12-10-2017, 03:03 AM
I still believe that D. H. Lawrence, who is buried in the U.S. if I remember right, always wrote better about whatever country he happened to be in at the time than the people who lived there.
Poems that you love
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12-10-2017, 03:03 AM
I still believe that D. H. Lawrence, who is buried in the U.S. if I remember right, always wrote better about whatever country he happened to be in at the time than the people who lived there.
12-15-2017, 03:51 AM
"G-9" by Tim Dlugos. Here's a link: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55132/g-9
This is the ending, my favorite part! He wrote it while he was dying of AIDS. I find it extremely powerful. Quote:Helena Hughes, Tibetan
12-18-2017, 05:12 PM
Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;- on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand; Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.
12-22-2017, 07:07 AM
i think i've already posted this, but it never hurts to remind yourself how it's done.
I’ve Dreamed Of You So Much — Robert Desnos I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing your reality. Is it already too late for me to embrace your living and breathing body and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of that voice so dear to me? I've dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown accustomed to lying crossed upon my own chest in a desperate attempt to encircle your shadow, might not be able to unfold again to embrace the contours of your body. And coming face-to-face with the actual incarnation of what has haunted me and ruled me and dominated my life for so many days and years might very well turn me into a shadow. Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales! I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too late for me to ever wake up again. I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual phenomena of life and love, and yet when it comes to you, the only being on the planet who matters to me now, I can no more touch your face and lips than I can those of the next random passerby. I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadowythan that shadow which moves and will go on moving, stepping lightly and joyfully across the sundial of your life.
12-22-2017, 07:54 AM
^^^ It makes me want to keep reading, I don't know the poem so I'll see how it holds up for me. The ending is super.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
12-22-2017, 08:14 AM
.....what’d he say?.
12-24-2017, 10:54 AM
Karawane by Hugo Ball
jolifanto bambla o falli bambla großiga m'pfa habla horem egiga goramen higo bloiko russula huju hollaka hollala anlogo bung blago bung blago bung bosso fataka ü üü ü schampa wulla wussa olobo hej tatta gorem eschige zunbada wulubu ssubudu uluwu ssubudu –umf kusa gauma ba–umf
12-31-2017, 12:36 AM
ODE TO THE TAMPON by SHARON OLDS
Inside-out clothing; queen’s robe; white-jacketed worker who clears the table prepared for the feast which goes uneaten; hospital orderly; straitjacket which takes, into its folded wings, the spirit of the uncapturable one; soldier’s coat; dry dock for the boat not taken; seeker of the red light of stars which have ceased to be before we see them; bloodhound; unhonored one; undertaker; secret-keeper; you who in the cross-section diagram, before the eyes of a girl child, glide into potential space, out of the second-stage rocket’s cardboard cylinder, up beyond the atmosphere, where no one has gone before; you who began life as a seed in topsoil, you who blossomed into the air like steam from a whale’s blow-hole, you who were compressed into a dense calyx, nib which dips into a forty-year river; mute calligrapher—we write you here.
01-06-2018, 09:00 AM
Beautiful Death by Stephen Phillips
Why dreadest thou the calm process of death? To miss thy wife’s illuminating smile? No more to proudly touch thy child’s bright hair? To leave this glorying green, this flashing sun? Yet Death is full of leisure, and of light; Of compensations and of huge amends. Since all the dead do for the living toil, Assisting, bathing, in the air, the earth; A shower their sympathy draws from the ground, Delicious kindness from the soil exhaled. Blind shall I be and good, dumb and serene: I shall not blame, nor question; I shall shine Diffused and tolerant, luminous and large. No longer shall I vex, but live my life In solaces, caresses, and in balms, Nocturnal soothings and nutritious sighs. The unhappy mind an odour shall be breathed; I shall be sagely blown, flung with design, Assist this bland and universal scheme, Industrious, happy, sweet, delicious, dead!
01-14-2018, 06:09 AM
The Sadness of Clothes
When someone dies, the clothes are so sad. They have outlived their usefulness and cannot get warm and full. You talk to the clothes and explain that he is not coming back as when he showed up immaculately dressed in slacks and plaid jacket and had that beautiful smile on and you'd talk. You'd go to get something and come back and he'd be gone. You explain death to the clothes like that dream. You tell them how much you miss the spouse and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater. You tell the worn raincoat that if you talk about it, you will finally let grief out. The ancients etched the words for battle and victory onto their shields and then they went out and fought to the last breath. Words have that kind of power you remind the clothes that remain in the drawer, arms stubbornly folded across the chest, or slung across the backs of chairs, or hanging inside the dark closet. Do with us what you will, they faintly sigh, as you close the door on them. He is gone and no one can tell us where. ~Emily Fragos
01-29-2018, 06:36 AM
Taken from the Poetry Foundation website. Read this 3 years ago, iirc.
Autobiography in the Year 1952 BY YEHUDA AMICHAI TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN HARSHAV My father built a great worry around me like a dock Once I left it before I was finished And he remained with his great, empty worry. And my mother—like a tree on the shore Between her arms outstretched for me. And in '31 my hands were merry and small And in '41 they learned to use a rifle And when I loved my first love My thoughts were like a bunch of colored balloons And the girl's white hand clutched them all With a thin string—and then let them fly. And in '51 the movement of my life Was like the movement of many slaves rowing a ship, And the face of my father like the lantern at the end of a parting train, And my mother closed all the clouds in her brown closet. And I climbed up my street, And the twentieth century was the blood in my veins, Blood that wanted to go out to many wars, Through many openings. It pounds on my head from inside And moves in angry waves to my heart. But now, in the spring of '52, I see More birds have returned than left last winter. And I return down the slope of the mountain To my room where the woman's body is heavy And full of time.
01-31-2018, 12:31 AM
(12-22-2017, 07:07 AM)shemthepenman Wrote: i think i've already posted this, but it never hurts to remind yourself how it's done. http://monsieurcocosse.blogspot.com/2014...-1944.html
01-31-2018, 02:21 AM
(01-31-2018, 12:31 AM)RiverNotch Wrote:(12-22-2017, 07:07 AM)shemthepenman Wrote: i think i've already posted this, but it never hurts to remind yourself how it's done. Interesting. I love the last phrase of the version shem posted, the sundial. It's interesting that the edit ends on a more passive note, as it would.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
03-20-2018, 05:23 AM
Abandoned Farmhouse
He was a big man, says the size of his shoes on a pile of broken dishes by the house; a tall man too, says the length of the bed in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man, says the Bible with a broken back on the floor below the window, dusty with sun; but not a man for farming, say the fields cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn. A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves covered with oilcloth, and they had a child, says the sandbox made from a tractor tire. Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole. And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames. It was lonely here, says the narrow country road. Something went wrong, says the empty house in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste. And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard like branches after a storm—a rubber cow, a rusty tractor with a broken plow, a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say. by Ted Kooser
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
03-20-2018, 07:20 AM
^^^That's a heavy hitter.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
03-20-2018, 07:47 AM
(11-30-2017, 12:58 AM)homer1950 Wrote: One of my favorites Such a strong finish.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
03-27-2018, 06:59 AM
Glass
In every bar there’s someone sitting alone and absolutely absorbed by whatever he’s seeing in the glass in front of him, a glass that looks ordinary, with something clear or dark inside it, something partially drunk but never completely gone. Everything’s there: all the plans that came to nothing, the stupid love affairs, and the terrifying ones, the ones where actual happiness opened like a hole beneath his feet and he fell in, then lay helpless while the dirt rained down a little at a time to bury him. And his friends are there, cracking open six-packs, raising the bottles, the click of their meeting like the sound of a pool cue nicking a ball, the wrong ball, that now edges, black and shining, toward the waiting pocket. But it stops short, and at the bar the lone drinker signals for another. Now the relatives are floating up with their failures, with cancer, with plateloads of guilt and a little laughter, too, and even beauty—some afternoon from childhood, a lake, a ball game, a book of stories, a few flurries of snow that thicken and gradually cover the earth until the whole world’s gone white and quiet, until there’s hardly a world at all, no traffic, no money or butchery or sex, just a blessed peace that seems final but isn’t. And finally the glass that contains and spills this stuff continually while the drinker hunches before it, while the bartender gathers up empties, gives back the drinker’s own face. Who knows what it looks like; who cares whether or not it was young once, or ever lovely, who gives a shit about some drunk rising to stagger toward the bathroom, some man or woman or even lost angel who recklessly threw it all over—heaven, the ether, the celestial works—and said, Fuck it, I want to be human? Who believes in angels, anyway? Who has time for anything but their own pleasures and sorrows, for the few good people they’ve managed to gather around them against the uncertainty, against afternoons of sitting alone in some bar with a name like the Embers or the Ninth Inning or the Wishing Well? Forget that loser. Just tell me who’s buying, who’s paying; Christ but I’m thirsty, and I want to tell you something, come close I want to whisper it, to pour the words burning into you, the same words for each one of you, listen, it’s simple, I’m saying it now, while I’m still sober, while I’m not about to weep bitterly into my own glass, while you’re still here—don’t go yet, stay, stay, give me your shoulder to lean against, steady me, don’t let me drop, I’m so in love with you I can’t stand up. -- Kim Addonizio
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
03-29-2018, 10:03 AM
I've Tasted My Blood
If this brain’s over-tempered consider that the fire was want and the hammers were fists. I’ve tasted my blood too much to love what I was born to. But my mother’s look was a field of brown oats, soft-bearded; her voice rain and air rich with lilacs: and I loved her too much to like how she dragged her days like a sled over gravel. Playmates? I remember where their skulls roll! One died hungry, gnawing grey perch-planks; one fell, and landed so hard he splashed; and many and many come up atom by atom in the worm-casts of Europe. My deep prayer a curse. My deep prayer the promise that this won’t be. My deep prayer my cunning, my love, my anger, and often even my forgiveness that this won’t be and be. I’ve tasted my blood too much to abide what I was born to. -- Milton Acorn
Time is the best editor.
03-30-2018, 12:17 PM
You turned me on to her poetry. I like her voice, clarity, and her subjects are wonderful. "Onset" was quite impressive.
(03-27-2018, 06:59 AM)Todd Wrote: Glass
"The best way out is always through."-Robert Frost
dwcapture.com
03-30-2018, 02:10 PM
(03-30-2018, 12:17 PM)danny_ Wrote: You turned me on to her poetry. I like her voice, clarity, and her subjects are wonderful. "Onset" was quite impressive.Glad to hear it! Onset is a good one of hers (especially the opening where she takes a dim view on Spring. It sort of reminds me in tone to Gluck's Mock Orange).
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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