Poems?

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Poems?

Postby josh012404 » Tue Nov 07, 2006 1:25 pm

What is your fav. poem?


Here is mine.


A Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

'Life that shall send A challenge to its end, And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.''

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.


Life is real—life is earnest—
And the grave is not its goal:
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.


Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destin'd end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.


Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.


In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!



Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the glorious Present!
Heart within, and God o'er head!



Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footsteps on the sands of time.



Footsteps, that, perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.



Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
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Postby bermbits » Tue Nov 07, 2006 3:21 pm

The Highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Alfred Noyes
"Veritas et probitas super omnia."
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Postby emanresu » Tue Nov 07, 2006 4:24 pm

I always liked this one:

Epistle to be left in the Earth




. . . It is colder now, there are many stars, we are drifting
North by the Great Bear, the leaves are falling,
The water is stone in the scooped rocks, to southward
Red sun grey air:

The crows are slow on their crooked wings, the jays have left us:
Long since we passed the flares of Orion,

Each . . . believes in his [or her] heart he [or she] will die,
Many have written last thoughts and last letters.

None know if our deaths are now or forever:
None know if this wandering earth will be found.

We lie down and the snow covers our garments.
I pray you, you (if any open this writing)
Make in your mouths the words that were our names.

I will tell you all we have learned, I will tell you everything:

The earth is round, there are springs under the orchards,
The loam cuts with a blunt knife,

Beware of elms in thunder, the lights in the sky are stars—

We think they do not see, we think also
The trees do not know nor the leaves of the grasses hear us:
The birds too are ignorant.

Do not listen. Do not stand at dark in the open windows.

We before you have heard this: they are voices

They are not words at all but the wind rising.
Also none among us has seen God.

(. . . We have thought often
The flaws of the sun in the late and driving weather
Pointed to one tree but it was not so.)

As for the nights I warn you the nights are dangerous:
The wind changes at night and the dreams come.

It is very cold, there are strange stars near Arcturus.

Voices are crying an unknown name in the sky.

—Archibald Macleish















;
Are we there yet?
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Postby mdkilmer » Tue Nov 07, 2006 7:25 pm

One of my favorites, and I agree with Ghod's assessment...


Abu Ben Adhem by James Henry Leigh Hunt.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!
.
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Postby pilvikki » Tue Nov 07, 2006 9:26 pm

not my favourite, but i like it:

The Cremation of Sam McGee
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 cursed 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.
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Postby mahtilda » Thu Nov 09, 2006 6:38 pm

Where Are My Words

Where are my words, they hath deserted me
Left and took a ride, rough and wild in the stormy night
Plunging and lost in the darkness of the dreaming sea
Do they not care what has become of me, do they not care of my plight

Lost and forgotten is how I feel, as I sit here my stomach churns
The waves rush in with my words and beat them upon the sandy shore
Only to be pulled from me, taken, stolen as the world turns
Where does the ocean of time take them? Will they exist no more?

I scream and I cry the tears flow like rivers from my eyes, my vision blurry
Like a blind woman walking, my inner darkness laughs at the bright sun
I shake my fist and stomp letting the anger flow, unleashing all of my fury
Do I stand tall and fight? Or do what my heart tells me and just run

For now I just sit here feeling lost and alone, perched upon the dunes of sand
Missing my words, my life, and my art: knowing there is no one to take my hand.



where are my words ©2006 mahtilda
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Postby mdkilmer » Thu Nov 09, 2006 9:36 pm

Hey, I'd like to post one of mine. I wrothe it as a song-- hence the bridge before the last full verse-- but I've never been able to come up with a melody that fits, so it's still simply a poem.

Heading Home Again

Just another day, another day of pain.
Maybe now at last it’s time for heading home again.
I always was so eager, so sure to find my way,
I’m tired now and lonely; I need a place to stay.
I feel I’ve lost my home,
The years stretch far behind.
I need a place of peace now,
A place to rest my mind.
Just another day, another day of pain.
Maybe now at last it’s time for heading home again.

We wander long and far upon this hunk of dirt,
But sometimes all that we can see ahead of us is hurt.
I know there is a haven where I can find my peace,
I know that there’s a home place and that there my hurts will cease.
I’m looking back behind me,
To long and far away,
I need a place of peace now,
I need a place to stay.
Just another day, another day of pain.
Maybe now at last it’s time for heading home again.

Why must we just continue; why can’t we stop and rest?
I’ve always tried my damnedest; I’ve always done my best.
Why must we all be hurt so; why must there be such pain?
I think it’s time to stop now, and head for home again.

To keep this up is futile; I just can’t seem to care.
I think that few would miss me if I were just not there.
The world would keep on spinning and life would still go on
If I should stop to rest my head and lay my burdens down.
I think I’ll just stop running,
I think the time is now.
I need that place of peace, now,
I’ll find my rest somehow.
Just another day, another day of pain.
Maybe now at last it’s time for heading home again.

Just another day, another day of pain.
Maybe now at last it’s time for heading home again.

I think that now, at last, it’s time for heading home again.


Copyright 1998 mdkilmer
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...Albert Schweitzer
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Postby Silke » Mon Nov 13, 2006 5:52 am

wow
Superstition brings bad luck.
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Postby StVandal » Mon Nov 13, 2006 2:43 pm

Haikus are easy,
but sometimes don't make much sense.
Refridgerator.
It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.
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Postby haysi » Mon Nov 13, 2006 2:53 pm

This poem had a profound effect on me when I studied it as a teen.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares w e turned our backs
And towards our distant restbegan to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmetsjust in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardentfor some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori
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