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Thread: Poem of the Day

  1. #421
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    William Carlos Williams

    COMPLAINT
    They call me and I go.
    It is a frozen road
    past midnight, a dust
    of snow caught
    in the rigid wheeltracks.
    The door opens.
    I smile, enter and
    shake off the cold.
    Here is a great woman
    on her side in the bed.
    She is sick,
    perhaps vomiting,
    perhaps laboring
    to give birth to
    a tenth child. Joy! Joy!
    Night is a room
    darkened for lovers,
    through the jalousies the sun
    has sent one golden needle!
    I pick the hair from her eyes
    and watch her misery
    with compassion.
    ......................................by William Carlos Williams

  2. #422
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    Percy Bysshe Shelley

    To......

    MUSIC, when soft voices die,
    Vibrates in the memory-
    Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
    Live within the sense they quicken.
    Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
    Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
    And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
    Love itself shall slumber on.

    Percy Bysshe Shelley

  3. #423
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    Charles Baudelaire

    THE LIVING FLAME
    THEY pass before me, these Eyes full of light,
    Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise;
    The holy brothers pass before my sight,
    And cast their diamond fires in my dim eyes.

    They keep me from all sin and error grave,
    They set me in the path whence Beauty came;
    They are my servants, and I am their slave,
    And all my soul obeys the living flame.

    Beautiful Eyes that gleam with mystic light
    As candles lighted at full noon; the sun
    Dims not your flame phantastical and bright.

    You sing the dawn; they celebrate life done;
    Marching you chaunt my soul's awakening hymn,
    Stars that no sun has ever made grow dim!

  4. #424
    yes, that's me, your friendly Moderator 💚 Logos's Avatar
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    Robert Frost's "October"

    http://www.online-literature.com/frost/boys-will/30/

    O HUSHED October morning mild,
    Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
    To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
    Should waste them all.
    The crows above the forest call;
    To-morrow they may form and go.
    O hushed October morning mild,
    Begin the hours of this day slow,
    Make the day seem to us less brief.
    Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
    Beguile us in the way you know;
    Release one leaf at break of day;
    At noon release another leaf;
    One from our trees, one far away;
    Retard the sun with gentle mist;
    Enchant the land with amethyst.
    Slow, slow!
    For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
    Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
    Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
    For the grapes' sake along the wall.

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  5. #425
    ♥I am Truley_aLlI&# Truley_aLlI's Avatar
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    I made up my own poem see if its good or not.

    That single moment
    when we look into eachothers eyes
    we get closer and closer
    everything around us turns into an invisble suprise

    Your eyes close
    right when mine do
    closing the world outside
    I tilt my head
    and wonder when the fireworks subside

    out lips touch
    I do not worry when our hands clutch
    *KiSs*
    Hola! My name is Alli and i love to write poems. I dont care if im not good at it as long as i think i am. I love music(hardcore and rap). I love to hang with friends and talk. I love sports and my favorite sprot is swimming. Im single and sExY. Well enough about me, tell me morea bout you!♥♥

  6. #426
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    Oxford Lament by Iris Murdoch

    Deliver me from the usual thing,
    The clever inevitability of the conversation,
    The brilliant platitudes and the second-hand
    Remarks about life...
    O for the tangent terror
    Of the metaphor no one has used --
    The keenness of cutting edges
    On the fresh green ice of thought.


    Spring 1939

  7. #427
    Inexplicably Undiscovered
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    A poem for Thursday, October 4

    I got into trouble posting stuff today, but I'm feeling bold
    and would like to nominate a pre-1923 poem by Helen Hunt Jackson, in honor of the 20th anniversary of the Great Northeast (U.S.) Snowstorm of October 4, 2007.
    (incidentally, it is also the Feast Day of St. Francis of Assisi.)

    Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
    October's Bright Blue Weather

    O SUNS and skies and clouds of June,
    And flowers of June together,
    Ye cannot rival for one hour
    October's bright blue weather;

    When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,
    Belated, thriftless vagrant,
    And Golden-Rod is dying fast,
    And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

    When Gentians roll their fringes tight
    To save them for the morning,
    And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
    Without a sound of warning;

    When on the ground red apples lie
    In piles like jewels shining,
    And redder still on old stone walls
    Are leaves of woodbine twining;

    When all the lovely wayside things
    Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
    And in the fields, still green and fair,
    Late aftermaths are growing;

    When springs run low, and on the brooks,
    In idle golden freighting,
    Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
    Of woods, for winter waiting;

    When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
    By twos and twos together,
    And count like misers, hour by hour,
    October's bright blue weather.

    O suns and skies and flowers of June,
    Count all your boasts together,
    Love loveth best of all the year
    October's bright blue weather.

  8. #428
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    A Poem For Friday 10/5

    Conscience

    Conscience is instinct bred in the house,
    Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin
    By an unnatural breeding in and in.
    I say, Turn it out doors,
    Into the moors.
    I love a life whose plot is simple,
    And does not thicken with every pimple,
    A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,
    That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it.
    I love an earnest soul,
    Whose mighty joy and sorrow
    Are not drowned in a bowl,
    And brought to life to-morrow;
    That lives one tragedy,
    And not seventy;
    A conscience worth keeping;
    Laughing not weeping;
    A conscience wise and steady,
    And forever ready;
    Not changing with events,
    Dealing in compliments;
    A conscience exercised about
    Large things, where one may doubt.
    I love a soul not all of wood,
    Predestinated to be good,
    But true to the backbone
    Unto itself alone,
    And false to none;
    Born to its own affairs,
    Its own joys and own cares;
    By whom the work which God begun
    Is finished, and not undone;
    Taken up where he left off,
    Whether to worship or to scoff;
    If not good, why then evil,
    If not good god, good devil.
    Goodness! you hypocrite, come out of that,
    Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.
    I have no patience towards
    Such conscientious cowards.
    Give me simple laboring folk,
    Who love their work,
    Whose virtue is song
    To cheer God along.

    Henry David Thoreau

  9. #429
    feathers firefangled's Avatar
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    Questions Are Remarks

    - Wallace Stevens

    In the weed of summer, comes this green sprout why.
    The sun aches and ails and then returns halloo
    Upon the horizon amid adult enfantillages.

    Its fire fails to pierce the vision that beholds it,
    Fails to destroy the antique acceptances,
    Except that the grandson sees it as it is,
    Peter the voyant who says, "Mother what is that"
    The object that rises with so much rhetoric,
    But not for him. His question is complete.
    It is the question of what he is capable
    It is the extreme, the expert aetat. 2.
    He will never ride the red horse she describes.

    His question is complete because it contains
    His utmost statement. It is his own array,
    His own pageant and procession and display,

    As far as nothingness permits . . . Hear him.
    He does not say, "Mother, my mother, who are you,"
    The way the drowsy, infant, old men do.
    Last edited by firefangled; 10-07-2007 at 11:08 PM.

  10. #430
    Quote Originally Posted by quasimodo1 View Post
    To......

    MUSIC, when soft voices die,
    Vibrates in the memory-
    Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
    Live within the sense they quicken.
    Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
    Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
    And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
    Love itself shall slumber on.

    Percy Bysshe Shelley
    It was a pleasure to see this one here. It was, and remains, one of my favorite poems. Of all times. Thanks for posting it.
    .
    ...the smell of flowers through metal labyrinths.

  11. #431
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    Preparations for Departure

    I have been with the trees all day.
    I don't think they will remember what I said.
    The wind came between us
    And we dreamt a little on either side of it
    And our dreams may have met.
    I think I felt a tremor in the leaves once
    While my fingers dreamt of playing them.....
    I have been with the trees all day,
    Learning to forget.

    Now I may go.
    I have removed all trace of me.
    Where I sat, where I walked, where I slept,
    Where a corner I loved resembled me too much,
    In my most private places I have set
    Something unlike me,
    Something to make them strange to themselves again,
    Something to make them forget.

    With you, I have done none of these things,
    Sure if I went out quietly enough
    You would not miss me more than yesterday,
    Having forgotten so long already
    That a parting sign from me
    Might make you remember,
    Regret my going.

    I have picked up
    Every bit of me scattered about
    And burried all of it.....somewhere....I forget.....
    Over the wall!
    I am going out
    As somebody else!

    Laura Riding

  12. #432
    Registered User HailStorm's Avatar
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    It was reading this thread that prompted me to register, such lovely posts here. Needless to say I love poetry. I'd like to add one of my favourite poets as my first post.
    "Hello everyone"


    Madison Caiwein ~ 1865-1914

    FIELD AND FOREST CALL

    I

    There is a field, that leans upon two hills,
    Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills;
    That in its girdle of wild acres bears
    The anodyne of rest that cures all cares;
    Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent
    With fragrance--as in some old instrument
    Sweet chords;--calm things, that Nature's magic spell
    Distills from Heaven's azure crucible,
    And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.
    There lies the path, they say--
    Come away! come away!

    II

    There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,
    Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;
    That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf
    Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief;
    Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,
    Vague, whispering' touches, gleams and twitterings,
    Dews and cool shadows--that the mystic soul
    Of Nature permeates with suave control,
    And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole.
    There lies the road, they say--
    Come away! come away!

  13. #433
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    Ogden Nash

    CHILDREN'S PARTY
    May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
    I wish to retire till the party's over.
    Since three o'clock I've done my best
    To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
    And if they want me, let them find me.
    I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
    I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
    I took them out to wash their hands.
    I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
    I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
    Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
    I've earned repose to heal the ravages
    Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
    Is a lonely little elf,
    But progeny in roistering batches
    Would drive St. Francis from here to Natchez. ..........................................{first part of this poem by Ogden Nash}

  14. #434
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    Edgar Allan Poe

    1845
    THE VALLEY OF UNREST

    "The Valley of Unrest" was published in an
    edition of 1831 under the title, "Valley of Nis." (see below)


    Once it smiled a silent dell
    Where the people did not dwell;
    They had gone unto the wars,
    Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
    Nightly, from their azure towers,
    To keep watch above the flowers,
    In the midst of which all day
    The red sunlight lazily lay.
    Now each visitor shall confess
    The sad valley's restlessness.
    Nothing there is motionless-
    Nothing save the airs that brood
    Over the magic solitude.
    Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
    That palpitate like the chill seas
    Around the misty Hebrides!
    Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
    That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
    Uneasily, from morn till even,
    Over the violets there that lie
    In myriad types of the human eye-
    Over the lilies there that wave
    And weep above a nameless grave!
    They wave: from out their fragrant tops
    Eternal dews come down in drops.
    They weep: from off their delicate stems
    Perennial tears descend in gems.


    -The End-


    [This version of the poem bears only a slight
    resemblance to its predecessor "The Valley Nis."]




    --------------------------------------------------------------------------


    1831
    The Valley Nis
    by Edgar Allan Poe

    Far away far away
    Far away as far at least
    Lies that valley as the day
    Down within the golden east
    All things lovely are not they
    Far away far away ?

    It is called the valley Nis.
    And a Syriac tale there is
    Thereabout which Time hath said
    Shall not be interpreted.
    Something about Satan's dart
    Something about angel wings
    Much about a broken heart
    All about unhappy things:
    But "the valley Nis" at best
    Means "the valley of unrest."

    Once it smil'd a silent dell
    Where the people did not dwell,
    Having gone unto the wars
    And the sly, mysterious stars,
    With a visage full of meaning,
    O'er the unguarded flowers were leaning:
    Or the sun ray dripp'd all red
    Thro' the tulips overhead,
    Then grew paler as it fell
    On the quiet Asphodel.

    Now the unhappy shall confess
    Nothing there is motionless:
    Helen, like thy human eye
    There th' uneasy violets lie
    There the reedy grass doth wave
    Over the old forgotten grave
    One by one from the tree top
    There the eternal dews do drop
    There the vague and dreamy trees

    Do roll like seas in northern breeze
    Around the stormy Hebrides
    There the gorgeous clouds do fly,
    Rustling everlastingly,
    Through the terror-stricken sky,
    Rolling like a waterfall
    O'er th' horizon's fiery wall
    There the moon doth shine by night
    With a most unsteady light
    There the sun doth reel by day
    "Over the hills and far away."



    -The End-

    {Two versions of "The Valley of Unrest" by Edgar Allan Poe}

  15. #435
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    Pierre de Ronsard

    'Love for Marie'
    Pierre de Ronsard
    Translated From The French by Rosemary Clark
    I
    If any lover in Anjou pass by
    A pine tree overlooking Bourgueil town,
    He'd mark, displayed upon its pointed crown,
    My freedom, victim of a beauteous eye.
    Triumphant Love, who likes my torment well,
    Hung it as spoil, to vaunt my servitude
    And to proclaim to travellers on the road
    That loving's an exquisite prison cell.
    Nor could I choose a tree of nobler mark
    To hang my poor remains, for such rough bark
    On Ida's slopes young Atys' skin encased.
    Yet he and I conceived love differently,
    For he was smitten by a wrinkled face,
    I by a beauty half in infancy.
    II
    Marie, if men should try to twist your name
    They'd find aimer – so love me then, Marie.
    Your name requires it . You must loving be;
    Refusal would be mortal sin and shame.
    If you consent to pledge me all your heart,
    I give you mine, and so we shall partake
    Of all life's pleasures; and I undertake,
    No other fancy shall command my thought. [End Page 167]
    Mistress, to love is every mortal's share.
    The man who loves not, wretchedly must bear
    A Scythian's life, and all his days will spend
    Without the sweetness of all sweets the height.
    What! Without love, where then lies all delight?
    The day I love no more, then may I meet my end.
    III
    Get up, Marie, you lie in bed too long.
    The lark already carols high above
    And the nightingale has warbled out her love
    Upon the thorn in streams of plaintive song.
    Up with you! Come and see the greensward bright
    With dewdrops, and your pretty rose-tree crowned
    With buds, your dainty pinks that deck the ground
    Which with such care you watered late last night.
    Last night you swore at bedtime by your eyes
    Sooner than I this morning to be dressed,
    But the sleep of dawn, which soft on maidens lies,
    Holds you in dreams, your lashes still close pressed.
    I'll kiss them, so! And your nipple rosy red
    A hundred times, to get you out of bed.
    IV
    Hide your bright horns tonight, indulgent Moon!
    So may Endymion, pillowed on your breast,
    Be ever loving, ever take his rest,
    And no enchanter seek to importune.
    Hateful is day to me and night my boon.
    By day I feel the threat of watchful eyes;
    More bold at nightfall, through the camp of spies
    I pass, defended by dusk's gathering gloom.
    Moon, you know well how potent is Love's smart,
    How Pan for a white fleece could sway your heart,
    And pity me, you brilliant stars above;
    Look kindly on the flame that burns in me,
    And think, you constellations, it was love
    That set you there, to shine eternally. [End Page 168] {only part of this long poem}
    Last edited by quasimodo1; 10-24-2007 at 09:04 AM. Reason: partial post

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