Father in heaven, where all fastness stands.

  7. #377
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    I don't read enough poetry.. but in school, I remember these:

    Still I Rise by Maya Angelou (always really inspiring)
    And I remember some Robert Frost poems that really made me think differently. I really like his style even though it's kind of weird maybe.
    Oh yeah, and e. e. Cummings (the way he plays with words and spaces.) I realize these are really cliche choices. If anyone has recommendations, that'd be awesome. In the meantime, I'll browse through here.

  8. #378
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    I never really got out of my angsty Sylvia Plath days:

    Lady Lazarus
    I have done it again.
    One year in every ten
    I manage it--

    A sort of walking miracle, my skin
    Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
    My right foot

    A paperweight,
    My face a featureless, fine
    Jew linen.

    Peel off the napkin
    O my enemy.
    Do I terrify?--

    The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
    The sour breath
    Will vanish in a day.

    Soon, soon the flesh
    The grave cave ate will be
    At home on me

    And I a smiling woman.
    I am only thirty.
    And like the cat I have nine times to die.

    This is Number Three.
    What a trash
    To annihilate each decade.

    What a million filaments.
    The peanut-crunching crowd
    Shoves in to see

    Them unwrap me hand and foot--
    The big strip tease.
    Gentlemen, ladies

    These are my hands
    My knees.
    I may be skin and bone,

    Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
    The first time it happened I was ten.
    It was an accident.

    The second time I meant
    To last it out and not come back at all.
    I rocked shut

    As a seashell.
    They had to call and call
    And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

    Dying
    Is an art, like everything else.
    I do it exceptionally well.

    I do it so it feels like hell.
    I do it so it feels real.
    I guess you could say I’ve a call.

    It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
    It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
    It’s the theatrical

    Comeback in broad day
    To the same place, the same face, the same brute
    Amused shout:

    ‘A miracle!'
    That knocks me out.
    There is a charge

    For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
    For the hearing of my heart--
    It really goes.

    And there is a charge, a very large charge
    For a word or a touch
    Or a bit of blood

    Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
    So, so, Herr Doktor.
    So, Herr Enemy.

    I am your opus,
    I am your valuable,
    The pure gold baby

    That melts to a shriek.
    I turn and burn.
    Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

    Ash, ash--
    You poke and stir.
    Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

    A cake of soap,
    A wedding ring,
    A gold filling.

    Herr God, Herr Lucifer
    Beware
    Beware.

    Out of the ash
    I rise with my red hair
    And I eat men like air.

  9. #379

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    I need to be myself
    I can't be no one else
    I'm feeling supersonic
    Give me gin and tonic
    You can have it all but how much do you want it?
    You make me laugh
    Give me your autograph
    Can I ride with you in your BMW ?
    You can sail with me in my yellow submarine

    You need to find out
    'Cos no one's gonna tell you what I'm on about
    You need to find a way for what you wanna say
    But before tomorrow

    'Cos my friend said he'd take you home
    He sits in a corner all alone
    He lives under a waterfall
    Nobody can see him
    Nobody can ever hear him call [2x]

    You need to be yourself
    You can't be no one else
    I know a girl called Elsa
    She's into Alka Seltzer
    She sniffs it through a cane on a supersonic train
    And she makes me laugh
    I got her autograph
    She done it with a doctor on a helicopter
    She's sniffin' in her tissue
    Sellin' the Big Issue

    When she finds out
    No one's gonna tell her what I'm on about
    You need to find a way for what you wanna say
    But before tomorrow

    'Cos my friend said he'd take you home
    He sits in a corner all alone
    He lives under a waterfall
    Nobody can see him
    Nobody can ever hear him call

  10. #380

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    Hold up
    Hold on
    Don't be scared
    You'll never change what's been and gone

    May your smile (may your smile)
    Shine on (shine on)
    Don't be scared (don't be scared)
    Your destiny may keep you warm

    Cos all of the stars
    Are fading away
    Just try not to worry
    You'll see them some day
    Take what you need
    And be on your way
    And stop crying your heart out

    Get up (get up)
    Come on (come on)
    Why're you scared? (I'm not scared)
    You'll never change
    What's been and gone

    Cos all of the stars
    Are fading away
    Just try not to worry
    You'll see them some day
    Take what you need
    And be on your way
    And stop crying your heart out

    Cos all of the stars
    Are fading away
    Just try not to worry
    You'll see them some day
    Take what you need
    And be on your way
    And stop crying your heart out

    We're all of us stars
    We're fading away
    Just try not to worry
    You'll see us some day
    Just take what you need
    And be on your way
    And stop crying your heart out
    Stop crying your heart out
    Stop crying your heart out





    We chase misprinted lies
    We face the path of time
    And yet I fight
    And yet I fight
    This battle all alone
    No one to cry to
    No place to call home

    Oooh...Oooh...
    Oooh...Oooh...

    My gift of self is raped
    My privacy is raked
    And yet I find
    And yet I find
    Repeating in my head
    If I can't be my own
    I'd feel better dead

    Oooh...Oooh...
    Oooh...Oooh...

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