goose Posted January 15, 2016 Author Share Posted January 15, 2016 Autobiographia Literaria - Frank O'Hara When I was a childI played by myself in a corner of the schoolyardall alone. I hated dolls and Ihated games, animals werenot friendly and birds flew away. If anyone was looking for me I hid behind a tree and cried out "I aman orphan." And here I am, the center of all beauty! writing these poems!Imagine! I'm glad he found a happy ending for himself!It's a very uplifting poem! This should be mandatory reading for middle school kids. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 18, 2016 Author Share Posted January 18, 2016 Walt Whitman - Oh Captain, My Captain 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. 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Blue J Posted January 18, 2016 Share Posted January 18, 2016 The Witch's Life, by Anne Sexton When I was a childthere was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second storywindowfrom behind the wrinkled curtainsand sometimes she would open the windowand yell: Get out of my life!She had hair like kelpand a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes nowand wonder if I am becoming her. My shoes turn up like a jester's. Clumps of my hair, as I write this,curl up individually like toes. I am shoveling the children out,scoop after scoop. Only my books anoint me,and a few friends,those who reach into my veins. Maybe I am becoming a hermit,opening the door for onlya few special animals?Maybe my skull is too crowdedand it has no opening through whichto feed it soup?Maybe I have plugged up my socketsto keep the gods in?Maybe, although my heartis a kitten of butter,I am blowing it up like a zeppelin. Yes. It is the witch's life,climbing the primordial climb,a dream within a dream,then sitting hereholding a basket of fire. 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 18, 2016 Author Share Posted January 18, 2016 "I am shoveling the children out, scoop by scoop..." That's wonderful! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
x1yyz Posted January 18, 2016 Share Posted January 18, 2016 Walt Whitman - Oh Captain, My Captain 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. For all the references I've heard to this poem, this was the first time I had read it. Thank you for posting it. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 18, 2016 Author Share Posted January 18, 2016 (edited) Walt Whitman - Oh Captain, My Captain 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. For all the references I've heard to this poem, this was the first time I had read it. Thank you for posting it.A beautiful ode to a fallen President Lincoln. "My father does not feel my arm...". What an image...reminds me of the Pieta... http://www.artlex.com/ArtLex/p/images/pieta_michel.rom.lg.jpg Edited January 18, 2016 by goose Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
x1yyz Posted January 20, 2016 Share Posted January 20, 2016 *giggle* http://i341.photobucket.com/albums/o371/x1yyz/poetry_zpsaokh6msd.jpg 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Blue J Posted January 20, 2016 Share Posted January 20, 2016 I wrote this one about seven years ago, for my sister. Varying only slightly from something I told youin the very first conversation that was between just youand just meI feel compelled to tell you that I love you for beingwho you areor perhaps that I love you simplyfor beingand wonder what that I might accomplishto repay youfor the simple gestureof your existence Both of us coming to feelsomehow safe and securewith the notion thatthis lifeis tearing our souls to piecesbut leaving just enoughto propel us through another dayor another nightor any of the other in-betweens that we resist-teeth clenchedand seething against the grain that life is always on the precipicelike legs hanging offthe edge of the mattress-the melancholy, the recklessnessthe passion we feel for the love we've lostboth fulfilled and unrequitedalike that life isnever apologizingnever thinking in termsof 'right' versus 'wrong'but tethered to that precipice-remaining faithful to the gloryof light, and love, and livingand ever so cognizantof the pain that residesat the bottom of a bottleof pillsor bittersweet, poison wineor any of the other instrumentsof self-willin which we might chooseto indulge Out of this mutual, tragic voidthat currently binds uscan also blossom a tremendous bond-as strong and bold as two diamondsamid the ruinous ashand at least the potential to grow beyond the muddled fray As my eyes can see sufficiently abovethese granite markersto finalityI am remindedof a very different kind of strugglewhich was answered as succinctly as my purpose can be stated now-"I am, because we are." At this tumultuous and defining momentWith every jagged punch to the gutwhich seems to so often find us,tempered by the warmest and tenderest expressionsof friendshipI know that I have youin whom I can confideupon whom I can relywith whom I can rejoice and you will always have mefor the same and that is howthis lifewill go on 5 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
x1yyz Posted January 20, 2016 Share Posted January 20, 2016 I wrote this one about seven years ago, for my sister. Varying only slightlyfrom something I told youin the very first conversationthat was between just youand just meI feel compelled to tell youthat I love you for beingwho you areor perhaps that I love you simplyfor beingand wonder what that I might accomplishto repay youfor the simple gestureof your existence Both of us coming to feelsomehow safe and securewith the notion thatthis lifeis tearing our souls to piecesbut leaving just enoughto propel us through another dayor another nightor any of the other in-betweens that we resist-teeth clenchedand seething against the grain that life isalways on the precipicelike legs hanging offthe edge of the mattress-the melancholy, the recklessnessthe passion we feelfor the love we've lostboth fulfilled and unrequitedalike that life isnever apologizingnever thinking in termsof 'right' versus 'wrong'but tethered to that precipice-remaining faithful to the gloryof light, and love, and livingand ever so cognizantof the pain that residesat the bottom of a bottleof pillsor bittersweet, poison wineor any of the other instrumentsof self-willin which we might chooseto indulge Out of this mutual, tragic voidthat currently binds uscan also blossom a tremendous bond-as strong and bold as two diamondsamid the ruinous ashand at least the potentialto grow beyond the muddled fray As my eyes can see sufficiently abovethese granite markersto finalityI am remindedof a very different kind of strugglewhich was answered as succinctlyas my purpose can be stated now-"I am, because we are." At this tumultuous and defining momentWith every jagged punch to the gutwhich seems to so often find us,tempered by the warmest and tenderest expressionsof friendshipI know that I have youin whom I can confideupon whom I can relywith whom I can rejoice and you will always have mefor the same and that is howthis lifewill go on Oh wow. I think I know a little bit of the story behind this, which makes it even deeper and more intense. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bean-tor Posted January 28, 2016 Share Posted January 28, 2016 I think there are a few Leonard Cohen fans around the forum; in any case, I watched this piece from the National Film Board of Canada this morning and thought others might enjoy it as well. It shows Cohen at 30 years old reading and discussing his poetry, wandering around Montréal...and in a glorious moment, wearing tightie whities in his hotel room :o http://youtu.be/Uv4J7sID3Pk 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Cyclonus X-1 Posted January 29, 2016 Share Posted January 29, 2016 I think there are a few Leonard Cohen fans around the forum; in any case, I watched this piece from the National Film Board of Canada this morning and thought others might enjoy it as well. It shows Cohen at 30 years old reading and discussing his poetry, wandering around Montréal...and in a glorious moment, wearing tightie whities in his hotel room :o http://youtu.be/Uv4J7sID3Pk What a talented guy--a man of multiple trades who makes so many interesting observations. I really liked two of the remarks concerning him in that video: his statement that he had "chosen a path that is infinitely wide and without direction" (seemed particularly apt), and the comment that he was "a constant wanderer" with "little black notebooks... stuffed with pertinent observations" (now that's a writer). And the opening bit was very funny. :) 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted February 6, 2016 Author Share Posted February 6, 2016 (edited) Ernest Hemingway - Poem The only man I ever lovedSaid good byeAnd went awayHe was killed in PicardyOn a sunny day. Ernest Hemingway - The Age Demanded The age demanded that we sing And cut away our tongue. The age demanded that we flow And hammered in the bung. The age demanded that we dance And jammed us into iron pants. And in the end the age was handed The sort of shit that it demanded. Edited February 6, 2016 by goose 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted February 6, 2016 Author Share Posted February 6, 2016 "The writer's job is to tell the truth" - Ernest Hemingway I try to approach life in this way. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted February 6, 2016 Author Share Posted February 6, 2016 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.' - Hemingway Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted February 6, 2016 Author Share Posted February 6, 2016 Ernest Hemingway - Chapter Heading For we have thought the longer thoughts And gone the shorter way.And we have danced to devils’ tunes, Shivering home to pray;To serve one master in the night, Another in the day. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Verena Posted February 16, 2016 Share Posted February 16, 2016 Frost At Midnight - Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Frost performs its secret ministry,Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cryCame loud--and hark, again loud as before.The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,Have left me to that solitude, which suitsAbstruser musings : save that at my sideMy cradled infant slumbers peacefully.'Tis calm indeed so calm, that it disturbsAnd vexes meditation with its strangeAnd extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,This populous village Sea, and hill, and wood,With all the numberless goings-on of life,Inaudible as dreams the thin blue flameLies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.Methinks, its motion in this hush of natureGives it dim sympathies with me who live,Making it a companionable form,Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling SpiritBy its own moods interprets, every whereEcho or mirror seeking of itself,And makes a toy of Thought.I like when I read about the dim flames as the only companion as a mirror, echo of the Spirit. The meditation and silence embrace in Winter night appreciation. :) 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Verena Posted February 16, 2016 Share Posted February 16, 2016 (edited) 10:13 pm January 10, 2016 Poetic Turdby Tombstone Mountain http://www.ancient-origins.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/Cuneiform-inscription-by-Xerxes-the-Great_0.jpg?itok=H001xLa3 Take the chisel, and here's a hammer.Take my words,set them in stone.Make new cuneiform,a language all its own. Only those who think the deepest thoughts,can decipher the code.Shake my world, see my soul.It's hiding in the snow-globe of memories I've made,my own vault of gold. Peer into my mind.What do you see? A wasteland of promise? A womb filled with inert and tiny seeds? Look! It's Narcissus drinking from the stream.He's come alive from the wall of a cave.Prehistoric man's cinema,the ancient world's museum of petroglyphic dreams He can't look up for he's afraid to squanderthe image of perfection found on the surface of the water. The image is one of wonder and youth. It creates ripples of arrogance. Before they hit the muddy bank they disappear,floating over the grass and into the wind. Am I like Narcissus?Conquering the cosmos in my dreams?For in my mind it feels as such. In reality I know,those dreams don't add up to much.http://mythlovestories.com/echo04L.jpgHow creative and interesting! Different cultures/ details are compared and united here. :) Edited February 16, 2016 by rhyv 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tombstone Mountain Posted February 16, 2016 Share Posted February 16, 2016 10:13 pm January 10, 2016 Poetic Turdby Tombstone Mountain http://www.ancient-origins.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/Cuneiform-inscription-by-Xerxes-the-Great_0.jpg?itok=H001xLa3 Take the chisel, and here's a hammer.Take my words,set them in stone.Make new cuneiform,a language all its own. Only those who think the deepest thoughts,can decipher the code.Shake my world, see my soul.It's hiding in the snow-globe of memories I've made,my own vault of gold. Peer into my mind.What do you see? A wasteland of promise? A womb filled with inert and tiny seeds? Look! It's Narcissus drinking from the stream.He's come alive from the wall of a cave.Prehistoric man's cinema,the ancient world's museum of petroglyphic dreams He can't look up for he's afraid to squanderthe image of perfection found on the surface of the water. The image is one of wonder and youth. It creates ripples of arrogance. Before they hit the muddy bank they disappear,floating over the grass and into the wind. Am I like Narcissus?Conquering the cosmos in my dreams?For in my mind it feels as such. In reality I know,those dreams don't add up to much.http://mythlovestories.com/echo04L.jpgHow creative and interesting! Different cultures/ details are compared and united here. :)Wow...thank you. It just came out 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tombstone Mountain Posted February 18, 2016 Share Posted February 18, 2016 (edited) http://s.hswstatic.com/gif/seven-wonder-ancient-world-11.jpg I am Colossus.My body made of bronze.Crafted from the mind of geniusI face the Aegean Sea. I am Colossus.Two worlds I touch.Above my head I hold the torch of my dreams,between my legs ships pass, day and night. I am Colossus.My girth is my power.Storm and sun, wind and rainBeat my body relentlessly. I am Colossus.In the ancient world I lived.Staring into the ocean blue,waiting on the sands of time. I am Colossus.Tear me down.Melt me into sword and shield.Take my light and douse it. I am Colossus.My life is legend.Pages of history can only tell,about my fall and nothing else. Edited February 18, 2016 by Tombstone Mountain 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Verena Posted February 26, 2016 Share Posted February 26, 2016 (edited) A good mood for the day: My Dearest Frank I wish You Joy My dearest Frank, I wish you joyOf Mary's safety with a Boy,Whose birth has given little painCompared with that of Mary Jane.--May he a growing Blessing prove,And well deserve his Parents' Love!--Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,In him, in all his ways, may weAnother Francis WIlliam see!--Thy infant days may he inherit,They warmth, nay insolence of spirit;--We would not with one foult dispenseTo weaken the resemblance.May he revive thy Nursery sin,Peeping as daringly within,His curley Locks but just descried,With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.'--Fearless of danger, braving pain,And threaten'd very oft in vain,Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,One needful engine of ControulBe found in this sublime array,A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.So may his equal faults as Child,Produce Maturity as mild!His saucy words and fiery waysIn early Childhood's pettish days,In Manhood, shew his Father's mindLike him, considerate and Kind;All Gentleness to those around,And anger only not to wound.Then like his Father too, he must,To his own former struggles just,Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,And all his self-improvement know.A native fault may thus give birthTo the best blessing, conscious Worth.As for ourselves we're very well;As unaffected prose will tell.--Cassandra's pen will paint our state,The many comforts that awaitOur Chawton home, how much we findAlready in it, to our mind;And how convinced, that when completeIt will all other Houses beatThe ever have been made or mended,With rooms concise, or rooms distended.You'll find us very snug next year,Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near,For now it often does delight usTo fancy them just over-right us. Edited February 26, 2016 by rhyv 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tombstone Mountain Posted February 26, 2016 Share Posted February 26, 2016 A good mood for the day: My Dearest Frank I wish You Joy My dearest Frank, I wish you joyOf Mary's safety with a Boy,Whose birth has given little painCompared with that of Mary Jane.--May he a growing Blessing prove,And well deserve his Parents' Love!--Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,In him, in all his ways, may weAnother Francis WIlliam see!--Thy infant days may he inherit,They warmth, nay insolence of spirit;--We would not with one foult dispenseTo weaken the resemblance.May he revive thy Nursery sin,Peeping as daringly within,His curley Locks but just descried,With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.'--Fearless of danger, braving pain,And threaten'd very oft in vain,Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,One needful engine of ControulBe found in this sublime array,A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.So may his equal faults as Child,Produce Maturity as mild!His saucy words and fiery waysIn early Childhood's pettish days,In Manhood, shew his Father's mindLike him, considerate and Kind;All Gentleness to those around,And anger only not to wound.Then like his Father too, he must,To his own former struggles just,Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,And all his self-improvement know.A native fault may thus give birthTo the best blessing, conscious Worth.As for ourselves we're very well;As unaffected prose will tell.--Cassandra's pen will paint our state,The many comforts that awaitOur Chawton home, how much we findAlready in it, to our mind;And how convinced, that when completeIt will all other Houses beatThe ever have been made or mended,With rooms concise, or rooms distended.You'll find us very snug next year,Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near,For now it often does delight usTo fancy them just over-right us.This is beautiful all the way around. Special lyrical ode 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted March 1, 2016 Author Share Posted March 1, 2016 (edited) Emily Bronte - Love and Friendship Love is like the wild rose-briar, Friendship like the holly-tree -- The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms But which will bloom most constantly? The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring, Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now And deck thee with the holly's sheen, That when December blights thy brow He may still leave thy garland green. Edited March 1, 2016 by goose 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Verena Posted March 3, 2016 Share Posted March 3, 2016 Auguries of Innocence, by William Blake To see a World in a Grain of SandAnd a Heaven in a Wild Flower,Hold Infinity in the palm of your handAnd Eternity in an hour. A Robin Red breast in a CagePuts all Heaven in a Rage.A dove house fill'd with doves & PigeonsShudders Hell thro' all its regions.A dog starv'd at his Master's GatePredicts the ruin of the State.A Horse misus'd upon the RoadCalls to Heaven for Human blood.Each outcry of the hunted HareA fibre from the Brain does tear.A Skylark wounded in the wing,A Cherubim does cease to sing.The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fightDoes the Rising Sun affright.Every Wolf's & Lion's howlRaises from Hell a Human Soul.The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,Keeps the Human Soul from Care.The Lamb misus'd breeds public strifeAnd yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.The Bat that flits at close of EveHas left the Brain that won't believe.The Owl that calls upon the NightSpeaks the Unbeliever's fright.He who shall hurt the little WrenShall never be belov'd by Men.He who the Ox to wrath has mov'dShall never be by Woman lov'd.The wanton Boy that kills the FlyShall feel the Spider's enmity.He who torments the Chafer's spriteWeaves a Bower in endless Night.The Catterpillar on the LeafRepeats to thee thy Mother's grief.Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.He who shall train the Horse to WarShall never pass the Polar Bar.The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.The Gnat that sings his Summer's songPoison gets from Slander's tongue.The poison of the Snake & NewtIs the sweat of Envy's Foot.The poison of the Honey BeeIs the Artist's Jealousy.The Prince's Robes & Beggars' RagsAre Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.A truth that's told with bad intentBeats all the Lies you can invent.It is right it should be so;Man was made for Joy & Woe;And when this we rightly knowThro' the World we safely go.Joy & Woe are woven fine,A Clothing for the Soul divine;Under every grief & pineRuns a joy with silken twine.The Babe is more than swadling Bands;Throughout all these Human LandsTools were made, & born were hands,Every Farmer Understands.Every Tear from Every EyeBecomes a Babe in Eternity.This is caught by Females brightAnd return'd to its own delight.The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & RoarAre Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.The Babe that weeps the Rod beneathWrites Revenge in realms of death.The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,Does to Rags the Heavens tear.The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.The poor Man's Farthing is worth moreThan all the Gold on Afric's Shore.One Mite wrung from the Labrer's handsShall buy & sell the Miser's lands:Or, if protected from on high,Does that whole Nation sell & buy.He who mocks the Infant's FaithShall be mock'd in Age & Death.He who shall teach the Child to DoubtThe rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.He who respects the Infant's faithTriumph's over Hell & Death.The Child's Toys & the Old Man's ReasonsAre the Fruits of the Two seasons.The Questioner, who sits so sly,Shall never know how to Reply.He who replies to words of DoubtDoth put the Light of Knowledge out.The Strongest Poison ever knownCame from Caesar's Laurel Crown.Nought can deform the Human RaceLike the Armour's iron brace.When Gold & Gems adorn the PlowTo peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.A Riddle or the Cricket's CryIs to Doubt a fit Reply.The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's MileMake Lame Philosophy to smile.He who Doubts from what he seesWill ne'er believe, do what you Please.If the Sun & Moon should doubtThey'd immediately Go out.To be in a Passion you Good may do,But no Good if a Passion is in you.The Whore & Gambler, by the StateLicenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.The Harlot's cry from Street to StreetShall weave Old England's winding Sheet.The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,Dance before dead England's Hearse.Every Night & every MornSome to Misery are Born.Every Morn & every NightSome are Born to sweet Delight.Some ar Born to sweet Delight,Some are born to Endless Night.We are led to Believe a LieWhen we see not Thro' the EyeWhich was Born in a Night to Perish in a NightWhen the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.God Appears & God is LightTo those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,But does a Human Form DisplayTo those who Dwell in Realms of day. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Verena Posted April 13, 2016 Share Posted April 13, 2016 A good mood for the day: My Dearest Frank I wish You Joy My dearest Frank, I wish you joyOf Mary's safety with a Boy,Whose birth has given little painCompared with that of Mary Jane.--May he a growing Blessing prove,And well deserve his Parents' Love!--Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,In him, in all his ways, may weAnother Francis WIlliam see!--Thy infant days may he inherit,They warmth, nay insolence of spirit;--We would not with one foult dispenseTo weaken the resemblance.May he revive thy Nursery sin,Peeping as daringly within,His curley Locks but just descried,With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.'--Fearless of danger, braving pain,And threaten'd very oft in vain,Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,One needful engine of ControulBe found in this sublime array,A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.So may his equal faults as Child,Produce Maturity as mild!His saucy words and fiery waysIn early Childhood's pettish days,In Manhood, shew his Father's mindLike him, considerate and Kind;All Gentleness to those around,And anger only not to wound.Then like his Father too, he must,To his own former struggles just,Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,And all his self-improvement know.A native fault may thus give birthTo the best blessing, conscious Worth.As for ourselves we're very well;As unaffected prose will tell.--Cassandra's pen will paint our state,The many comforts that awaitOur Chawton home, how much we findAlready in it, to our mind;And how convinced, that when completeIt will all other Houses beatThe ever have been made or mended,With rooms concise, or rooms distended.You'll find us very snug next year,Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near,For now it often does delight usTo fancy them just over-right us. I just forgot to add this poem was written by Jane Austen. ;) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tick Posted November 2, 2016 Share Posted November 2, 2016 (edited) Tell your lies, smoke your pipeRun and hide, that's your lifeWill it begin again, or end in defeatThe ones you trust, the ones you eatLet it be written, but not also doneFor when it begins it isn't much funYou run for the hills, you stay in your bedYou battle the demons that live in your headThe demons are real, the demons are strongYou'll never defeat them, the longer your goneBut if you return, to turn on the lightthe journey won't end, so begin the fight Edited November 2, 2016 by Tick Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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