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Thread: If you were a poem

  1. #1
    Something's gotta give PrinceMyshkin's Avatar
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    If you were a poem

    or just a line from one, which would it be?



    And see also: http://www.online-literature.com/for...692#post459692
    "You must be the change you want to see in the world." Gandhi

  2. #2
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    Right now, what about 'If you were coming in the fall', by Dickinson?

    If you were coming in the fall,
    I'd brush the summer by
    With half a smile and half a spurn,
    As housewives do a fly.
    If I could see you in a year,
    I'd wind the months in balls,
    And put them each in separate drawers,
    Until their time befalls.

    If only centuries delayed,
    I'd count them on my hand,
    Subtracting till my fingers dropped
    Into Van Diemens land.

    If certain, when this life was out,
    That yours and mine should be,
    I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
    And taste eternity.

    But now, all ignorant of the length
    Of time's uncertain wing,
    It goads me, like the goblin bee,
    That will not state its sting.
    Eh?

    And more generally, here is another poem which fits me quite well, still by Dickinson.

    I felt a Cleaving in my Mind --
    As if my Brain had split --
    I tried to match it -- Seam by Seam --
    But could not make it fit.

    The thought behind, I strove to join
    Unto the thought before --
    But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
    Like Balls -- upon a Floor.

  3. #3
    wanderer autolycus's Avatar
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    I think I'd be Tennyson's 'Ulysses':

    Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
    We are not now that strength which in old days
    Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
    se non e vero, e molto ben'trovato

  4. #4
    Something's gotta give PrinceMyshkin's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Sweets America View Post
    Right now, what about 'If you were coming in the fall', by Dickinson?

    If you were coming in the fall,
    I'd brush the summer by
    With half a smile and half a spurn,
    As housewives do a fly.
    If I could see you in a year,
    I'd wind the months in balls,
    And put them each in separate drawers,
    Until their time befalls.

    If only centuries delayed,
    I'd count them on my hand,
    Subtracting till my fingers dropped
    Into Van Diemens land.

    If certain, when this life was out,
    That yours and mine should be,
    I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
    And taste eternity.

    But now, all ignorant of the length
    Of time's uncertain wing,
    It goads me, like the goblin bee,
    That will not state its sting.
    Eh?

    And more generally, here is another poem which fits me quite well, still by Dickinson.

    I felt a Cleaving in my Mind --
    As if my Brain had split --
    I tried to match it -- Seam by Seam --
    But could not make it fit.

    The thought behind, I strove to join
    Unto the thought before --
    But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
    Like Balls -- upon a Floor.
    Well, this is mine, Ms America:

    Western wind, when will thou blow
    The small rain down can rain?
    Christ, if my love were in my arms
    And I in my bed again!
    "You must be the change you want to see in the world." Gandhi

  5. #5
    Registered User stormy sky's Avatar
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    I love you as certain dark things are loved,
    secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
    I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
    hidden within itself the light of those flowers,


    These are most certainly the lines I would like to be.
    Absence is such a transparent house
    that even being dead I will see you there,
    and if you suffer, Love, I'll die a second time.

    -Pablo Neruda

  6. #6
    At times,

    I am out of humanity's reach;
    I must finish my journey alone;
    Never hear the sweet music of speech—
    I start at the sound of my own;

    And at others,

    I can love both fair and brown ;
    Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays ;
    Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays ;
    Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town ;
    Her who believes, and her who tries ;
    Her who still weeps with spongy eyes,
    And her who is dry cork, and never cries.
    I can love her, and her, and you, and you ;
    I can love any, so she be not true.
    Will no other vice content you ?
    Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers ?
    Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others ?
    Or doth a fear that men are true torment you ?
    O we are not, be not you so ;
    Let me—and do you—twenty know ;
    Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go.
    Must I, who came to travel thorough you,
    Grow your fix'd subject, because you are true ?

    Venus heard me sigh this song ;
    And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore,
    She heard not this till now ; and that it should be so no more.
    She went, examined, and return'd ere long,
    And said, "Alas ! some two or three
    Poor heretics in love there be,
    Which think to stablish dangerous constancy.
    But I have told them, 'Since you will be true,
    You shall be true to them who're false to you.' "

    [From The Indifferent by John Donne]
    .
    ...the smell of flowers through metal labyrinths.

  7. #7
    Registered User Xcape's Avatar
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    I do not love you...
    I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
    or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
    I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
    in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
    I love you as the plant that never blooms
    but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
    thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
    risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
    I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
    so I love you because I know no other way
    that this: where I does not exist, nor you,
    so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
    so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

    Pablo Neruda
    Last edited by Xcape; 10-13-2007 at 09:40 PM.

  8. #8
    Internal nebulae TheFifthElement's Avatar
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    Apologia

    I'd like to say something more exciting, but mainly it's something like this:

    Apologia

    My life is too dull and too careful -
    even I can see that:
    the orderly bedside table,
    the spoilt cat.

    Surely I should have been bolder.
    What could biographers say?
    She got up, ate toast and went shopping
    day after day?


    Whisky and gin are alarming,
    Ecstasy makes you drop dead.
    Toy boys make inroads on cash
    and your half of the bed.

    Emily Dickinson, help me.
    Stevie, look up from your Aunt.
    Some people can stand excitement,
    some people can't.

    C Bensley
    Last edited by TheFifthElement; 10-19-2007 at 02:03 PM. Reason: Clearing up confusion about authorship!
    Want to know what I think about books? Check out https://biisbooks.wordpress.com/

  9. #9
    Something's gotta give PrinceMyshkin's Avatar
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    Excellent poem, Ms 5th! (Like it or lump it)

    Which of us really thinks
    he or she is all that interesting?
    The truly boring
    are fascinated with themselves.

    But as for the rest of us,
    our lives are so banal,
    our hands too small or
    stump-fingered.

    We poddle around
    like awkward cabbages.
    We think our ordinary thoughts or
    once in a while, one
    that is truly grandiose!

    We are the world!
    Alas....
    "You must be the change you want to see in the world." Gandhi

  10. #10
    Not politically correct Pendragon's Avatar
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    Exclamation

    Not sure if this is it, but my life as a poem would be dark, I know:

    Crossing the River


    Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
    Where do the black trees go that drink here?
    Their shadows must cover Canada.

    A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
    Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
    They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

    Cold worlds shake from the oar.
    The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
    A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

    Stars open among the lilies.
    Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
    This is the silence of astounded souls.

    Sylvia Plath
    Some of us laugh
    Some of us cry
    Some of us smoke
    Some of us lie
    But it's all just the way
    that we cope with our lives...

  11. #11
    laudator temporis acti andave_ya's Avatar
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    To the Rose upon the Rood of Time
    W.B. Yeats


    Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
    Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
    Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
    The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet eyed,
    Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
    And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
    In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
    Sing in their high and lonely melody.
    Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
    I find under the boughs of love and hate,
    In all poor foolish things that live a day,
    Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

    Come near, come near, come near -- Ah, leave me still
    A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
    Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
    The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
    The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
    And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
    But seek alone to hear the strange things said
    By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
    And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know
    Come near; I would, before my time to go,
    Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
    Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
    "The time has come," the Walrus said,
    "To talk of many things:
    Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
    Of cabbages--and kings--
    And why the sea is boiling hot--
    And whether pigs have wings."

  12. #12
    feathers firefangled's Avatar
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    Snowdrops

    - Louise Gluck

    Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
    what despair is; then
    winter should have meaning for you.

    I did not expect to survive,
    earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
    to waken again, to feel
    in damp earth my body
    able to respond again, remembering
    after so long how to open again
    in the cold light
    of earliest spring--

    afraid, yes, but among you again
    crying yes risk joy

    in the raw wind of the new world.

  13. #13
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    Quote Originally Posted by firefangled View Post
    - Louise Gluck

    Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
    what despair is; then
    winter should have meaning for you.

    I did not expect to survive,
    earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
    to waken again, to feel
    in damp earth my body
    able to respond again, remembering
    after so long how to open again
    in the cold light
    of earliest spring--

    afraid, yes, but among you again
    crying yes risk joy

    in the raw wind of the new world.
    I love this! I am not sure I get the real meaning of it, but there is something in it which speaks directly to some part of my soul.

  14. #14
    Not politically correct Pendragon's Avatar
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    Exclamation

    If I Were A Poem

    If I were a poem—
    Could my language possibly capture
    The agony of a spirit
    Trapped inside one’s own body?
    Would the words tell the tale
    Of how the madness has chained me forever,
    My skills and my promise
    Never to be fulfilled?
    How the haunting of dreams
    Mock me from the Night shadows,
    The Lady I used to go to for comfort
    Now a harbor for despondency and despair?

    If I were a poem—
    Lines laced with darkness,
    Spider web tracings on parchment—
    Soiled and blackened by age:
    Who would pause in their daily routine
    To brush away the grime of the ages,
    And read with understanding
    Meanings inscribed in my very blood?
    Would they recoil in their horror
    That such tormented lines even exist,
    And toss the sad rags of my sorrow
    Into the flames to be destroyed?

    If I were a poem—
    The lines would seem to be madness,
    You might think me reduced to insanity,
    Gone beyond any real hope.
    Look past the dark glass’s reflection.
    The distortion from the mirror of life—
    There is a hidden peephole
    You might have to search a long time to find.
    Then things fall into perspective,
    The shadows retreat and the light focuses on
    The real person I am under the masquerade—
    I am a poem—
    Take time to read me, please…

    Dale Harris
    © 10/17/07
    Some of us laugh
    Some of us cry
    Some of us smoke
    Some of us lie
    But it's all just the way
    that we cope with our lives...

  15. #15
    I'd give a lifetime to read poetries like yours, Uncle Pen.
    .
    ...the smell of flowers through metal labyrinths.

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