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Post a Poem - Printable Version

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Post a Poem - Stars Down To Earth - 2012 Sep 10 17:17

I'll start out with this one:

Setting brush to paper has always been hard
because I want perfection:
Each poem I'll change a thousand times
before I am content.
The matron, it seems, continues to act
like an adolescent girl --
until her hair is perfectly combed
no one's allowed to look.

In snow and mud the goose leaves prints
then flies off hurriedly.
Catching sight, it's hard to keep
my old eyes from reddening;
A letter from my family, written sixty years past,
suddenly falls floating from the pages of my book.

Become an immortal? Become a Buddha?
-- It's all so hard to tell!
I'll just go and transform again
in the Creator's furnace.
But if I do appear before the Emperor of Jade,
I'll ask, "Now, really, beyond the sky,
is there another sky?"

It's a Chinese poem from the Ching dynasty, although I've forgotten the author's name.

RE: Post a Poem - Eldritch - 2012 Sep 10 17:22

A Poison Tree, by William Blake, 1794.

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

RE: Post a Poem - Violet - 2012 Sep 10 18:09

-William Wordsworth, 1799

STRANGE fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
"O mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"

RE: Post a Poem - Osweo - 2012 Sep 10 18:26

(2012 Sep 10 18:09)Violet Wrote:  "STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN"
-William Wordsworth, 1799



I TRAVELLED among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire; 10
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.


Gods bless my fellow North-Westerner, William Wordsworth, and also the musician Neil Hannon, that wonderful beautiful scion of evil British conquerors and occupiers of fair Erin. love
another version, by some girls off the dating adverts on TA:


RE: Post a Poem - Phlegethon - 2012 Sep 10 18:27

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

RE: Post a Poem - Dussander - 2012 Sep 10 18:40

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door... (slam!)

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away

Hughes Mearns

RE: Post a Poem - Arnau - 2012 Sep 10 21:30

The translation is mine, from Catalan. Sorry for the mistakes. Smile

But I can't think of any better poem today for me, in the eve of my people's march.

You will assume the voice of a people,
And it will be the voice of your people,
And you will be, forever, people,
And you will suffer, and you will wait,
And you will always go through the dust,
You will be followed by a dust cloud.
And you will be hungry and thirsty,
You will not be able to write the poems
And you will remain silent all night long
While your people are sleeping,
And you alone will be awake,
And you will be awake for everybody.
You have not been born into this world to sleep:
You have been born to stay up watching
In the long night of your people.
You will be the living word,
The living bitter word.
Words will not exist any longer
But men assuming the pain
Of their people, and this is silence.
You will stop counting syllables,
You will stop doing your tie:
You will be one people, walking
Through a bitter dust of cloud,
Life up and nations up,
A loftier condition.
Not everything will be silence, though.
For you will say the right word,
You will say it in the right time.
You will not say your word
With an anthological desire,
For you will say it honestly,
Angrily, not thinking
Of any posterity,
Unless it is that of your people.
You may be killed or you may be
Laughed at, you may be betrayed;
These are all banalities.
What is worth is the conscience
Of being nothing when you are not people.
And you, seriously, have chosen.
After your total silence,
You are walking decisively.

Vicent Andrés Estellés, Valencian writer (1924-1993)

RE: Post a Poem - Heretik - 2012 Sep 10 23:10

(2012 Sep 10 18:40)Dussander Wrote:  Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door... (slam!)

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away

Hughes Mearns

^Somebody had this poem in his profile on Stirpes!

Ты жива еще, моя старушка?
Жив и я. Привет тебе, привет!
Пусть струится над твоей избушкой
Тот вечерний несказанный свет.

Пишут мне, что ты, тая тревогу,
Загрустила шибко обо мне,
Что ты часто ходишь на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.

И тебе в вечернем синем мраке
Часто видится одно и то ж:
Будто кто-то мне в кабацкой драке
Саданул под сердце финский нож.

Ничего, родная! Успокойся.
Это только тягостная бредь.
Не такой уж горький я пропойца,
Чтоб, тебя не видя, умереть.

Я по-прежнему такой же нежный
И мечтаю только лишь о том,
Чтоб скорее от тоски мятежной
Воротиться в низенький наш дом.

Я вернусь, когда раскинет ветви
По-весеннему наш белый сад.
Только ты меня уж на рассвете
Не буди, как восемь лет назад.

Не буди того, что отмечталось,
Не волнуй того, что не сбылось, -
Слишком раннюю утрату и усталость
Испытать мне в жизни привелось.

И молиться не учи меня. Не надо!
К старому возврата больше нет.
Ты одна мне помощь и отрада,
Ты одна мне несказанный свет.

Так забудь же про свою тревогу,
Не грусти так шибко обо мне.
Не ходи так часто на дорогу
В старомодном ветхом шушуне.

RE: Post a Poem - Ville - 2012 Sep 10 23:58

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

RE: Post a Poem - Ville - 2012 Sep 11 00:13

To those who speak Russian:

По небу полуночи ангел летел,
И тихую песню он пел;
И месяц, и звёзды, и тучи толпой
Внимали той песне святой.

Он пел о блаженстве безгрешных духов
Под кущами райских садов;
О Боге великом он пел, и хвала
Его непритворна была.

Он душу младую в объятиях нёс
Для мира печали и слёз.
И звук его песни в душе молодой
Остался — без слов, но живой.

И долго на свете томилась она,
Желанием чудным полна,
И звуков небес заменить не могли
Ей скучные песни земли.