sullysue Posted April 3, 2008 Share Posted April 3, 2008 I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere. Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile. It's Pokey in Here! I am writing this poem from high in a tree, And it is rather pokey in here. I got in this tree way up high By a gust of wind, and I flew Into that tree like a bird flying by. I hope that gust of wind comes right back And blows me out of this tree. And I'll fall down with a "Smack" And break a bone or three. But, it's rather pokey in here. (Help Me!) 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jack Aubrey Posted April 3, 2008 Share Posted April 3, 2008 QUOTE (sullysue @ Apr 3 2008, 10:19 AM) I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere. Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile. It's Pokey in Here! I am writing this poem from high in a tree, And it is rather pokey in here. I got in this tree way up high By a gust of wind, and I flew Into that tree like a bird flying by. I hope that gust of wind comes right back And blows me out of this tree. And I'll fall down with a "Smack" And break a bone or three. But, it's rather pokey in here. (Help Me!) Your kid's a riot! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Verena Posted April 12, 2008 Share Posted April 12, 2008 QUOTE (sullysue @ Apr 3 2008, 11:19 AM) I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere. Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile. It's Pokey in Here! I am writing this poem from high in a tree, And it is rather pokey in here. I got in this tree way up high By a gust of wind, and I flew Into that tree like a bird flying by. I hope that gust of wind comes right back And blows me out of this tree. And I'll fall down with a "Smack" And break a bone or three. But, it's rather pokey in here. (Help Me!) Cute ^_^ Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Inthend Posted July 13, 2008 Share Posted July 13, 2008 QUOTE (sullysue @ Apr 3 2008, 09:19 AM) I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere. Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile. It's Pokey in Here! I am writing this poem from high in a tree, And it is rather pokey in here. I got in this tree way up high By a gust of wind, and I flew Into that tree like a bird flying by. I hope that gust of wind comes right back And blows me out of this tree. And I'll fall down with a "Smack" And break a bone or three. But, it's rather pokey in here. (Help Me!) That's a trip! Ok SullySue, Now what we want Is one from you. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Mara Posted July 13, 2008 Share Posted July 13, 2008 That's cute! Kid poetry is the best. They haven't reached the age where they get all self-critical about what they've written. But did you tell her you'd rather she NOT fall out of a tree and break any bones? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
GhostGirl Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 George Gray by Edgar Lee Masters I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me-- A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor. In truth it pictures not my destination But my life. For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances. Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life. And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire-- It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid. I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig. It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fridge Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 03:31 PM) George Gray by Edgar Lee Masters I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me-- A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor. In truth it pictures not my destination But my life. For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances. Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life. And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire-- It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid. I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig. It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now. Not only is it extremely well written, it is uncomfortably accurate Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
GhostGirl Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 QUOTE (Fridge @ Oct 20 2008, 10:52 AM) QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 03:31 PM) George Gray by Edgar Lee Masters I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me-- A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor. In truth it pictures not my destination But my life. For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances. Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life. And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire-- It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid. I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig. It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now. Not only is it extremely well written, it is uncomfortably accurate So it is, P. So right now I'm battling between feeling hopelessly without meaning, and the optimism the poem also inspired. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fridge Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 06:46 PM) QUOTE (Fridge @ Oct 20 2008, 10:52 AM) QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 03:31 PM) George Gray by Edgar Lee Masters I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me-- A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor. In truth it pictures not my destination But my life. For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances. Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life. And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire-- It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid. I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig. It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now. Not only is it extremely well written, it is uncomfortably accurate So it is, P. So right now I'm battling between feeling hopelessly without meaning, and the optimism the poem also inspired. You and me both, M Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
GhostGirl Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 Okay, I promise not to post hundreds of E. L. Masters poems. I did go and check out his Spoon River Anthology and am already in love with this book. If you don't know the concept behind it, here's a brief explanation from poets.org: QUOTE ...Masters considered writing a novel about the relationships of people in a small Illinois town. This idea was transformed through a chance acquaintance. Masters had been submitting poems to Marion Reedy, the editor of Reedy's Mirror in St. Louis. While Reedy didn't publish these poems, he kept up the correspondence and gave Masters a copy of J. W. Mackail's Selected Epigrams from the Greek Anthology. After reading these, Masters felt the challenge to adopt the idea for his novel into this form, combining free verse, epitaph, realism, and cynicism to write Spoon River Anthology, a collection of monologues from the dead in an Illinois graveyard. This one is so simple and sweet. It has a dignity that is both homespun and regal, IMO. Lucinda Matlock by Edgar Lee Masters I went to the dances at Chandlerville, And played snap-out at Winchester. One time we changed partners, Driving home in the moonlight of middle June, And then I found Davis. We were married and lived together for seventy years, Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children, Eight of whom we lost Ere I had reached the age of sixty. I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick, I made the garden, and for holiday Rambled over the fields where sang the larks, And by Spoon River gathering many a shell, And many a flower and medicinal weed-- Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys. At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all, And passed to a sweet repose. What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you-- It takes life to love Life. It takes life to love Life... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fridge Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 07:09 PM) Lucinda Matlock by Edgar Lee Masters I went to the dances at Chandlerville, And played snap-out at Winchester. One time we changed partners, Driving home in the moonlight of middle June, And then I found Davis. We were married and lived together for seventy years, Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children, Eight of whom we lost Ere I had reached the age of sixty. I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick, I made the garden, and for holiday Rambled over the fields where sang the larks, And by Spoon River gathering many a shell, And many a flower and medicinal weed-- Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys. At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all, And passed to a sweet repose. What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you-- It takes life to love Life. Wow. I'll really need to check this book out at some point. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Verena Posted December 27, 2008 Share Posted December 27, 2008 (edited) QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 04:09 PM)This one is so simple and sweet. It has a dignity that is both homespun and regal, IMO. Lucinda Matlock by Edgar Lee Masters I went to the dances at Chandlerville, And played snap-out at Winchester. One time we changed partners, Driving home in the moonlight of middle June, And then I found Davis. We were married and lived together for seventy years, Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children, Eight of whom we lost Ere I had reached the age of sixty. I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick, I made the garden, and for holiday Rambled over the fields where sang the larks, And by Spoon River gathering many a shell, And many a flower and medicinal weed-- Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys. At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all, And passed to a sweet repose. What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you-- It takes life to love Life. It takes life to love Life... Surely it has a beautiful message. I never heard aboutthat author before. Thanks for posting. Edited December 27, 2008 by rhyv Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Hatchetaxe&saw Posted October 10, 2012 Share Posted October 10, 2012 Remorse For Intemperate Speech I ranted to the knave and fool, But outgrew that school, Would transform the part, Fit audience found, but cannot rule My fanatic heart. I sought my betters: though in each Fine manners, liberal speech, Turn hatred into sport, Nothing said or done can reach My fanatic heart, Out of Ireland have we come. Great hatred, little room, Maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb A fanatic heart. William Butler Yeats Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nate2112 Posted November 17, 2012 Share Posted November 17, 2012 Ok those who I PM'd a week ago knew of my dilemma. Hehe. I am known to overreact over EVERYTHING. I'll vaguely talk about my dilemma. hehe So, I met this girl(online) and I totally fell in Love with her. i couldn't control my emotions. Then when she told me she had a drinking problem and she smoked weed, well, I lost it, I bawled for days. So I PM'd a couple folks and they have dramatically changed my life henceforth. But then last night my ex told me she wanted to get back together with me and of course I said yes. Here is a poem about her that I wrote I see what has been lostThough we may have tossedAnd turned all throughout the nightThe silence is over, we rejoice in the light Oh, do you see it...the thin lineOh, do you want it...the beauty signOh...do you wish it...your hand in mine The snow, it's radiance in the cloudy dayIt seems as if it makes the world so much brighter OK?Who said you had to agree?I'm just saying what's true see? Nobody said you were theirsSo I took hold in the shelter in airThe times I yearned to spend with youThe times I awoke to my life brand new I still remember your nameThough our lives weren't ever the sameI wished we could fall in love What do you know, my wish has took flight...like a dove Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Maverick Posted January 15, 2013 Share Posted January 15, 2013 Song of Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson Mine are the night and morning,The pits of air, the gulf of space,The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,The innumerable days. I hid in the solar glory,I am dumb in the pealing song,I rest on the pitch of the torrent,In slumber I am strong. No numbers have counted my tallies,No tribes my house can fill,I sit by the shining Fount of Life,And pour the deluge still; And ever by delicate powersGathering along the centuriesFrom race on race the rarest flowers,My wreath shall nothing miss. And many a thousand summersMy apples ripened well,And light from meliorating starsWith firmer glory fell. I wrote the past in charactersOf rock and fire the scroll,The building in the coral sea,The planting of the coal. And thefts from satellites and ringsAnd broken stars I drew,And out of spent and aged thingsI formed the world anew; What time the gods kept carnival,Tricked out in star and flower,And in cramp elf and saurian formsThey swathed their too much power. Time and Thought were my surveyors,They laid their courses well,They boiled the sea, and baked the layersOr granite, marl, and shell. But he, the man-child glorious,--Where tarries he the while?The rainbow shines his harbinger,The sunset gleams his smile. My boreal lights leap upward,Forthright my planets roll,And still the man-child is not born,The summit of the whole. Must time and tide forever run?Will never my winds go sleep in the west?Will never my wheels which whirl the sunAnd satellites have rest? Too much of donning and doffing,Too slow the rainbow fades,I weary of my robe of snow,My leaves and my cascades; I tire of globes and races,Too long the game is played;What without him is summer's pomp,Or winter's frozen shade? I travail in pain for him,My creatures travail and wait;His couriers come by squadrons,He comes not to the gate. Twice I have moulded an image,And thrice outstretched my hand,Made one of day, and one of night,And one of the salt sea-sand. One in a Judaean manger,And one by Avon stream,One over against the mouths of Nile,And one in the Academe. I moulded kings and saviours,And bards o'er kings to rule;--But fell the starry influence short,The cup was never full. Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,And mix the bowl again;Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain. Let war and trade and creeds and songBlend, ripen race on race,The sunburnt world a man shall breedOf all the zones, and countless days. No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,My oldest force is good as new,And the fresh rose on yonder thornGives back the bending heavens in dew. 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
kkdalloway Posted January 16, 2013 Share Posted January 16, 2013 Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land,Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;And on the pedestal, these words appear:My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal Wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.” Those last three lines get me every time. Killer!! 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Maverick Posted January 16, 2013 Share Posted January 16, 2013 e. e. cummings beautiful is theunmeaningof (sil ently) fal ling (everywhere) s now 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
rushgoober Posted January 16, 2013 Share Posted January 16, 2013 e. e. cummings beautiful is theunmeaningof (sil ently) fal ling (everywhere) s now ee cummings did often verge on style over substance. here the substance is good, if slight, but the style just feels gimmicky and distracting IMHO. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
barney_rebel Posted January 16, 2013 Share Posted January 16, 2013 (edited) Each life converges to some centreExpressed or still;Exists in every human natureA goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,Too fairFor credibility's temerityTo dare. Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,To reachWere hopeless as the rainbow's raimentTo touch, Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;How highUnto the saints' slow diligenceThe sky! Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,But then,Eternity enables the endeavoringAgain. -Emily Dickinson Edited January 16, 2013 by barney_rebel 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
kkdalloway Posted January 17, 2013 Share Posted January 17, 2013 e. e. cummings beautiful is theunmeaningof (sil ently) fal ling (everywhere) s now :goodone: I think about this one from time to time when I'm I standing outside while snow is falling. Love how the form replicates the random patterns of softly falling snow. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
barney_rebel Posted January 17, 2013 Share Posted January 17, 2013 Approach of Winter The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go or driven like hail stream bitterly out to one side and fall where the salvias, hard carmine-- like no leaf that ever was-- edge the bare garden. - William Carlos Williams 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
barney_rebel Posted January 17, 2013 Share Posted January 17, 2013 Autumn Daybreak Cold wind of autumn, blowing loudAt dawn, a fortnight overdue,Jostling the doors, and tearing throughMy bedroom to rejoin the cloud,I know—for I can hear the hissAnd scrape of leaves along the floor—How may boughs, lashed bare by this,Will rake the cluttered sky once more.Tardy, and somewhat south of east,The sun will rise at length, made knownMore by the meagre light increasedThan by a disk in splendour shown;When, having but to turn my head,Through the stripped maple I shall see,Bleak and remembered, patched with red,The hill all summer hid from me. - Edna St. Vincent Millay 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
kkdalloway Posted January 17, 2013 Share Posted January 17, 2013 Each life converges to some centreExpressed or still;Exists in every human natureA goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,Too fairFor credibility's temerityTo dare. Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,To reachWere hopeless as the rainbow's raimentTo touch, Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;How highUnto the saints' slow diligenceThe sky! Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,But then,Eternity enables the endeavoringAgain. -Emily Dickinson Love me some Emily, but OMG that poor, tortured girl! My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive As these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell. Ach, bleak stuff! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Maverick Posted January 17, 2013 Share Posted January 17, 2013 e. e. cummings beautiful is theunmeaningof (sil ently) fal ling (everywhere) s now :goodone: I think about this one from time to time when I'm I standing outside while snow is falling. Love how the form replicates the random patterns of softly falling snow. And he breaks up the words "everywhere" and "snow" to make the words "here" and "now." So it's like he is writing the poem as he is watching the snow falling. I always liked that interpretation. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
kkdalloway Posted January 17, 2013 Share Posted January 17, 2013 Approach of Winter The half-stripped treesstruck by a wind together,bending all,the leaves flutter drilyand refuse to let goor driven like hailstream bitterly out to one sideand fallwhere the salvias, hard carmine--like no leaf that ever was--edge the bare garden. - William Carlos Williams YES, Barney!! You are kicking some ass with WCW and St. Vincent Millay!! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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