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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: toadsmack] 1
#26565865 - 03/29/20 06:25 PM (3 years, 11 months ago) |
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Now comes the crowning age foretold in the Sibyl's songs, A great new cycle, bred of time, begins again. Now virginal Justice and the golden age returns, Now its first-born is sent down from high heaven. With the birth of this boy, the generation of iron will pass, And a generation of gold will inherit all the world.
--The Roman poet Virgil, from the Eclogues (40 BC)
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Attention Please! Attention Please!
by Roald Dahl
'Attention please! Attention please! Don't dare to talk! Don't dare to sneeze! Don't doze or daydream! Stay awake! Your health, your very life's at stake! Ho–ho, you say, they can't mean me. Ha–ha, we answer, wait and see.
Did any of you ever meet A child called Goldie Pinklesweet? Who on her seventh birthday went To stay with Granny down in Kent. At lunchtime on the second day Of dearest little Goldie's stay, Granny announced, 'I'm going down To do some shopping in the town.' (D'you know why Granny didn't tell The child to come along as well? She's going to the nearest inn To buy herself a double gin.)
So out she creeps. She shuts the door. And Goldie, after making sure That she is really by herself, Goes quickly to the medicine shelf, And there, her little greedy eyes See pills of every shape and size, Such fascinating colours too –– Some green, some pink, some brown, some blue. 'All right,' she says, 'let's try the brown,' She takes one pill and gulps it down. 'Yum–yum!' she cries. 'Hooray! What fun! They're chocolate–coated, every one!' She gobbles five, she gobbles ten, She stops her gobbling only when The last pill's gone. There are no more. Slowly she rises from the floor. She stops. She hiccups. Dear, oh dear, She starts to feel a trifle queer.
You see, how could young Goldie know, For nobody had told her so, That Grandmama, her old relation Suffered from frightful constipation. This meant that every night she'd give Herself a powerful laxative, And all the medicines that she'd bought Were naturally of this sort. The pink and red and blue and green Were all extremely strong and mean. But far more fierce and meaner still, Was Granny's little chocolate pill. Its blast effect was quite uncanny. It used to shake up even Granny. In point of fact she did not dare To use them more than twice a year. So can you wonder little Goldie Began to feel a wee bit moldy?
Inside her tummy, something stirred. A funny gurgling sound was heard, And then, oh dear, from deep within, The ghastly rumbling sounds begin! They rumbilate and roar and boom! They bounce and echo round the room! The floorboards shake and from the wall Some bits of paint and plaster fall. Explosions, whistles, awful bangs Were followed by the loudest clangs. (A man next door was heard to say, 'A thunderstorm is on the way.') But on and on the rumbling goes. A window cracks, a lamp–bulb blows. Young Goldie clutched herself and cried, 'There's something wrong with my inside!' This was, we very greatly fear, The understatement of the year. For wouldn't any child feel crummy, With loud explosions in her tummy?
Granny, at half past two, came in, Weaving a little from the gin, But even so she quickly saw The empty bottle on the floor. 'My precious laxatives!' she cried. 'I don't feel well,' the girl replied. Angrily Grandma shook her head. 'I'm really not surprised,' she said. 'Why can't you leave my pills alone?' With that, she grabbed the telephone And shouted, 'Listen, send us quick An ambulance! A child is sick! It's number fifty, Fontwell Road! Come fast! I think she might explode!'
We're sure you do not wish to hear About the hospital and where They did a lot of horrid things With stomach–pumps and rubber rings. Let's answer what you want to know; Did Goldie live or did she go? The doctors gathered round her bed, 'There's really not much hope,' they said. 'She's going, going, gone!' they cried. 'She's had her chips! She's dead! She's died!' 'I'm not so sure,' the child replied. And all at once she opened wide Her great big bluish eyes and sighed, And gave the anxious docs a wink, And said, 'I'll be okay, I think.'
So Goldie lived and back she went At first to Granny's place in Kent. Her father came the second day And fetched her in a Chevrolet, And drove her to their home in Dover. But Goldie's troubles were not over. You see, if someone takes enough Of any highly dangerous stuff, One will invariably find Some traces of it left behind. It pains us greatly to relate That Goldie suffered from this fate. She'd taken such a massive fill Of this unpleasant kind of pill, It got into her blood and bones, It messed up all her chromosomes, It made her constantly upset, And she could never really get The beastly stuff to go away. And so the girl was forced to stay For seven hours every day Within the everlasting gloom Of what we call The Ladies Room. And after all, the W.C. Is not the gayest place to be. So now, before it is too late. Take heed of Goldie's dreadful fate. And seriously, all jokes apart, Do promise us across your heart That you will never help yourself To medicine from the medicine shelf.'
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Tell me not in mournful numbers Life is 'but an empty dream!' -- For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
--Longfellow, A Psalm of Life
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Phantom*
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
ALL look and likeness caught from earth All accident of kin and birth, Had pass'd away. There was no trace Of aught on that illumined face, Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone But of one spirit all her own; — She, she herself, and only she, Shone through her body visibly.
1805
*Coleridge wrote this poem in his notebook on 8 February 1805, together with the following entry:
"On Friday Night, 8th Feb. 1805, my feeling, in sleep, of exceeding great love for my infant, seen by me in the dream! -- yet so as it might be Sara, Derwent, or Berkley, and still it was an individual babe and mine. This abstract self is, indeed, in its nature a Universal personified, as Life, Soul, Spirit, etc. Will not this prove it to be a deeper feeling, and of such intimate affinity with ideas, so as to modify them and become one with them; whereas the appetites and the feelings of revenge and anger co-exist with the ideas, not combine with them, and alter the apparent effect of this form, not the forms themselves? Certain modifications of fear seem to approach nearest to this love-sense in its manner of acting."
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clock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 5 hours, 11 minutes
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The Idea of Order at Key West By Wallace Stevens
She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker’s rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
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Klavi
Registered: 11/24/14
Posts: 51
Loc: Norway
Last seen: 3 years, 8 months
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Days
Each one is a gift, no doubt, mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead moments before you open your eyes.
Today begins cold and bright, the ground heavy with snow and the thick masonry of ice, the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.
Through the calm eye of the window everything is in its place but so precariously this day might be resting somehow
on the one before it, all the days of the past stacked high like the impossible tower of dishes entertainers used to build on stage.
No wonder you find yourself perched on the top of a tall ladder hoping to add one more. Just another Wednesday
you whisper, then holding your breath, place this cup on yesterday’s saucer without the slightest clink.
- Billy Collins
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Klavi] 1
#26595650 - 04/12/20 12:10 PM (3 years, 11 months ago) |
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Their fall is gentle. The woodchopper Can tell, before they reach the mud, The oak tree by its leaf of copper The maple by its leaf of blood.
--Vladimir Nabokov, Ada
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thealienthatategod
retrovertigo
Registered: 10/10/17
Posts: 2,692
Last seen: 20 days, 8 hours
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Behold, in yon stripped Autumn, in shivering grey, Earth knows no desolation. She smells generation In the moist breath of decay.
--George Meredith
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? Not Death, for who is He? The porter of my father's lodge As much abasheth me.
--Emily Dickinson, Time and Eternity
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine— A sad, sour, sober beverage—by time Is sharpen’d from its high celestial flavour, Down to a very homely household savour.
--Lord Byron
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Barnaby
Interesting lifetime
Registered: 12/13/17
Posts: 9,187
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I like the short ones that are deep. Like Emily Dickenson. That is the great thing about poetry. Just something so simple can be so profound. And one just thinks and ponders on it and it opens up so much more then just some lines of writing Her life story is interesting. The show is garbage.
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pineninja
Dream Weaver
Registered: 08/17/14
Posts: 12,468
Loc: South
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Barnaby] 2
#26620697 - 04/22/20 05:46 PM (3 years, 10 months ago) |
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The painting isn't on the wall, it's in your mind.
Words cannot convey the underlying beauty and nuance when rigidly structured.
The abstract form created by a brush stroke stirs the mind much like a great poem.
#The profound is the reader the poem is just a wonderful catalyst.
-------------------- Just a fool on the hill.
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Klavi
Registered: 11/24/14
Posts: 51
Loc: Norway
Last seen: 3 years, 8 months
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: pineninja] 2
#26623980 - 04/24/20 05:46 AM (3 years, 10 months ago) |
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Is there an emptiness in you as you walk your land? Uneasy feet on uneasy streets. Uneasy in the bedroom, uneasy even in the mirror. An uneasy creep to uneasy sleep pulling the bed-sheets up close checking your phone checking your phone checking you're not here all alone.
- Russell Brand
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Klavi] 3
#26638965 - 04/30/20 01:03 PM (3 years, 10 months ago) |
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Our ingress into the world Was naked and bare; Our progress through the world Is trouble and care; Our egress from the world Will be nobody knows where: But if we do well here We shall do well there.
--Longfellow, Cobbler of Hagenau
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thealienthatategod
retrovertigo
Registered: 10/10/17
Posts: 2,692
Last seen: 20 days, 8 hours
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Explained
Elizabeth Ann Said to her Nan: "Please will you tell me how God began? Somebody must have made Him. So Who could it be, 'cos I want to know?" And Nurse said, "Well!" And Ann said, "Well? I know you know, and I wish you'd tell." And Nurse took pins from her mouth, and said, "Now then, darling, it's time for bed."
Elizabeth Ann Had a wonderful plan: She would run round the world till she found a man Who knew exactly how God began.
She got up early, she dressed, and ran Trying to find an Important Man. She ran to London and knocked at the door Of the Lord High Doodleum's coach-and-four. "Please, sir (if there's anyone in), However-and-ever did God begin?"
But out of the window, large and red, Came the Lord High Coachman's face instead. And the Lord High Coachman laughed and said: "Well, what put that in your quaint little head?"
Elizabeth Ann went home again And took from the ottoman Jennifer Jane. "Jenniferjane," said Elizabeth Ann, "Tell me at once how God began." And Jane, who didn't much care for speaking, Replied in her usual way by squeaking.
What did it mean? Well, to be quite candid, I don't know, but Elizabeth Ann did. Elizabeth Ann said softly, "Oh! Thank you Jennifer. Now I know."
--A. A. Milne
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BooShow
Spooky
Registered: 03/05/20
Posts: 884
Loc: Sunshine Province, Canada
Last seen: 2 years, 5 months
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Ah! Sun-flower By William Blake
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time, Who countest the steps of the Sun: Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the travellers journey is done.
Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: Arise from their graves and aspire, Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
-------------------- You are what is. That's all.
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: BooShow] 1
#26653670 - 05/06/20 07:17 PM (3 years, 10 months ago) |
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And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy gray eye glances And where thy footstep gleams— In what ethereal dances By what eternal streams.
—Poe, To One in Paradise
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The Blind Ass
Bodhi
Registered: 08/16/16
Posts: 27,357
Loc: The Primordial Mind
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*
We think of the key, each in his prison
thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.
- T.S Eliot, The Waste Land
-------------------- Give me Liberty caps -or- give me Death caps
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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REINCARNATION.
by Aleister Crowley
In Life what hope is always unto men? Stories of Arthur that shall come again To cleanse the Earth of her eternal stain, Elias, Charlemagne, Christ. What matter then? What matter who, or how, or even when? If we but look beyond the primal pain, And trust the Future to write all things plain, Graven on brass with predestined pen.
This is the doom. Upon the blind blue sky A little cloud, no larger than a hand! Whether I live and love, or love and die, I care not: either way I understand. To me -- to live is Christ; to die is gain: For I, I also, I shall come again.
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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What profits now to understand The merits of a spotless shirt— A dapper boot—a little hand— If half the little soul is dirt.
—Tennyson
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