Poetry Corner

Mottleydude said:
As an art form I love poetry. It's certainly an art where less is more. So I thought I'd open a thread where we can post our favorite poems. Here is one of my favorite motivational poems written by a historical figure I hugely admire. Thomas Edward Lawrence (aka Lawrence of Arabia).

This is for all the day dreamers out there.

All people dream but not equally. Those who dream in the darkest recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did.
Click to expand...


That he did!
 
When I first read this poem, I was struck by her absolute despair. It made me fall in love with poetry and

Emily Dickinson

Dying

I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.

The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.

I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly,

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.


and one more of my favorites:


I Felt A Funeral In My Brain

by Emily Dickinson.



I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb

And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,
And being, but an ear,
And I and Silence some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here.
 
Damocles said:
Frost is my favorite poet.

The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
Click to expand...



I do love me some Robert Frost!
 
froggie said:
I do love me some Robert Frost!
Click to expand...
Then here's more...

This two above made me read more and this is the one that effected me most. It speaks of the differences in grief of people, and an inability to communicate, the man sees she misunderstands that his only expressions of grief have been misunderstood and she takes his "I'm cursed" as an acknowledgment of her accusation... He doesn't learn to communicate and misses much because he seems short on empathy.

"Home Burial"

by Robert Frost

He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke 5

Advancing toward her:
"What is it you see From up there always?--for I want to know."
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: "What is it you see?" 10

Mounting until she cowered under him.
"I will find out now--you must tell me, dear."
She, in her place, refused him any help,
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see, 15

Blind creature; and awhile he didn't see.
But at last he murmured, "Oh," and again, "Oh."
"What is it--what?" she said. "Just that I see."
"You don't," she challenged. "Tell me what it is."
"The wonder is I didn't see it at once. 20

I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it--that's the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? 25

There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the child's mound----" "Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried. 30

She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said twice over before he knew himself:
"Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?" 35

"Not you!--Oh, where's my hat?
Oh, I don't need it! I must get out of here.
I must get air.-- I don't know rightly whether any man can."
"Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs." 40

He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
"There's something I should like to ask you, dear."
"You don't know how to ask it."
"Help me, then." Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
"My words are nearly always an offense. 45

I don't know how to speak of anything
So as to please you. But I might be taught,
I should suppose. I can't say I see how.
A man must partly give up being a man
With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement 50

By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you're a-mind to name.
Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.
Two that don't love can't live together without them.
But two that do can't live together with them." 55

She moved the latch a little. "Don't--don't go.
Don't carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief. I'm not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there 60

Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.
What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolably--in the face of love. 65

You'd think his memory might be satisfied----"
"There you go sneering now!"
"I'm not, I'm not! You make me angry. I'll come down to you.
God, what a woman! And it's come to this,
A man can't speak of his own child that's dead." 70

"You can't because you don't know how to speak.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your own hand--how could you?--his little grave;
I saw you from that very window there,
Making the gravel leap in air, 75

Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.
And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. 80

Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why,
But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave 85

And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the spade up against the wall
Outside there in the entry, for I saw it."
"I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed." 90

"I can repeat the very words you were saying:
'Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.'
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot 95

To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death, 100

One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand. 105

But the world's evil. I won't have grief so
If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!
"There, you have said it all and you feel better.
You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door.
The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up? 110

Amy! There's someone coming down the road!"
"You--oh, you think the talk is all. I must go--"
Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you----"
"If--you--do!" She was opening the door wider.
"Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. 115

I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will--"
 
froggie said:
When I first read this poem, I was struck by her absolute despair. It made me fall in love with poetry and

Emily Dickinson

Dying

I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.

The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.

I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly,

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.


and one more of my favorites:


I Felt A Funeral In My Brain

by Emily Dickinson.



I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb

And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,
And being, but an ear,
And I and Silence some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here.
Click to expand...
Yea, Emily always was a bit of a buzz kill, isn't she?
 
∞zo;464511 said:
quit being fags you guys, you all sound like watermark.
Click to expand...
and heres a poem for Grind;
Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .

Shel Silverstein
 
Damocles said:
Then here's more...

This two above made me read more and this is the one that effected me most. It speaks of the differences in grief of people, and an inability to communicate, the man sees she misunderstands that his only expressions of grief have been misunderstood and she takes his "I'm cursed" as an acknowledgment of her accusation... He doesn't learn to communicate and misses much because he seems short on empathy.

"Home Burial"

by Robert Frost

He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke 5

Advancing toward her:
"What is it you see From up there always?--for I want to know."
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: "What is it you see?" 10

Mounting until she cowered under him.
"I will find out now--you must tell me, dear."
She, in her place, refused him any help,
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see, 15

Blind creature; and awhile he didn't see.
But at last he murmured, "Oh," and again, "Oh."
"What is it--what?" she said. "Just that I see."
"You don't," she challenged. "Tell me what it is."
"The wonder is I didn't see it at once. 20

I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it--that's the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? 25

There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the child's mound----" "Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried. 30

She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said twice over before he knew himself:
"Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?" 35

"Not you!--Oh, where's my hat?
Oh, I don't need it! I must get out of here.
I must get air.-- I don't know rightly whether any man can."
"Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs." 40

He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
"There's something I should like to ask you, dear."
"You don't know how to ask it."
"Help me, then." Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
"My words are nearly always an offense. 45

I don't know how to speak of anything
So as to please you. But I might be taught,
I should suppose. I can't say I see how.
A man must partly give up being a man
With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement 50

By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you're a-mind to name.
Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.
Two that don't love can't live together without them.
But two that do can't live together with them." 55

She moved the latch a little. "Don't--don't go.
Don't carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief. I'm not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there 60

Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.
What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolably--in the face of love. 65

You'd think his memory might be satisfied----"
"There you go sneering now!"
"I'm not, I'm not! You make me angry. I'll come down to you.
God, what a woman! And it's come to this,
A man can't speak of his own child that's dead." 70

"You can't because you don't know how to speak.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your own hand--how could you?--his little grave;
I saw you from that very window there,
Making the gravel leap in air, 75

Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.
And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. 80

Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why,
But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave 85

And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the spade up against the wall
Outside there in the entry, for I saw it."
"I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed." 90

"I can repeat the very words you were saying:
'Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.'
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot 95

To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death, 100

One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand. 105

But the world's evil. I won't have grief so
If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!
"There, you have said it all and you feel better.
You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door.
The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up? 110

Amy! There's someone coming down the road!"
"You--oh, you think the talk is all. I must go--"
Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you----"
"If--you--do!" She was opening the door wider.
"Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. 115

I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will--"
Click to expand...

Thank you, dedicated to eg...and my friend, Jenice.
 
Damocles said:
And this one:

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer 5

To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake. 10

The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep, 15

And miles to go before I sleep.


(And yes people the last line is repeated in the actual poem.)
Click to expand...

One I had to memorize at one time.
 
Mottleydude said:
Though technically not a poem this is one of those "Aint that the truth" items.

A Human Being "Robert A Heinlein"

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly......specialization is for insects.
Click to expand...


I think some books are poetry.
 
Mottleydude said:
and heres a poem for Grind;
Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .

Shel Silverstein
Click to expand...

Sang it to my children and to my grandchildren along with "The Old Woman Who Swallowed a Spider"
 
∞zo;464490 said:
I am damo hear my plea
All should join freemasonary
We all place nice, we never fight
I'm busy with the scottish rite
I'll be a major badass ...
with a high degree...
numbers are important
in freemasonary

We play ping pong, we drink some booze
And contrary to recent news
It's WE that run the world
it's never been the jews
Click to expand...

What is "...place nice..."??
 
I'm sure I've posted this one before... Some of my own angry writing back in the HS days...

Untitled...

Darkness, darkness
Away from the light,
Darker, darker
Than the night

Pain kills emotion
Like aspirin kills pain
A momentary release
When emotions reign.
 
Mottleydude said:
and heres a poem for Grind;
Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .

Shel Silverstein
Click to expand...

What's this?

hat.jpg
 
Smart

My dad gave me one dollar bill
'Cause I'm his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
'Cause two is more than one!
And then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes -- I guess he don't know
That three is more than two!
Just then, along came old blind Bates
And just 'cause he can't see
He gave me four nickels for my three dimes,
And four is more than three!
And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
And the fool gave me five pennies for them,
And five is more than four!
And then I went and showed my dad,
And he got red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shook his head--
Too proud of me to speak!

- Shel Silverstein
 
Threedee said:
Smart

My dad gave me one dollar bill
'Cause I'm his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
'Cause two is more than one!
And then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes -- I guess he don't know
That three is more than two!
Just then, along came old blind Bates
And just 'cause he can't see
He gave me four nickels for my three dimes,
And four is more than three!
And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
And the fool gave me five pennies for them,
And five is more than four!
And then I went and showed my dad,
And he got red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shook his head--
Too proud of me to speak!

- Shel Silverstein
Click to expand...
Shel Silverstein was a regular renaissance man. He was running buddies with Kris Kristoferson, Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. He was not only famous for his poems, childrens books and illustrations but was one hell of a song writter.

Among others he wrote;

A Boy Named Sue.
Put another log on the fire.
One's On the Way
25 Minutes to go.
The Cover of the Rolling Stone
Freakers Ball.
Sylvias Mother
The Ballad of Lucy Jordan
Queen of the Silver Dollar.
I got stoned and I missed it.
 
Mottleydude said:
As an art form I love poetry. It's certainly an art where less is more. So I thought I'd open a thread where we can post our favorite poems. Here is one of my favorite motivational poems written by a historical figure I hugely admire. Thomas Edward Lawrence (aka Lawrence of Arabia).

This is for all the day dreamers out there.

All people dream but not equally. Those who dream in the darkest recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did.
Click to expand...

Rock on, that was cool.

Here's one I totally dig:




In ancient times
Hundreds of years before the dawn of history
Lived a strange race of people, the druids

No one knows who they were
Or what they were doing
But their legacy remains
Here into the living rock of Stonehenge

Stonehenge, where the demons dwell
Where the banshees live and they do live well
Stonehenge
Where a man is a man and the children dance to
the pipes of pan

Stonehenge
Tis a magic place where the moon doth rise
With a dragon's face
Stonehenge
Where the virgins lie
And the prayer of devils fill the midnight sky

And you my love, won't you take my hand
We'll go back in time to that mystic land
Where the dew drops cry and the cats meow
I will take you there
I will show you how



“Stonehenge”
(Spinal Tap)
 
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