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Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

Pinker85

New member
Joined
Jun 20, 2011
Messages
914
Anxious Poo~Song

3 Cheers for Pooh!
(For Who?)
For Pooh
(Why what did he do?)
I thought you knew;
He saved his friend from a wetting!
3 Cheers for Bear!
(For where?)
For Bear
He couldn't swim,
But he rescued him!

(He rescued who?)
Oh, listen, do!
I am talking of Pooh-
(Of who?)
Of Pooh!
(I'm sorry I keep forgetting.)
(Just say it again!)
Of enormous brain-
(Of enormous what?)
Well, he ate a lot,
And I don't know if he could swim or not,
But he managed to float
On a sort of boat
On a sort of what?)
well, a sort of pot-
So now let's give him three hearty cheers
(So now let's give him three hearty whiehes?)
And hope he'll be with us for years and years,
And grow in health and wisdom and riches!
3 Cheers for Pooh!
(For who?)
For Pooh-
3 Cheers for Bear!
(For where?)
For Bear-
3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh!
(just tell me, Somebody-WHAT DID HE DO?)

A.A. Milne
 

Lady Lazarus

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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
BY William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
 

hjgbujhghg

I am
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People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars, leaders
To give life form.
A child's sand boat facing
the sun.
Plastic soldiers in the miniature
dirt war. Forts.
Garage Rocket Ships

Ceremonies, theatre, dances
To reassert Tribal needs & memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family & the
safety magic of childhood
The grand highway
is
crowded
w/
lovers
&
searchers
&
leavers
so
eager
to
please
&
forget.

Wilderness
Now is blessed
The rest
remembered

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his pard, a plie,
& leans on his rake &
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause & heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years
Sirens
Water
Rain & Thunder
Jet from the base
Hot searing insect cry
The frogs & crickets
Doors open & close
The smash of glass
The Soft Parade
An accident
Rustle of silk, nylon
Watering the dry grass
Fire
Bells
Rattlesnake, whistles, castanets
Lawn mower
Good Humor man
Skates & wagons
Bikes
Where'd you learn about
Satan-out of a book
Love?-out of a box

Jim Morrison :wubbie:
 

magpie

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After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
 

Lady Lazarus

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"Night, street and streetlight, drugstore..." By Alexander Blok


Night, street and streetlight, drugstore,

The purposeless, half-dim, drab light.

For all the use live on a quarter century –

Nothing will change. There’s no way out.


You’ll die – and start all over, live twice,

Everything repeats itself, just as it was:

Night, the canal’s rippled icy surface,

The drugstore, the street, and streetlight.


10 October 1912
 

Cloudpatrol

Senior(ita) Member
Joined
Jan 26, 2016
Messages
2,163
War

by Arthur Stringer


From hill to hill he harried me;
He stalked me day and night;
He neither knew nor hated me;
Nor his nor mine the fight.

He killed the man who stood by me,
For such they made his law;
Then foot by foot I fought to him,
Who neither knew nor saw.

I trained my rifle on his heart;
He leapt up in the air.
The screaming ball tore through his breast,
And lay embedded there.

Lay hot embedded there, and yet
Hissed home o'er hill and sea
Straight to the aching heart of one
Who'd wronged not mine nor me.
 

Cloudpatrol

Senior(ita) Member
Joined
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Messages
2,163
It was
only
a sunny smile

and little
it cost
in the giving

But like
morning light
it scattered
the night

and made
the day worth Living.

Scott F. Fitzgerald
 

Frosty

Poking the poodle
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I love shel silverstein since I am like 4. Apparently I used to laugh hysterically every time I was read the boa constrictor poem.

Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .

But I think this is my favorite- along with caged bird(mmm very close)- right now.

If....

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And which is more: you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling
 

magpie

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Sonnet XLIV by Pablo Neruda

You must know that I do not love and that I love you,
because everything alive has its two sides;
a word is one wing of the silence,
fire has its cold half.

I love you in order to begin to love you,
to start infinity again
and never to stop loving you:
that's why I do not love you yet.

I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held
keys in my hand: to a future of joy-
a wretched, muddled fate-

My love has two lives, in order to love you:
that's why I love you when I do not love you,
and also why I love you when I do.

Sonnet LXXV by Pablo Neruda

Here are the house, the sea, the flag.
We wander past other long fences.
We couldn't find the gate, nor the sound
of our absence - as if dead.

At last the house opens its silence,
we enter, step over abandoned stuff,
dead rats, empty farewells,
the water that wept in the pipes.

It wept, the house - wept, day and night;
it whimpered with the spiders, ajar,
it fell apart, with its darkened eyes-

and now, abruptly, we return it to life,
we settle in, and it does not recognize us:
it has to bloom and has forgotten how.
 

cosmic royal

Phoenix Flame
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I should read more of Emily Dickinson's poetry.

CXXVI

The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.

The brain is deeper than the sea,
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.

The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.
 

EJCC

The Devil of TypoC
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"Night Errand" by Eric Berlin

O, Great Northern Mall, you dwindling oracle
of upstate New York, your colossal lot

of frost-heaved spaces so vacant I could cut
straight through while blinking and keep my eyes

shut, I’ve come like the flies that give up the ghost
at the papered fronts of your defunct stores,

through the food court where napkins, unused
to touch, are packed too tight to be dispensed,

past the pimpled kid manning the register
who stares at the buttons and wipes his palms.

If I press my eyes until checkers rise
from the dark – that’s how the overheads glower

in home essentials as I roam through Sears,
seeking assistance. I know you’re here.

For this window crank I brought, you show me
a muted wall of TVs where Jeff Goldblum

picks his way through the splintered remains
of a dinosaur crate. There must be fifty

of him, hunching over mud to inspect
the three-toed prints. I almost didn’t

come in here at all, driving the opposite
of victory laps, and waiting as I hoped

for the red to leave my eyes, but my urgency
smacked of your nothingness. I did it again –

I screamed at the woman I love, and in front
of our one-year-old, who covered his ears.
 

EJCC

The Devil of TypoC
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"Great Apes & Monkey Business" by Mark Gibbons

I don’t know about you, Joe, but I
try to be clever in most conversations:
swapping stories with the warehouse-boys
at work, or talking rock-n’-roll trivia
to my teenage sons; bullshitting friends
I don’t see as often as I’d like,

and (always) when I sit down to write.
I read other poets and admire
their cleverness, surprising details,
a whistling ability to keep me laughing
while they walk me through the dark.

I’m not impressed or entertained by poems
that hinge upon a studied knowledge of the classics.
That kind of cleverness usually bores me (or pisses me off)
like an inside joke I have to learn to get —
a goddamn research project —
when all I want is an honest song, bloody & lusty.

No one farts or fucks in those literary cantos,
though the allusions may be there
if you’d care to explicate & analyze:
“Apollo’s swift sword cuts the wind.”
And here I am being witty again

at the expense of my academic brethern.
I sit in the cheap seats & take pot shots
at those fair-haired, hard-backed-first-edition
canon-ites who’ve made poetry what it is today:
un-common, incorrigible, & aloof. Balls I say!
Poetry needs more beans, more bananas & more beer.

Gimme a Whitman, a Bukowski, or a Jim Harrison
poem, something earthy or dirty with guts —
like a foxy Jimi Hendrix tune. Let it swing & scream,
let it prance & wink, make every syllable count.
I want it to bury me like my father’s death.

That’s the poem I want. Clever or not,
just make it real; touch me; make me sweat.
I want to remember what you can’t forget.
I want to feel it, I want to breathe it,
I want to bleed it & believe . . .
that somehow I am this poem.
 

cosmic royal

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This honestly describes the damn spiral I'm in.

The Void
by Charles Baudelaire

I feel null and void
I feel disturbed confused annoyed
angered by the lack of meaning
meaning what I’m not sure of
distraught by distress
dressed without self-impress
second-guessed fractalized into infinity
a Void in my game-plan
for where determinancy used to be
necromancy
awaken me!
I can’t even sleep in this Void of non-entity
titulate my desire to re-Create
something worthy of being admired
if only by Me
the only Being that I know with constancy
 

EJCC

The Devil of TypoC
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"Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes" by Billy Collins

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.
 

Frosty

Poking the poodle
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From Teenage Dirtbag'

Ill post the clip later because the way he reads it is wonderful as well.

----

"A squirrel, two sparrows.
A crippled dog.
Hit. Grasp, save, grasp, hit, miss.
Miss. Miss again.
And I see your eyes.
Fur, feathers. Blood. And that noise.
Tree, fence, sunshine. Miss. Save.
Hit. Hit again. And that noise.
Sparrow.
I'd pick you up from the grass.
But there's nowhere to take you...
I am one of them.
Sister of mine, don't worry.
Hit, miss, save.
Skin, bruises, blood.
And I see your eyes too, Sister.
I say don't worry, but what am I going to do?
I'd pick you up, but where would I take you?
I am one of them."
 

Cloudpatrol

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[MENTION=22064]ExNinjaTropPervertie[/MENTION] [MENTION=26674]theforsaken[/MENTION]

love%20girl%20who%20writes_zpsmnqhzp5d.jpg
 

magpie

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Disbelief In Yourself Is Indispensable by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

While you're alive it's shameful to worm your way into
the Calendar of Saints.
Disbelief in yourself is more saintly.
It takes real talent not to dread being terrified
by your own agonizing lack of talent.

Disbelief in yourself is indispensable.
Indispensable to us is the loneliness
of being gripped in the vise,
so that in the darkest night the sky will enter you
and skin your temples with the stars,
so that streetcars will crash into the room,
wheels cutting across your face,
so the dangling rope, terrible and alive,
will float into the room and dance invitingly in the air.

Indispensable is any mangy ghost
in tattered, overplayed stage rags,
and if even the ghosts are capricious,
I swear, they are no more capricious than those who are alive.

Indispensable amidst babbling boredom
are the deadly fear of uttering the right words
and the fear of shaving, because across your cheekbone
graveyard grass already grows.

It is indispensable to be sleeplessly delirious,
to fail, to leap into emptiness.
Probably, only in despair is it possible
to speak all the truth to this age.

It is indispensable, after throwing out dirty drafts,
to explode yourself and crawl before ridicule,
to reassemble your shattered hands
from fingers that rolled under the dresser.

Indispensable is the cowardice to be cruel
and the observation of the small mercies,
when a step toward falsely high goals
makes the trampled stars squeal out.

It's indispensable, with a misfit's hunger,
to gnaw a verb right down to the bone.
Only one who is by nature from the naked poor
is neither naked nor poor before fastidious eternity.

And if from out of the dirt,
you have become a prince,
but without principles,
unprince yourself and consider
how much less dirt there was before,
when you were in the real, pure dirt.
Our self-esteem is such baseness....
The Creator raises to the heights
only those who, even with tiny movements,
tremble with the fear of uncertainty.

Better to cut open your veins with a can opener,
to lie like a wino on a spit-spattered bench in the park,
than to come to that very comfortable belief
in your own special significance.

Blessed is the madcap artist,
who smashes his sculpture with relish-
hungry and cold-but free
from degrading belief in himself.
 

Puffypolma

Bizarre Love Triangle
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Feb 9, 2016
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Chance by Xu Zhimo

I am a cloud in the sky,
A chance shadow on the wave of your heart.
Don't be surprised,
Or too elated;
In an instant I shall vanish without trace.
We meet on the sea of dark night,
You on your way, I on mine.
Remember if you will,
Or, better still, forget
The light exchanged in this encounter.
 

CakeByTheOcean

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Annabel Lee. :heart:
by Edgar A. Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee; —
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
 
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love —
I and my Annabel Lee —
With a love that the wingéd seraphs in Heaven
Coveted her and me.
 
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre,
In this kingdom by the sea.
 
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me —
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
 
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we —
Of many far wiser than we —
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: —
 
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: —
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea —
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
 

Cloudpatrol

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"If love should count you worthy
and should deign one day to seek your door
and be your guest,
Pause! ere you draw the bolt
and bid him rest,
If in your old content you would remain.
For not alone he enters: in his train
are angels of the mists
the lonely quest,
dreams of the unfulfilled and unpossessed,
and sorrow, and life's immemorial pain.
He wakes desires you never may forget,
He shows you stars you never saw before,
He makes you share with him, for evermore,
the burden of the world's divine regret.
How wise you were to open not!- and yet, how poor
if you should turn him from your door."
--Sidney Royse Lysaght
 
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