04-13-2008, 09:21 AM | #1 (permalink) |
Psycho: By Choice
Location: dd.land
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do you have a favorite poem?
i have a few poems that can count as my favorite. every now and again i do a youtube search for "spoken word poetry" and watch the clips from Def Poetry Jam. and yesterday i found my new theme song, my new favorite poem.
i watched it because of the name, i've been told i could be more lady like a number times, in a number of ways, by a number of people. i think i use the word "fuck" too much for some people. this poem is "try being a lady" by sista queen what's your favoirte poem? you don't have to tell us why - although it'd be cool if you did.
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[Technically, I'm not possible, I'm made of exceptions. ] |
04-13-2008, 09:34 AM | #2 (permalink) |
Sir, I have a plan...
Location: 38S NC20943324
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When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass. Lean are the camels but fat the frails, Light are the purses but heavy the bales, As the snowbound trade of the North comes down To the market-square of Peshawur town. In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, A kafila camped at the foot of the hill. Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose; And the picketed ponies, shag and wild, Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; And the bubbling camels beside the load Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale, Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food; And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk A savour of camels and carpets and musk, A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke. The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, The knives were whetted and -- then came I To Mahbub Ali the muleteer, Patching his bridles and counting his gear, Crammed with the gossip of half a year. But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, "Better is speech when the belly is fed." So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, And he who never hath tasted the food, By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good. We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth. Four things greater than all things are, -- Women and Horses and Power and War. We spake of them all, but the last the most, For I sought a word of a Russian post, Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford. Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes In the fashion of one who is weaving lies. Quoth he: "Of the Russians who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray. But we look that the gloom of the night shall die In the morning flush of a blood-red sky. Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King. That unsought counsel is cursed of God Attesteth the story of Wali Dad. "His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; And the colt bred close to the vice of each, For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech. Therewith madness -- so that he sought The favour of kings at the Kabul court; And travelled, in hope of honour, far To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are. There have I journeyed too -- but I Saw naught, said naught, and -- did not die! He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath Of `this one knoweth' and `that one saith', -- Legends that ran from mouth to mouth Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South. These have I also heard -- they pass With each new spring and the winter grass. "Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God, Back to the city ran Wali Dad, Even to Kabul -- in full durbar The King held talk with his Chief in War. Into the press of the crowd he broke, And what he had heard of the coming spoke. "Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, As a mother might on a babbling child; But those who would laugh restrained their breath, When the face of the King showed dark as death. Evil it is in full durbar To cry to a ruler of gathering war! Slowly he led to a peach-tree small, That grew by a cleft of the city wall. And he said to the boy: `They shall praise thy zeal So long as the red spurt follows the steel. And the Russ is upon us even now? Great is thy prudence -- await them, thou. Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong, Surely thy vigil is not for long. The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran? Surely an hour shall bring their van. Wait and watch. When the host is near, Shout aloud that my men may hear.' "Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? A guard was set that he might not flee -- A score of bayonets ringed the tree. The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow, When he shook at his death as he looked below. By the power of God, who alone is great, Till the seventh day he fought with his fate. Then madness took him, and men declare He mowed in the branches as ape and bear, And last as a sloth, ere his body failed, And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed, And sleep the cord of his hands untied, And he fell, and was caught on the points and died. "Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King. Of the gray-coat coming who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray. Two things greater than all things are, The first is Love, and the second War. And since we know not how War may prove, Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!" -Rudyard Kipling, "The Ballad of the King's Jest"
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Fortunato became immured to the sound of the trowel after a while.
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04-13-2008, 09:38 AM | #3 (permalink) |
Young Crumudgeon
Location: Canada
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"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet - Trash of all trash! - how can a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff - Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant Bubbles - ephemeral and so transparent - But this is, now - you may depend upon it - Stable, opaque, immortal - all by dint Of the dear names that he concealed within 't. -Edgar Allen Poe, An Enigma. Am I posting my favourite poem, or trashing others? The world may never know...
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I wake up in the morning more tired than before I slept I get through cryin' and I'm sadder than before I wept I get through thinkin' now, and the thoughts have left my head I get through speakin' and I can't remember, not a word that I said - Ben Harper, Show Me A Little Shame |
04-13-2008, 10:47 AM | #5 (permalink) |
Crazy
Location: Deliveranceville, Texas
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My favorite poem is Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allen 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 winged seraphs of 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 highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher 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 the sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the side of the sea.
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Don't drink and park, accidents in cars cause people. |
04-14-2008, 12:16 AM | #6 (permalink) |
Misanthropic
Location: Ohio! yay!
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'Jabberwocky'
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. either that or: Fire and Ice Robert Frost Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
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Crack, you and I are long overdue for a vicious bout of mansex. ~Halx Last edited by Crack; 04-14-2008 at 12:19 AM.. |
04-14-2008, 06:05 PM | #7 (permalink) |
drawn and redrawn
Location: Some where in Southern California
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I'm not a poetry person by any regard, but there was this funny rhyme that I learned when I was young.
Early in the morning In the middle of the night, Two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back, they faced each other, Drew their swords and killed each other. A deaf policemen heard the noise, and killed the two dead boys.
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"I don't know that I ever wanted greatness, on its own. It seems rather like wanting to be an engineer, rather than wanting to design something - or wanting to be a writer, rather than wanting to write. It should be a by-product, not a thing in itself. Otherwise, it's just an ego trip." Roger Zelazny |
04-14-2008, 07:35 PM | #8 (permalink) |
Kick Ass Kunoichi
Location: Oregon
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See my answer here: http://www.tfproject.org/tfp/showpos...57&postcount=5
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If I am not better, at least I am different. --Jean-Jacques Rousseau |
05-04-2008, 05:39 PM | #10 (permalink) |
Upright
Location: Grand Rapids, Michigan
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A Wicker Basket
Comes the time when it's later and onto your table the headwaiter puts the bill, and very soon after rings out the sound of lively laughter-- Picking up change, hands like a walrus, and a face like a barndoor's, and a head without any apparent size, nothing but two eyes-- So that's you, man, or me. I make it as I can, I pick up, I go faster than they know-- Out the door, the street like a night, any night, and no one in sight, but then, well, there she is, old friend Liz-- And she opens the door of her cadillac, I step in back, and we're gone. She turns me on-- There are very huge stars, man, in the sky, and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie, with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it, and I eat it-- Slowly. And while certainly they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket of these cats not making it, I make it in my wicker basket. - Robert Creeley |
05-05-2008, 12:17 PM | #11 (permalink) |
Crazy
Location: Swamp Lagoon, North Cackalacky
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Damn. Some smartass beat me to Kipling...
I think the reason I gravitate towards this poem, though, is because in many very similar ways, I've lived it more than once myself. "Tommy" I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind", But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind, There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!
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"Peace" is when nobody's shooting. A "Just Peace" is when we get what we want. - Bill Mauldin |
05-05-2008, 12:24 PM | #12 (permalink) |
Young Crumudgeon
Location: Canada
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I have a friend who's really into Huxley's stuff. I wanted to post The Defeat of Youth, but decided against it because it's something like 10 pages long. Here's a different one:
Song of the Poplars Aldous Huxley Shepherd, to yon tall poplars tune your flute: Let them pierce, keenly, subtly shrill, The slow blue rumour of the hill; Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold, And the great sky be mute. Then hearken how the poplar trees unfold Their buds, yet close and gummed and blind, In airy leafage of the mind, Rustling in silvery whispers the twin-hued scales That fade not nor grow old. "Poplars and fountains and you cypress spires Springing in dark and rusty flame, Seek you aught that hath a name? Or say, say: Are you all an upward agony Of undefined desires? "Say, are you happy in the golden march Of sunlight all across the day? Or do you watch the uncertain way That leads the withering moon on cloudy stairs Over the heaven's wide arch? "Is it towards sorrow or towards joy you lift The sharpness of your trembling spears? Or do you seek, through the grey tears That blur the sky, in the heart of the triumphing blue, A deeper, calmer rift?" So; I have tuned my music to the trees, And there were voices, dim below Their shrillness, voices swelling slow In the blue murmur of hills, and a golden cry And then vast silences.
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I wake up in the morning more tired than before I slept I get through cryin' and I'm sadder than before I wept I get through thinkin' now, and the thoughts have left my head I get through speakin' and I can't remember, not a word that I said - Ben Harper, Show Me A Little Shame |
05-05-2008, 01:40 PM | #13 (permalink) |
follower of the child's crusade?
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An Arundel Tomb
Side by side, their faces blurred, The earl and countess lie in stone, Their proper habits vaguely shown As jointed armour, stiffened pleat, And that faint hint of the absurd - The little dogs under their feet. Such plainness of the pre-baroque Hardly involves the eye, until It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still Clasped empty in the other; and One sees, with a sharp tender shock, His hand withdrawn, holding her hand. They would not think to lie so long. Such faithfulness in effigy Was just a detail friends would see: A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace Thrown off in helping to prolong The Latin names around the base. They would no guess how early in Their supine stationary voyage The air would change to soundless damage, Turn the old tenantry away; How soon succeeding eyes begin To look, not read. Rigidly they Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light Each summer thronged the grass. A bright Litter of birdcalls strewed the same Bone-littered ground. And up the paths The endless altered people came, Washing at their identity. Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone fidelity They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love. Philip Larkin
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"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered." The Gospel of Thomas |
05-05-2008, 04:34 PM | #16 (permalink) |
Addict
Location: Where the music's loudest
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Yes, it is "If" by Rudyard Kipling.
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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath 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! It's tattooed on my back.
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Where there is doubt there is freedom. |
05-05-2008, 04:45 PM | #17 (permalink) | |
Junkie
Location: Ontario, Canada
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Quote:
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Si vis pacem parabellum. |
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05-05-2008, 05:09 PM | #18 (permalink) |
The Reforms
Location: Rarely, if ever, here or there, but always in transition
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No, I do not.
To limit oneself is to beg the question of 'What else is there?'; recognizing that there exists more, yet not venturing to realize the pure potential of what may have come to enlighten the darkened recesses of your archiac mind, it becomes lost in doubt—forgotten knowledge. Others linger, and revitalize, but none evoke a resonance that can hold throughout a lifetime. I traverse the literary & melodic trail unfettered.
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As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world (that is the myth of the Atomic Age) as in being able to remake ourselves. —Mohandas K. Gandhi |
05-09-2008, 08:13 AM | #22 (permalink) |
Junkie
Location: The Danforth
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I like the Python's. Here's one that always stuck in my head:
Haggis Poem Much to his dad and mum's dismay Horace ate himself one day He didn't stop to say his grace He just sat down and ate his face "We can't have this!" his dad declared "If that lad's ate he should be shared" But even as he spoke they saw Horace eating more and more: First his legs and then his thighs, His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes "Stop him someone!" Mother cried "Those eyeballs would be better fried!" But all too late for they were gone, And he had started on his dong... "Oh foolish child!" the father mourned "You could have deep-fried those with prawns, Some parsely and some tartar sauce..." But H was on his second course; His liver and his lights and lung, His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue "To think I raised himn from the cot And now he's gone to scoff the lot!" His mother cried what shall we do? What's left won't even make a stew..." And as she wept her son was seen To eat his head his heart his spleen And there he lay, a boy no more Just a stomach on the floor... None the less since it was his They ate it - and that's what haggis is From: Monty Python's Big Red Book I have another one if i can find it, I'll post it. Here it is: Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout - Would Not Take the Garbage Out Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would not take the garbage out! She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, Candy the yams and spice the hams, And though her daddy would scream and shout, She simply would not take the garbage out. And so it piled up to the ceilings: Coffee grounds, potato peelings, Brown bananas, rotten peas, Chunks of sour cottage cheese. It filled the can, it covered the floor, It cracked the window and blocked the door With bacon rinds and chicken bones, Drippy ends of ice cream cones, Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, Pizza crusts and withered greens, Soggy beans and tangerines, Crusts of black burned buttered toast, Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . . The garbage rolled on down the hall, It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . . Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Globs of gooey bubble gum, Cellophane from green baloney, Rubbery blubbery macaroni, Peanut butter, caked and dry, Curdled milk and crusts of pie, Moldy melons, dried-up mustard, Eggshells mixed with lemon custard, Cold french fried and rancid meat, Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat. At last the garbage reached so high That it finally touched the sky. And all the neighbors moved away, And none of her friends would come to play. And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said, "OK, I'll take the garbage out!" But then, of course, it was too late. . . The garbage reached across the state, From New York to the Golden Gate. And there, in the garbage she did hate, Poor Sarah met an awful fate, That I cannot now relate Because the hour is much too late. But children, remember Sarah Stout And always take the garbage out! Shel Silverstein, 1974 Last edited by Leto; 05-09-2008 at 08:17 AM.. Reason: Automerged Doublepost |
05-09-2008, 07:26 PM | #23 (permalink) |
Tilted F*ckhead
Location: New Jersey
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There was a man who never was.
This tragedy occurred because; His parents being none too smart, Were born 200 hundred years apart. lol
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Through counter-intelligence, it should be possible to pinpoint potential trouble makers, and neutralize them. |
05-09-2008, 07:52 PM | #24 (permalink) |
Dumb all over...a little ugly on the side
Location: In the room where the giant fire puffer works, and the torture never stops.
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Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
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He's the best, of course, of all the worst. Some wrong been done, he done it first. -fz I jus' want ta thank you...falettinme...be mice elf...agin... |
05-09-2008, 08:19 PM | #25 (permalink) |
Teufel Hunden's Freundin
Location: Westminster, CO
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Anything by Robert Frost, and 2 poems of my own:
Intoxication Your love is coursing through me like sweet wine through my blood It intoxicates and exhilerates me soon, I hope, to flood My heart will overflow soon from this dizzying liquor but the way it's filling up now it couldn't flow any quicker From this sweet intoxication I taste inside my heart I hope I never come to sober and that we never part. Ivy You and I are two vines tangled, twisted around each other on each other, in each other grasping on, holding on only two, I around you loving you, feeling you inside and out, twisted about having you, wanting you around me, tangled up inside me only two you love me and I love you
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Teg yw edrych tuag adref. |
05-09-2008, 08:31 PM | #26 (permalink) | ||
Psycho: By Choice
Location: dd.land
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Hello Sue, I know this is random, and has nothing to do with the thread, but I LOVE your avatar. That's one of the greatest movies I've ever seen.
Quote:
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When I was in high school I found a poem by Langston Hughes: Evil Looks like what drives me crazy don't have no effect on you but I'm gonna keep on at it till it drives you crazy, too. And this poem, even as I typed it 9 years later, it bring forth the same feelings, joy, frustration, and laughter that it did the first time I read it. And I don't really see that changing.
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[Technically, I'm not possible, I'm made of exceptions. ] Last edited by dd3953; 05-09-2008 at 08:41 PM.. Reason: :] |
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05-10-2008, 06:25 AM | #27 (permalink) | |
Teufel Hunden's Freundin
Location: Westminster, CO
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Quote:
Hell yes it is. Thanks
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Teg yw edrych tuag adref. |
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05-10-2008, 08:05 AM | #28 (permalink) | ||
The Reforms
Location: Rarely, if ever, here or there, but always in transition
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Everything yet nothing at all; this is the inherent nature of lyricism
Quote:
Also, it gives me that much more pause and circumstance to find and choose a topical poem for whatever situation I encounter, hopefully conveying to the present audience the same meaning I discovered within the lyrics of the literature, likening myself to you, through a common medium. Quote:
Looking at your particular selection by Hughes, I smile. I admire your choice, if taken and shown explicitly for my personage, or by your own indistinct volition to highlight him, I appreciate te effort. I feel the preciseness of the concise message, perceive its intent, and slightly, I am drawn into ease. Now I am here, idle, analyzing the poem, trying to search for a way to express my mind's eye way of interpretation, so that I can liken back to my 'serving every purpose' example; "Evil", by Langston Hughes, is such a mutable work of art that it makes that much more difficult, but it stands to say, this poem of course stands the test of time, yet does not pass the test of happenstance. A hypothetical: If I were to think or quote this poem in a time where I found myself with a partner in which I have everything in the world in common with (what a find that must be!), then this composition would not accurately convey the situation, no? (tho, I might think of it as a kidding reminder, a contradictory viewpoint for an occurrence that is equally as implausible-finding the perfect partner to a pair). This is all I meant to portray in that statement provoked from my mind's present mode of thought. I have difficultly in choosing a 'favorite' poem because no one expression, at least in my experience, can precisely hold unweathered through a lifetime without facing contrapositionary confrontations brought about from real life occurrences. I do, however, find safety in the knowledge that for whatever the present situation may be, I can look to the literary expressions of multitudes, and become in-tune to their feelings, if only for a brief moment. And in that limited interval, I become integrated with the sentiments of many because for us all, we find ourselves searching for the comely companionship of another; poetry helps us discover why. Post-script in Perspective: In a topical nature of juxtaposition, I will yield to the original query with this one thought: The purpose of a fish trap is to catch fish, and when the fish are caught, the trap is forgotten. The purpose of a rabbit snare is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snare is forgotten. The purpose of words is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words? He is the one I would like to talk to. —Chuang Tzu
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As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world (that is the myth of the Atomic Age) as in being able to remake ourselves. —Mohandas K. Gandhi |
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05-10-2008, 02:14 PM | #29 (permalink) |
Junkie
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I love poetry. Mostly, I prefer shorter works. I tend to get more and more analytical as the poem gets longer and longer. There is a lot of poetry that I like, and to me, poetry can be very evocative of a location, place, or time. I don’t have a single favorite, but these three would always be up near the top of my poetry list.
(Sometimes the formatting and placement doesn’t come through on the computer.) I love the desert, the dry high plains of Western Kansas, the badlands of South Dakota, Death Valley in California. georgia o'keefe great lady painter what she do now she goes out with a stick and kills snakes georgia o'keefe all life still cow skull bull skull no bull shit pyrite pyrite shes no fool started out pretty pretty pretty girl georgia o'keefe until she had her fill painted desert flower cactus hawk and head mule choral water color red coral reef been around forever georgia o'keefe great lady painter what she do now go out and beat the desert stir dust bowl go out and beat the desert snake skin skull go out and beat the desert all life still from Babel, Patti Smith, 1976 When it's a rainy day, and I'm sitting on my pity-pot and absolutely wanna stay put. this is guaranteed to keep me there. I know a place it's called pain it's where love lives love is pain love is fear who will wipe away the tears from my eyes (overflowing with the fullness of my heart) love is fear love is pain who will taste the salty rain when I cry (from the hunger, from the thirst, the emptiness) Me?? I'm just fine. I'm just fine, thanks !! (does it show do they know how I hurt how my heart cries) ?? when my raincoat of serenity turns inside out to dry warm emotions drip down to the thirsty ground below and a cloak of many colors for long winters bundled up around those feelings secret opens up and lets the snow touch coldly all the warm and sweaty hidden parts all folded up like batwings and the cold light touches warm dark and sweet blindness doesn't know my choices wrong AGAIN obsessions strong Me?? I'll just hide. No!! Try once more?? No!! No?? Then what? ?? I know a place it's called pain it's where love lives Dmitri Dahlquist, 1993 And a beautiful sunrise on Cape Cod, the coast of Maine, or, for that matter, a beautiful sunrise ANYWHERE! i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth) how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any ——lifted from the no of all nothing—— human merely being doubt unimaginable You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened) from XAIPEAh, life is wonderful again. Lindy |
05-22-2008, 05:20 PM | #30 (permalink) | |
Psycho: By Choice
Location: dd.land
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Jetée, all I can say is "Thank you." Your thoughtfulness and intelligence, wow. Thanks. Now if only I could think of a good come back to keep this conversation going. . . . .
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[Technically, I'm not possible, I'm made of exceptions. ] |
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05-22-2008, 05:37 PM | #31 (permalink) |
Insane
Location: The South.
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Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade." "Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall, "But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all." So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege, Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege. "Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall, "But Iron -- Cold Iron -- shall be master of you all!" Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong, When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along; He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall, And Iron -- Cold Iron -- was master of it all! Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!) "What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?" "Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall, For Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all." "Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown -- Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown." "As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small, For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!" Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!) "Here is Bread and here is Wine -- sit and sup with me. Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall How Iron -- Cold Iron -- can be master of men all!" He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread. With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said: "See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall, Show Iron -- Cold Iron -- to be master of men all." "Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong. Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong. I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall -- For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!" "Crowns are for the valiant -- sceptres for the bold! Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!" "Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall, "But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all! Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!" --- Rudyard Kipling
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"There is no need to suppose that human beings differ very much one from another: but it is true that the ones who come out on top are the ones who have been trained in the hardest school." -- Thucydides |
05-23-2008, 02:55 AM | #32 (permalink) |
undead
Location: Duisburg, Germany
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Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away." I met a genius by Charles Bukowski I met a genius on the train today about 6 years old, he sat beside me and as the train ran down along the coast we came to the ocean and then he looked at me and said, it's not pretty. it was the first time I'd realized that. and of course "The Raven" by Poe (still trying to memorize it )
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"It seems to me that the idea of a personal God is an anthropological concept which I cannot take seriously. I also cannot imagine some will or goal outside the human sphere. Science has been charged with undermining morality, but the charge is unjust. A man's ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties and needs; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hope of reward after death — Albert Einstein |
05-25-2008, 02:53 AM | #33 (permalink) |
Leaning against the -Sun-
Super Moderator
Location: on the other side
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one of my favourites is in my signature. It's by a well-known portuguese author, Fernando Pessoa.
Here it is, roughly translated: “What is another person like inside Who will know how to dream it? The soul of another is another universe With which there is no communication possible With which there is no true understanding We know nothing of the soul Except of our own Those of others are gazes, Are gestures, are words, With the supposition of some similarity at their depths” Fernando Pessoa, 1934
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Whether we write or speak or do but look We are ever unapparent. What we are Cannot be transfused into word or book. Our soul from us is infinitely far. However much we give our thoughts the will To be our soul and gesture it abroad, Our hearts are incommunicable still. In what we show ourselves we are ignored. The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged By any skill of thought or trick of seeming. Unto our very selves we are abridged When we would utter to our thought our being. We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams, And each to each other dreams of others' dreams. Fernando Pessoa, 1918 |
05-25-2008, 04:14 AM | #34 (permalink) |
Minion of Joss
Location: The Windy City
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A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
As virtuous men passe mildly away, And whisper to their soules, to goe, Whilst some of their sad friends doe say, The breath goes now, and some say, no: So let us melt, and make no noise, No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move, T'were prophanation of our joyes To tell the layetie our love. Moving of th'earth brings harmes and feares, Men reckon what it did and meant, But trepidation of the spheares, Though greater farre, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers love (Whose soule is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love, so much refin'd, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse. Our two soules therefore, which are one, Though I must goe, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate. If they be two, they are two so As stiffe twin compasses are two, Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the'other doe. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth rome, It leanes, and hearkens after it, And growes erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to mee, who must Like th'other foot, obliquely runne; Thy firmnes makes my circle just, And makes me end, where I begunne. -John Donne Or: And Death Shall Have No Dominion 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. And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan't crack; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion. -Dylan Thomas But I might also have included Robert Burns' "Address To A Haggis," if only because you gotta have balls to write an ode to a suet pudding!
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Dull sublunary lovers love, Whose soul is sense, cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove That thing which elemented it. (From "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" by John Donne) |
05-26-2008, 08:38 AM | #35 (permalink) |
Insane
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I have too many to pick just one so here is...
The Lost Heifer by Austin Clarke When the black herds of the rain were grazing, In the gap of the pure cold wind And the watery hazes of the hazel Brought her into my mind, I thought of the last honey by the water That no hive can find. Brightness was drenching through the branches When she wandered again, Turning sliver out of dark grasses Where the skylark had lain, And her voice coming softly over the meadow Was the mist becoming rain. |
09-30-2008, 06:36 AM | #36 (permalink) |
Sir, I have a plan...
Location: 38S NC20943324
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This thread is to good to let die...
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town to'another due, Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. - John Donne, Holy Sonnet XIV
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Fortunato became immured to the sound of the trowel after a while.
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09-30-2008, 06:58 AM | #37 (permalink) |
Functionally Appropriate
Location: Toronto
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There's are two short ones that I wish I new the names of the writers so I could find them again.
One is about a dog tied to a tree, straining at the end of his leash. He's let off the leash, only to lie down under the that same tree, thereby demonstrating his true understanding of freedom. The other describes one's artery's thickening with cholesteral and how "Slowly, the cow gets his revenge." In lieu of those, I present, without any irony, a romantic poem by Edwin Arnold. Destiny Somewhere there waiteth in this world of ours For one lone soul another lonely soul Each choosing each through all the weary hours And meeting strangely at one sudden goal. Then blend they, like green leaves with golden flowers, Into one beautiful and perfect whole; And life's long night is ended, and the way Lies open onward to eternal day.
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Building an artificial intelligence that appreciates Mozart is easy. Building an A.I. that appreciates a theme restaurant is the real challenge - Kit Roebuck - Nine Planets Without Intelligent Life |
09-30-2008, 10:12 PM | #38 (permalink) | |
With a mustache, the cool factor would be too much
Location: left side of my couch, East Texas
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I found these two poems on Wikipedia when I went looking for information about the movie, "The Man From Snowy River".
The Man from Snowy River (poem - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia) They're my current two favorites... Quote:
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10-01-2008, 02:52 AM | #39 (permalink) |
Eponymous
Location: Central Central Florida
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One of my favorites:
Walt Whitman's The Sleepers --1-- I wander all night in my vision, Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping, Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers, Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory, Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping. How solemn they look there, stretch'd and still, How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles. The wretched features of ennuyes, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists, The gash'd bodies on battle-fields, the insane in their strong-door'd rooms, the sacred idiots, the new-born emerging from gates, and the dying emerging from gates, The night pervades them and infolds them. The married couple sleep calmly in their bed, he with his palm on the hip of the wife, and she with her palm on the hip of the husband, The sisters sleep lovingly side by side in their bed, The men sleep lovingly side by side in theirs, And the mother sleeps with her little child carefully wrapt. The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son sleeps, The murderer that is to be hung next day, how does he sleep? And the murder'd person, how does he sleep? The female that loves unrequited sleeps, And the male that loves unrequited sleeps, The head of the money-maker that plotted all day sleeps, And the enraged and treacherous dispositions, all, all sleep. I stand in the dark with drooping eyes by the worst-suffering and the most restless, I pass my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them, The restless sink in their beds, they fitfully sleep. Now I pierce the darkness, new beings appear, The earth recedes from me into the night, I saw that it was beautiful, and I see that what is not the earth is beautiful. I go from bedside to bedside, I sleep close with the other sleepers each in turn, I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers, And I become the other dreamers. I am a dance--play up there! the fit is whirling me fast! I am the ever-laughing--it is new moon and twilight, I see the hiding of douceurs, I see nimble ghosts whichever way I look, Cache and cache again deep in the ground and sea, and where it is neither ground nor sea. Well do they do their jobs those journeymen divine, Only from me can they hide nothing, and would not if they could, I reckon I am their boss and they make me a pet besides, And surround me and lead me and run ahead when I walk, To lift their cunning covers to signify me with stretch'd arms, and resume the way; Onward we move, a gay gang of blackguards! with mirth-shouting music and wild-flapping pennants of joy! I am the actor, the actress, the voter, the politician, The emigrant and the exile, the criminal that stood in the box, He who has been famous and he who shall be famous after to-day, The stammerer, the well-form'd person, the wasted or feeble person. I am she who adorn'd herself and folded her hair expectantly, My truant lover has come, and it is dark. Double yourself and receive me darkness, Receive me and my lover too, he will not let me go without him. I roll myself upon you as upon a bed, I resign myself to the dusk. He whom I call answers me and takes the place of my lover, He rises with me silently from the bed. Darkness, you are gentler than my lover, his flesh was sweaty and panting, I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me. My hands are spread forth, I pass them in all directions, I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are journeying. Be careful darkness! already what was it touch'd me? I thought my lover had gone, else darkness and he are one, I hear the heart-beat, I follow, I fade away. --2-- I descend my western course, my sinews are flaccid, Perfume and youth course through me and I am their wake. It is my face yellow and wrinkled instead of the old woman's, I sit low in a straw-bottom chair and carefully darn my grandson's stockings. It is I too, the sleepless widow looking out on the winter midnight, I see the sparkles of star shine on the icy and pallid earth. A shroud I see and I am the shroud, I wrap a body and lie in the coffin, It is dark here under ground, it is not evil or pain here, it is blank here, for reasons. (It seems to me that every thing in the light and air ought to be happy, Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave let him know he has enough.) --3-- I see a beautiful gigantic swimmer swimming naked through the eddies of the sea, His brown hair lies close and even to his head, he strikes out with courageous arms, he urges himself with his legs, I see his white body, I see his undaunted eyes, I hate the swift-running eddies that would dash him head-foremost on the rocks. What are you doing you ruffianly red-trickled waves ? Will you kill the courageous giant? will you kill him in the prime of his middle age? Steady and long he struggles, He is baffled, bang'd, bruis'd, he holds out while his strength holds out, The slapping eddies are spotted with his blood, they bear him away, they roll him, swing him, turn him, His beautiful body is borne in the circling eddies, it is continually bruis'd on rocks, Swiftly and out of sight is borne the brave corpse. --4-- I turn but do not extricate myself, Confused, a past-reading, another, but with darkness yet. The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind, the wreck-guns sound, The tempest lulls, the moon comes floundering through the drifts. I look where the ship helplessly heads end on, I hear the burst as she strikes, I hear the howls of dismay, they grow fainter and fainter. I cannot aid with my wringing fingers, I can but rush to the surf and let it drench me and freeze upon me. I search with the crowd, not one of the company is wash'd to us alive, In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in a barn. --5-- Now of the older war-days, the defeat at Brooklyn, Washington stands inside the lines, he stands on the intrench'd hills amid a crowd of officers, His face is cold and damp, he cannot repress the weeping drops, He lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes, the color is blanch'd from his cheeks, He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided to him by their parents. The same at last and at last when peace is declared, He stands in the room of the old tavern, the well-belov'd soldiers all pass through, The officers speechless and slow draw near in their turns, The chief encircles their necks with his arm and kisses them on the cheek, He kisses lightly the wet cheeks one after another, he shakes hands and bids good-by to the army. --6-- Now what my mother told me one day as we sat at dinner together, Of when she was a nearly grown girl living home with her parents on the old homestead A red squaw came one breakfast-time to the old homestead, On her back she carried a bundle of rushes for rush-bottoming chairs, Her hair, straight, shiny, coarse, black, profuse, half-envelop'd her face, Her step was free and elastic, and her voice sounded exquisitely as she spoke. My mother look'd in delight and amazement at the stranger, She look'd at the freshness of her tall-borne face and full and pliant limbs, The more she look'd upon her she loved her, Never before had she seen such wonderful beauty and purity, She made her sit on a bench by the jamb of the fireplace, she cook'd food for her, She had no work to give her, but she gave her remembrance and fondness. The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of the afternoon she went away, O my mother was loth to have her go away, All the week she thought of her, she watch'd for her many a month, She remember'd her many a winter and many a summer, But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again. --7-- A show of the summer softness--a contact of something unseen--an amour of the light and air, I am jealous and overwhelm'd with friendliness, And will go gallivant with the light and air myself. O love and summer, you are in the dreams and in me, Autumn and winter are in the dreams, the farmer goes with his thrift, The droves and crops increase, the barns are well-fill'd. Elements merge in the night, ships make tacks in the dreams, The sailor sails, the exile returns home, The fugitive returns unharm'd, the immigrant is back beyond months and years, The poor Irishman lives in the simple house of his childhood with the well-known neighbors and faces, They warmly welcome him, he is barefoot again, he forgets he is well off, The Dutchman voyages home, and the Scotchman and Welshman voyage home, and the native of the Mediterranean voyages home, To every port of England, France, Spain, enter well-fill'd ships, The Swiss toots it toward his hills, the Prussian goes his way, the Hungarian his way, and the Pole his way, The Swede returns, and the Dane and Norwegian return. The homeward bound and the outward bound, The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuye, the onanist, the female that loves unrequited, the money-maker, The actor and actress, those through with their parts and those waiting to commence, The affectionate boy, the husband and wife, the voter, the nominee that is chosen and the nominee that has fail'd, The great already known and the great any time after to-day, The stammerer, the sick, the perfect-form'd, the homely, The criminal that stood in the box, the judge that sat and sentenced him, the fluent lawyers, the jury, the audience, The laugher and weeper, the dancer, the midnight widow, the red squaw, The consumptive, the erysipalite, the idiot, he that is wrong'd, The antipodes, and every one between this and them in the dark, I swear they are averaged now--one is no better than the other, The night and sleep have liken'd them and restored them. I swear they are all beautiful, Every one that sleeps is beautiful, every thing in the dim light is beautiful, The wildest and bloodiest is over, and all is peace. Peace is always beautiful, The myth of heaven indicates peace and night. The myth of heaven indicates the soul, The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it comes or it lags behind, It comes from its embower'd garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world, Perfect and clean the genitals previously jetting, and perfect and clean the womb cohering, The head well-grown proportion'd and plumb, and the bowels and joints proportion'd and plumb. The soul is always beautiful, The universe is duly in order, every thing is in its place, What has arrived is in its place and what waits shall be in its place, The twisted skull waits, the watery or rotten blood waits, The child of the glutton or venerealee waits long, and the child of the drunkard waits long, and the drunkard himself waits long, The sleepers that lived and died wait, the far advanced are to go on in their turns, and the far behind are to come on in their turns, The diverse shall be no less diverse, but they shall flow and unite --they unite now. --8-- The sleepers are very beautiful as they lie unclothed, They flow hand in hand over the whole earth from east to west as they lie unclothed, The Asiatic and African are hand in hand, the European and American are hand in hand, Learn'd and unlearn'd are hand in hand, and male and female are hand in hand, The bare arm of the girl crosses the bare breast of her lover, they press close without lust, his lips press her neck, The father holds his grown or ungrown son in his arms with measureless love, and the son holds the father in his arms with measureless love, The white hair of the mother shines on the white wrist of the daughter, The breath of the boy goes with the breath of the man, friend is inarm'd by friend, The scholar kisses the teacher and the teacher kisses the scholar, the wrong'd is made right, The call of the slave is one with the master's call, and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison, the insane becomes sane, the suffering of sick persons is reliev'd, The sweatings and fevers stop, the throat that was unsound is sound, the lungs of the consumptive are resumed, the poor distress'd head is free, The joints of the rheumatic move as smoothly as ever, and smoother than ever, Stiflings and passages open, the paralyzed become supple, The swell'd and convuls'd and congested awake to themselves in condition, They pass the invigoration of the night and the chemistry of the night, and awake. I too pass from the night, I stay a while away O night, but I return to you again and love you. Why should I be afraid to trust myself to you? I am not afraid, I have been well brought forward by you, I love the rich running day, but I do not desert her in whom I lay so long, I know not how I came of you and I know not where I go with you, but I know I came well and shall go well. I will stop only a time with the night, and rise betimes, I will duly pass the day O my mother, and duly return to you.
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We are always more anxious to be distinguished for a talent which we do not possess, than to be praised for the fifteen which we do possess. Mark Twain |
10-01-2008, 03:25 AM | #40 (permalink) |
You had me at hello
Location: DC/Coastal VA
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You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through. -Sylvia Plath
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I think the Apocalypse is happening all around us. We go on eating desserts and watching TV. I know I do. I wish we were more capable of sustained passion and sustained resistance. We should be screaming and what we do is gossip. -Lydia Millet |
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