CurlTalk

What's your favorite poem?

HropkeyHropkey Posts: 572Registered Users
Mine is "since feeling is first" by ee cummings.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis
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Comments

  • coconillacoconilla Posts: 46Registered Users
    Always been my favourite from when I was a kid-

    When things go wrong, as they
    sometimes will,
    When the road you're trudging
    seems all uphill,
    When the funds are low and the
    debts are high,
    And you want to smile, but you have
    to sigh,
    When care is pressing you down a
    bit-
    Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
    Life is queer with its twists and
    turns,
    As each of us sometimes
    learns,
    And many a man turns about
    When he might have won had he
    stuck it out.
    Don't give up though the pace
    seems slow -
    You may succeed with another
    blow.
    Often the goal is nearer than
    It seems to a faint and faltering
    man;
    Often the struggler has given up
    Whe he might have captured the
    victor's cup;
    And he learned too late when the
    night came down,
    How close he was to the golden
    crown.
    Success is failure turned inside out
    -
    The silver tint in the clouds of
    doubt,
    And you never can tell how close
    you are,
    It might be near when it seems
    afar;
    So stick to the fight when you're
    hardest hit -
    It's when things seem worst that
    you must not quit.

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  • roseannadanaroseannadana Posts: 5,632Registered Users
    She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.

    I was born to be a pessimist. My blood type is B Negative.
  • theliothelio Posts: 5,374Registered Users
    I love everything by Emily Dickinson, but this one is one of my favs:

    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
    My labour, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We passed the school where children played,
    Their lessons scarcely done;
    We passed the fields of gazing grain,
    We passed the setting sun.

    We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then 'tis centuries; but each
    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.
  • theliothelio Posts: 5,374Registered Users
    Oh and I always loved this one:
    Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes
    What happens to a dream deferred?

    Does it dry up
    Like a raisin in the sun?

    Or fester like a sore--
    And then run?

    Does it stink like rotten meat?
    Or crust and sugar over--
    like a syrupy sweet?

    Maybe it just sags
    like a heavy load.

    Or does it explode?
  • spiderlashes5000spiderlashes5000 Posts: 17,495Registered Users Curl Neophyte
    Phenomenal Woman
    By Maya Angelou


    Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
    I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
    But when I start to tell them,
    They think I’m telling lies.
    I say,
    It’s in the reach of my arms,
    The span of my hips,
    The stride of my step,
    The curl of my lips.
    I’m a woman
    Phenomenally.
    Phenomenal woman,
    That’s me.

    I walk into a room
    Just as cool as you please,
    And to a man,
    The fellows stand or
    Fall down on their knees.
    Then they swarm around me,
    A hive of honey bees.
    I say,
    It’s the fire in my eyes,
    And the flash of my teeth,
    The swing in my waist,
    And the joy in my feet.
    I’m a woman
    Phenomenally.

    Phenomenal woman,
    That’s me.

    Men themselves have wondered
    What they see in me.
    They try so much
    But they can’t touch
    My inner mystery.
    When I try to show them,
    They say they still can’t see.
    I say,
    It’s in the arch of my back,
    The sun of my smile,
    The ride of my breasts,
    The grace of my style.
    I’m a woman
    Phenomenally.
    Phenomenal woman,
    That’s me.

    Now you understand
    Just why my head’s not bowed.
    I don’t shout or jump about
    Or have to talk real loud.
    When you see me passing,
    It ought to make you proud.
    I say,
    It’s in the click of my heels,
    The bend of my hair,
    the palm of my hand,
    The need for my care.
    ’Cause I’m a woman
    Phenomenally.
    Phenomenal woman,
    That’s me.

  • The New BlackThe New Black Posts: 16,738Registered Users
    Middle Passage
    By Robert Hayden

    Jesús, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy:

    Sails flashing to the wind like weapons,
    sharks following the moans the fever and the dying;
    horror the corposant and compass rose.


    Middle Passage:
    voyage through death
    to life upon these shores.


    “10 April 1800—
    Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says
    their moaning is a prayer for death,
    ours and their own. Some try to starve themselves.
    Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter
    to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under.”


    Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann:

    Standing to America, bringing home
    black gold, black ivory, black seed.


    Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,
    of his bones New England pews are made,
    those are altar lights that were his eyes.


    Jesus Saviour Pilot Me
    Over Life’s Tempestuous Sea


    We pray that Thou wilt grant, O Lord,
    safe passage to our vessels bringing
    heathen souls unto Thy chastening.


    Jesus Saviour


    “8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick
    with fear, but writing eases fear a little
    since still my eyes can see these words take shape
    upon the page & so I write, as one
    would turn to exorcism. 4 days scudding,
    but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune
    follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning
    tutelary gods). Which one of us
    has killed an albatross? A plague among
    our blacks—Ophthalmia: blindness—& we
    have jettisoned the blind to no avail.
    It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads.
    Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.'s eyes
    & there is blindness in the fo’c’sle
    & we must sail 3 weeks before we come
    to port.”


    What port awaits us, Davy Jones’
    or home? I’ve heard of slavers drifting, drifting,
    playthings of wind and storm and chance, their crews
    gone blind, the jungle hatred
    crawling up on deck.


    Thou Who Walked On Galilee


    “Deponent further sayeth The Bella J
    left the Guinea Coast
    with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd
    for the barracoons of Florida:


    “That there was hardly room ’tween-decks for half
    the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there;
    that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh
    and sucked the blood:


    “That Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest
    of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins;
    that there was one they called The Guinea Rose
    and they cast lots and fought to lie with her:


    “That when the Bo’s’n piped all hands, the flames
    spreading from starboard already were beyond
    control, the negroes howling and their chains
    entangled with the flames:


    “That the burning blacks could not be reached,
    that the Crew abandoned ship,
    leaving their shrieking negresses behind,
    that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches:


    “Further Deponent sayeth not.”


    Pilot Oh Pilot Me



    II


    Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories,
    Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar;
    have watched the artful mongos baiting traps
    of war wherein the victor and the vanquished


    Were caught as prizes for our barracoons.
    Have seen the ****** kings whose vanity
    and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah,
    Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us.


    And there was one—King Anthracite we named him—
    fetish face beneath French parasols
    of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth
    whose cups were carven skulls of enemies:


    He’d honor us with drum and feast and conjo
    and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love,
    and for tin crowns that shone with paste,
    red calico and German-silver trinkets


    Would have the drums talk war and send
    his warriors to burn the sleeping villages
    and kill the sick and old and lead the young
    in coffles to our factories.


    Twenty years a trader, twenty years,
    for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested
    from those black fields, and I’d be trading still
    but for the fevers melting down my bones.



    III


    Shuttles in the rocking loom of history,
    the dark ships move, the dark ships move,
    their bright ironical names
    like jests of kindness on a murderer’s mouth;
    plough through thrashing glister toward
    fata morgana’s lucent melting shore,
    weave toward New World littorals that are
    mirage and myth and actual shore.


    Voyage through death,
    voyage whose chartings are unlove.


    A charnel stench, effluvium of living death
    spreads outward from the hold,
    where the living and the dead, the horribly dying,
    lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement.


    Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,
    the corpse of mercy rots with him,
    rats eat love’s rotten gelid eyes.


    But, oh, the living look at you
    with human eyes whose suffering accuses you,
    whose hatred reaches through the swill of dark
    to strike you like a leper’s claw.


    You cannot stare that hatred down
    or chain the fear that stalks the watches
    and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath;
    cannot kill the deep immortal human wish,
    the timeless will.


    “But for the storm that flung up barriers
    of wind and wave, The Amistad, señores,
    would have reached the port of Príncipe in two,
    three days at most; but for the storm we should
    have been prepared for what befell.
    Swift as the puma’s leap it came. There was
    that interval of moonless calm filled only
    with the water’s and the rigging’s usual sounds,
    then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries
    and they had fallen on us with machete
    and marlinspike. It was as though the very
    air, the night itself were striking us.
    Exhausted by the rigors of the storm,
    we were no match for them. Our men went down
    before the murderous Africans. Our loyal
    Celestino ran from below with gun
    and lantern and I saw, before the cane-
    knife’s wounding flash, Cinquez,
    that surly brute who calls himself a prince,
    directing, urging on the ghastly work.
    He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then
    he turned on me. The decks were slippery
    when daylight finally came. It sickens me
    to think of what I saw, of how these apes
    threw overboard the butchered bodies of
    our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam.
    Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told:
    Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us
    you see to steer the ship to Africa,
    and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea
    voyaged east by day and west by night,
    deceiving them, hoping for rescue,
    prisoners on our own vessel, till
    at length we drifted to the shores of this
    your land, America, where we were freed
    from our unspeakable misery. Now we
    demand, good sirs, the extradition of
    Cinquez and his accomplices to La
    Havana. And it distresses us to know
    there are so many here who seem inclined
    to justify the mutiny of these blacks.
    We find it paradoxical indeed
    that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty
    are rooted in the labor of your slaves
    should suffer the august John Quincy Adams
    to speak with so much passion of the right
    of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters
    and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero’s
    garland for Cinquez. I tell you that
    we are determined to return to Cuba
    with our slaves and there see justice done. Cinquez—
    or let us say ‘the Prince’—Cinquez shall die.”


    The deep immortal human wish,
    the timeless will:


    Cinquez its deathless primaveral image,
    life that transfigures many lives.


    Voyage through death
    to life upon these shores.
    montage-3.gif No MAS.

    I am the new Black.

    "Hope the Mail are saving space tomorrow for Samantha Brick's reaction piece on the reactions to her piece about the reactions to her piece." ~ Tweet reposted by Rou.
  • LadyV69LadyV69 Posts: 3,397Registered Users
    Mine is "And Still I Rise"-Maya Angelou

    You may write me down in history
    With your bitter, twisted lies,
    You may trod me in the very dirt
    But still, like dust, I'll rise.

    Does my sassiness upset you?
    Why are you beset with gloom?
    'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
    Pumping in my living room.

    Just like moons and like suns,
    With the certainty of tides,
    Just like hopes springing high,
    Still I'll rise.

    Did you want to see me broken?
    Bowed head and lowered eyes?
    Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
    Weakened by my soulful cries.

    Does my haughtiness offend you?
    Don't you take it awful hard
    'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
    Diggin' in my own back yard.

    You may shoot me with your words,
    You may cut me with your eyes,
    You may kill me with your hatefulness,
    But still, like air, I'll rise.

    Does my sexiness upset you?
    Does it come as a surprise
    That I dance like I've got diamonds
    At the meeting of my thighs?

    Out of the huts of history's shame
    I rise
    Up from a past that's rooted in pain
    I rise
    I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
    Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
    Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
    I rise
    Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
    I rise
    Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
    I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
    I rise
    I rise
    I rise.
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  • LAwomanLAwoman Posts: 2,949Registered Users
    thelio wrote: »
    I love everything by Emily Dickinson, but this one is one of my favs:

    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
    My labour, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We passed the school where children played,
    Their lessons scarcely done;
    We passed the fields of gazing grain,
    We passed the setting sun.

    We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then 'tis centuries; but each
    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.

    Love Emily!

    My favorite of hers is "Wild Nights."

    I think my favorite all time poet is Edna St. Vincent Millay. "Being Born a Woman and Distressed" is one of my personal faves.

    Oh and Maya Angelou! I have a copy of "Phenomenal Woman" from back in college that I still pull out and read when I'm feeling "less than."
  • LAwomanLAwoman Posts: 2,949Registered Users
    LAwoman wrote: »
    thelio wrote: »
    I love everything by Emily Dickinson, but this one is one of my favs:

    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
    My labour, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We passed the school where children played,
    Their lessons scarcely done;
    We passed the fields of gazing grain,
    We passed the setting sun.

    We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then 'tis centuries; but each
    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.

    Love Emily!

    My favorite of hers is "Wild Nights."

    I think my favorite all time poet is Edna St. Vincent Millay. "Being Born a Woman and Distressed" is one of my personal faves.

    Oh and Maya Angelou! I have a copy of "Phenomenal Woman" from back in college that I still pull out and read when I'm feeling "less than."

    Eta: I had not read spider or lady v's responses when I wrote mine. Cool!
  • claudine19claudine19 Posts: 4,486Registered Users
    "Ah! What avails the sceptered race,
    Ah, what the form divine,
    Whose every virtue, every grace,
    Rose Aylmer, all were thine....."
    (etc.)
    Walter Savage Landor

    (learned in the context of an Alice Munro story)
    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
    Dogs and nature abhor a vacuum.
    http://geaugadoggy.wordpress.com
  • rileybrileyb Posts: 1,975Registered Users
    Birches by Robert Frost

    When I see birches bend to left and right
    Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
    I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
    But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
    Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
    Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
    After a rain. They click upon themselves
    As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
    As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
    Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
    Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
    Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
    You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
    They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
    And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
    So low for long, they never right themselves:
    You may see their trunks arching in the woods
    Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
    Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
    Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
    But I was going to say when Truth broke in
    With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
    (Now am I free to be poetical?)
    I should prefer to have some boy bend them
    As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
    Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
    Whose only play was what he found himself,
    Summer or winter, and could play alone.
    One by one he subdued his father's trees
    By riding them down over and over again
    Until he took the stiffness out of them,
    And not one but hung limp, not one was left
    For him to conquer. He learned all there was
    To learn about not launching out too soon
    And so not carrying the tree away
    Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
    To the top branches, climbing carefully
    With the same pains you use to fill a cup
    Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
    Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
    Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
    So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
    And so I dream of going back to be.
    It's when I'm weary of considerations,
    And life is too much like a pathless wood
    Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
    Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
    From a twig's having lashed across it open.
    I'd like to get away from earth awhile
    And then come back to it and begin over.
    May no fate willfully misunderstand me
    And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
    Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
    I don't know where it's likely to go better.
    I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
    And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
    Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
    But dipped its top and set me down again.
    That would be good both going and coming back.
    One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
    I haven't got the slightest idea how to change people, but I still keep a long list of prospective candidates just in case I should ever figure it out.
  • B-wavyB-wavy Posts: 1,733Registered Users Curl Neophyte
    This is the first poem I ever memorized and the first that ever spoke to me. I've no idea what was going on with me at the time (I think I would have been in junior high, so who knows what drama it was?) but, it just leveled me to think that someone else -- an adult! -- had put into words what I was feeling at the time. For that reason it is still my favorite.

    I Shall Not Care
    by Sara Teasdale

    When I am dead and over me bright April
    Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
    Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,
    I shall not care.

    I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
    When rain bends down the bough;
    And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
    Than you are now.
  • SariaSaria Posts: 15,963Registered Users
    I can't possibly decide! I've got three by Pablo Neruda, some by Ann Sexton, I love "Dream Deferred", and there are others that really speak to me as well!
    por-que-no-te-callas.jpg
  • nynaeve77nynaeve77 Posts: 7,135Registered Users
    I love "The Laboratory" by Robert Browning. I also love "There is no frigate like a book" by Emily Dickenson. It speaks to the bookworm in me.
    "Maybe Lucy's right. Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest."--Linus, A Charlie Brown Christmas


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  • PoPo Posts: 2,607Registered Users
    Assata Shakur

    RHINOCEROS WOMAN

    Rhinocerous woman
    who nobody wants
    and everybody used.
    They say you’re crazy
    cause you not crazy enough
    to kneel when told to kneel.
    Hey, big woman -
    with scars on the head
    and scars on the heart
    that never seem to heal -
    I saw your light
    and it was shining.
    You gave them love.
    They gave you s h i t.
    You gave them you.
    they gave you hollywood.
    They purr at you
    cause you know how to roar
    and back it up with realness.
    Rhinocerous woman,
    big momma in a little world.
    You closed your eyes
    and neon spun inside your head
    cause it was dark outside.
    You read your bible
    but god never came.
    Your daddy woulda loved you
    but what would the neighbors say.
    They hate you momma
    cause you expose their madness.
    And their cruelty.
    They can see in your eyes
    a thousand nightmares
    that they have made come true.
    Black woman. Baad woman.
    Wear your bigness on your chest like a badge
    cause you done earned it.
    Strong woman. Amazon.
    Wear your scars like jewelry
    cause they were bought with blood.
    They call you mad.
    And almost had you
    believing that s h i t.
    They called you ugly.
    And you hid yourself
    behind yourself
    and wallowed in their shame.
    Rhinocerous woman -
    this world is blind
    and slight of mind
    and cannot see
    how beautiful you are.
    I saw your light.
    And it was shining
    3c/4a
  • MoppyTMoppyT Posts: 998Registered Users
    Jabberwocky.
    The best revenge is living well. The second best revenge is fire ants.
  • vanek07vanek07 Posts: 86Registered Users
    I was never a huge poetry fan, but i took some American Lit courses in college and fell in love with some of the greats. Like, anything by Walt Whitman or Robert Frost ("Good fences make good neighbors" is a genius line!)

    I absolutely love "i carry your heart with me" by e e cummings. That's the one with, "i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)".

    And I also love "The Embankment" by Thomas Ernest Hulme (about a soldier dying during WWI):

    (The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a cold, bitter night.)
    Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy,
    In the flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.
    Now see I
    That warmth's the very stuff of poesy.
    Oh, God, make small
    The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,
    That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.

    Ok now I just want to talk about poetry. ;)
  • xcptnlxcptnl Posts: 15,678Registered Users
    LAwoman wrote: »
    LAwoman wrote: »
    thelio wrote: »
    I love everything by Emily Dickinson, but this one is one of my favs:

    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
    My labour, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We passed the school where children played,
    Their lessons scarcely done;
    We passed the fields of gazing grain,
    We passed the setting sun.

    We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then 'tis centuries; but each
    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses' heads
    Were toward eternity.

    Love Emily!

    My favorite of hers is "Wild Nights."

    I think my favorite all time poet is Edna St. Vincent Millay. "Being Born a Woman and Distressed" is one of my personal faves.

    Oh and Maya Angelou! I have a copy of "Phenomenal Woman" from back in college that I still pull out and read when I'm feeling "less than."

    Eta: I had not read spider or lady v's responses when I wrote mine. Cool!

    I drive by the house Emily Dickinson was raised in every weekend. I think they have a museum there.

    I love Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken'.


    Sent from my iPhone using CurlTalk. Siri may be typing for me.
    Central Massachusetts

    One good reason to only maintain a small circle of friends is that three out of four murders are committed by people who know the victim. ~George Carlin~

    In regards to Vagazzling: They just want to get into the goods without worrying about getting scratched up by fake crystals. ~spring1onu~
  • CurlyEyesCurlyEyes Posts: 2,983Registered Users
    so many! but I found this one on tumblr and I love it:

    Persons
    People can walk
    but not
    handsanitizers
    Because
    handsanitizers
    don’t
    have
    legs

    -written by a first grader
    made up of 98.822% silliness!!

    beautiful_wonderful_fabulous_jade_antm.gif
  • RebeccaKRebeccaK Posts: 305Registered Users
    [FONT=&quot]Edgar Allen Poe[/FONT][FONT=&quot]
    [/FONT][FONT=&quot]
    [/FONT][FONT=&quot]Alone[/FONT]

    [FONT=&quot]From childhood's hour I have not been
    As others were — I have not seen
    As others saw — I could not bring
    My passions from a common spring —
    From the same source I have not taken
    My sorrow — I could not awaken
    My heart to joy at the same tone —
    And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —
    Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
    Of a most stormy life — was drawn
    From ev'ry depth of good and ill
    The mystery which binds me still —
    From the torrent, or the fountain —
    From the red cliff of the mountain —
    From the sun that 'round me roll'd
    In its autumn tint of gold —
    From the lightning in the sky
    As it pass'd me flying by —
    From the thunder, and the storm —
    And the cloud that took the form
    (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
    Of a demon in my view —[/FONT]
  • theliothelio Posts: 5,374Registered Users
    You guys are bringing back some of my favorite authors. Love Maya Angelou, ee cummings, and Edgar Allen Poe!! My cat is named Poe for a reason!
  • triple_spiraltriple_spiral Posts: 249Registered Users
    This is making me wish I hadn't stopped reading poetry in high school, maybe I will get back into it. As it is, one of the only poems I can recite by heart (therefore I guess I must like it!) is called This Be The Verse by Phillip Larkin*:

    They **** you up, your mum and dad
    They may not mean to but they do
    They fill you with the faults they had,
    and add some extra, just for you

    But they were ****ed up in their turn
    by fools in old-style hats and coats
    Who half the time were soppy-stern
    and half at one another's throats

    Man hands on misery to man
    It deepens like a coastal shelf
    Get out as early as you can,
    and don't have any kids yourself



    *f-word is censored, but that's how the poem goes. No offense intended!
    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]

    4a?? Maybe 3c...some 4b??? No clue

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    "I remember your childhood hair....flowin' wild at the county fair" - kelley stoltz

    "and all the hours that you've been sitting at your vanity....may they carry you far from your misery" - conor oberst
  • cocodejcocodej Posts: 1,182Registered Users
    Dos Patrias by José Martí (1853-1895)

    Dos patrias tengo yo: Cuba y la noche
    ¿O son una las dos? No bien retira
    su majestad el sol, con largos velos
    y un clavel en la mano, silenciosa
    Cuba cual viuda triste me aparece.
    ¡Yo sé cuál es ese clavel sangriento
    que en la mano le tiembla. Está vacío
    mi pecho, destrozado está y vacío
    donde estaba el corazón. Ya es hora
    de empezar a morir. La noche es buena
    para decir adiós. La luz estorba
    y la palabra humana. El universo
    habla mejor que el hombre.
    Cual bandera
    que invita a batallar, la llama roja
    de la vela flamea. Las ventanas
    abro, ya estrecho en mí. Muda, rompiendo
    las hojas del clavel, como una nube
    que enturbia el cielo, Cuba, viuda, pasa.

    This and his Versos Sencillos...

    I think what really endears me to him is that he was an academic who was not afraid to become a solider for his belief in liberty.

    Translation
    James Baldwin
    A Talk To Teachers
    [...]
    one of the paradoxes of education [is] that precisely at the point when you begin to develop a conscience, you must find yourself at war with your society. It is your responsibility to change society
    [...]
  • LisaLisaLisaLisa Posts: 42Registered Users
    See It Through by Edward A Guest
    Still figuring out the best routine for my 3b hair!

    Shampoo - Kinky Curly Come Clean
    Condition with Shea Moisture Moisture Retention mixed with Suave Coconut
    Leave In: Giovanni Direct Leave In
    Styler: LA Looks Sport
    EVOO on tips

    Adding Moisture with Hot Oil Treatments of EVOO

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • juanabjuanab Posts: 4,037Registered Users
    LadyV69 wrote: »
    Mine is "And Still I Rise"-Maya Angelou

    You may write me down in history
    With your bitter, twisted lies,
    You may trod me in the very dirt
    But still, like dust, I'll rise.

    Does my sassiness upset you?
    Why are you beset with gloom?
    'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
    Pumping in my living room.

    Just like moons and like suns,
    With the certainty of tides,
    Just like hopes springing high,
    Still I'll rise.

    Did you want to see me broken?
    Bowed head and lowered eyes?
    Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
    Weakened by my soulful cries.

    Does my haughtiness offend you?
    Don't you take it awful hard
    'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
    Diggin' in my own back yard.

    You may shoot me with your words,
    You may cut me with your eyes,
    You may kill me with your hatefulness,
    But still, like air, I'll rise.

    Does my sexiness upset you?
    Does it come as a surprise
    That I dance like I've got diamonds
    At the meeting of my thighs?

    Out of the huts of history's shame
    I rise
    Up from a past that's rooted in pain
    I rise
    I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
    Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
    Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
    I rise
    Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
    I rise
    Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
    I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
    I rise
    I rise
    I rise.

    Makes me cry every time I read it.

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  • parislarueparislarue Posts: 235Registered Users
    Anything Seuss....reminds me of my childhood.
    3C .....thru......10Z
    Holy Grail Products:
    KCCC, KT


    Nothing exudes confidence like a woman comfortable in her own skin.

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  • RebeccaKRebeccaK Posts: 305Registered Users
    Victor Hugo - seems there are many translations (and probably misquotes) on this one, but this is how I learned it....


    Be like the bird that,

    Pausing in her flight

    On limb too slight

    Feels it give way beneath her,

    Yet sings,

    Knowing she hath wings.
  • parislarueparislarue Posts: 235Registered Users
    Edgar Allen Poe
    The Raven (1845)

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
    Only this, and nothing more.'

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
    This it is, and nothing more,'

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
    Darkness there, and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
    Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
    'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
    Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
    Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as `Nevermore.'

    But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
    Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
    Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
    Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of "Never-nevermore."'

    But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
    Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
    Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
    On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
    Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
    `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted - nevermore!
    3C .....thru......10Z
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    Nothing exudes confidence like a woman comfortable in her own skin.

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  • kat180kat180 Posts: 6,280Registered Users
    Timely thread - I've just decided that my education in poetry is lacking (its not something really did at school strangely enough though I took English Lit)

    Two of my favourites are:

    Robert Frost '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
    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.
    The only other sound's 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,
    And miles to go before I sleep.



    And Edna St Vincent Millay 'Love Is Not All'

    Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
    Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
    Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
    And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
    Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
    Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
    Yet many a man is making friends with death
    Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

    It well may be that in a difficult hour,
    Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
    Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
    I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
    Or trade the memory of this night for food.
    It well may be. I do not think I would.