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#41 barney_rebel

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 09:25 PM

Orville and Steve


Back in Preston High,
these two kids would fight
Orville was black,
and Steve was white

They both punched and kicked
to aim for the head
Fifteen years passed -
both are now dead


-B. Lee

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#42 barney_rebel

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 09:26 PM

34C


At Ryerson-U that fall,
Dida lived down the hall
She flipped me her bra that one aft,
Showed her size and we both laughed

I wrote on her door in bad taste,
My marker couldn't be erased
Though Dida was not at all mad,
We laughed at all the fun we had

Whenever I write from now and then,
I make sure it's not a permanent pen
And because of my ideas and me,
Her 'nick that year was "34C"!



-B. Lee

#43 kkdalloway

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 09:29 PM

Stars Over the Dordogne

Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
Nor do they send up fires where they fall
Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.

Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

And what if the sky here is no different,
And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
The few I am used to are plain and durable;
I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
They are too puritan and solitary for that—
When one of them falls it leaves a space,

A sense of absence in its old shining place.
And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
I see those constellations in my head,
Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
And drink the small night chill like news of home.

-- Sylvia Plath

#44 kkdalloway

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 09:50 PM

The Indigo Bunting

I go to the door often.
Night and summer. Crickets
lift their cries.
I know you are out.
You are driving
late through the summer night.

I do not know what will happen,
I have no claim on you.
I am one star
you have as guide; others
love you, the night
so dark over the Azores.

You have been working outdoors,
gone all week. I feel you
in this lamp lit
so late. As I reach for it
I feel myself
driving through the night.

I love a firmness in you
that disdains the trivial
and regains the difficult.
You become part then
of the firmness of night,
the granite holding up walls.

There were women in Egypt who
supported with their firmness the stars
as they revolved,
hardly aware
of the passage from night
to day and back to night.

I love you where you go
through the night, not swerving,
clear as the indigo
bunting in her flight,
passing over two
thousand miles of ocean.

-- Robert Bly

LOVE this poem. LOVE this poet. Every single word he has ever written astonishes me.

Edited by kkdalloway, 16 January 2013 - 09:52 PM.


#45 kkdalloway

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Posted 17 January 2013 - 10:14 PM

It's long but it's worth every minute.


Sunday Morning


1

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

2

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measure destined for her soul.

3

Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

4

She says, 'I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?'
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

5

She says, 'But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.'
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

6

Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

7

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

8

She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, 'The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.'
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

-- Wallace Stevens

#46 barney_rebel

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Posted 18 January 2013 - 07:40 PM

Communities 2.0


Logging-on will make us show
with you I can now grow
Stepping forward how we knew,
with that time spent with you

For now we do pretend,
For you are now my friend
Please do enjoy your stay...
We connect in every way

One day a connection will die
"Friends Forever" was a big lie
Realities which were spared,
are illusions only shared

Each day we grew much stronger,
As we are friends no-longer
Behind each step I see,
is the time taken from me



- B. Lee

Edited by barney_rebel, 18 January 2013 - 07:41 PM.


#47 Maverick

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Posted 20 January 2013 - 07:27 AM

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#48 kkdalloway

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Posted 20 January 2013 - 10:16 PM

Song

She sat and sang alway
   By the green margin of a stream
Watching the fishes leap and play
   Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept away
   Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
   Weap leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory
   She sang for hop that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
   Her songs died on the air.

-- Christina Rosetti

Edited by kkdalloway, 20 January 2013 - 10:19 PM.


#49 kkdalloway

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Posted 20 January 2013 - 10:25 PM

excerpt from
Ode: Intimations of Immortality

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
  And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

-- William Wordsworth

Edited by kkdalloway, 20 January 2013 - 10:28 PM.


#50 kkdalloway

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Posted 20 January 2013 - 10:35 PM

from A Midsummer Night's Dream
Act V, Scene 1

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this and all is mended -
That you have but slumb'red here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding than a dream.
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

-- William Shakespeare

One of my favorites of Shakespeare's. Incidentally, some of you might remember that the character Neal performs this soliloquy during a performance of the play in the movie Dead Poet's Society.

#51 Maverick

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Posted 21 January 2013 - 07:36 AM

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost


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.

#52 Maverick

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Posted 21 January 2013 - 07:38 AM

View Postkkdalloway, on 20 January 2013 - 10:35 PM, said:

from A Midsummer Night's Dream
Act V, Scene 1

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this and all is mended -
That you have but slumb'red here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding than a dream.
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

-- William Shakespeare

One of my favorites of Shakespeare's. Incidentally, some of you might remember that the character Neal performs this soliloquy during a performance of the play in the movie Dead Poet's Society.

O Captain! My Captain!

Walt Whitman

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.


My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


#53 Maverick

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Posted 21 January 2013 - 07:41 AM

Mending Wall

Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

#54 kkdalloway

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Posted 21 January 2013 - 07:45 AM

View PostSheldon Cooper, on 21 January 2013 - 07:38 AM, said:

View Postkkdalloway, on 20 January 2013 - 10:35 PM, said:

from A Midsummer Night's Dream
Act V, Scene 1

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this and all is mended -
That you have but slumb'red here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding than a dream.
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

-- William Shakespeare

One of my favorites of Shakespeare's. Incidentally, some of you might remember that the character Neal performs this soliloquy during a performance of the play in the movie Dead Poet's Society.

    O Captain! My Captain!

Walt Whitman

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.


My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


Well done!!

#55 barney_rebel

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Posted 25 January 2013 - 10:38 PM

Thinking of you


The time our eyes met
What we instantly meant to one another

How you took my hand
In stride by the water as moon greeted us

That time you hugged me
When my family was less accepting

How you held me closer
And heard all those years of disapproval

The time you had tears
When we contemplated our future

How I held your hand again
And gave you my speech about life

The time our eyes met
Yet again and I f*cked you hard

How we held each other
And created life


- B. Lee

#56 goose

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Posted 27 January 2013 - 11:24 PM

A Dylan Thomas classic...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


#57 goose

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Posted 27 January 2013 - 11:25 PM

A William Blake classic...

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?


In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?


And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?


What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?


When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?


Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


#58 goose

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Posted 27 January 2013 - 11:27 PM

W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


#59 goose

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Posted 27 January 2013 - 11:30 PM

A boost to the winter-warn spirit...

A Prayer in Spring



Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

Robert Frost

#60 goose

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Posted 28 January 2013 - 09:20 PM

One of my favorite poets is Federico Garcia Lorca.  Here is an English version of his poem "Guitar".

The Guitar-La Guitarra



The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps, arrow without target
evening without morning,
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.




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