If you were a poem

[PrinceMyshkin]

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



And see also: http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=459692#post459692

[Sweets America]

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.

[autolycus]

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.

[PrinceMyshkin]

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!

[stormy sky]

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.

[symphony]

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;

[From The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk (http://www.bartleby.com/106/160.html) by Cowper]

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 (http://www.online-literature.com/donne/343/) by John Donne]

[Xcape]

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

[TheFifthElement]

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

[PrinceMyshkin]

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....

[Pendragon]

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

[andave_ya]

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.

[firefangled]

- 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.

[Sweets America]

- 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.

[Pendragon]

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

[symphony]

I'd give a lifetime to read poetries like yours, Uncle Pen.

[Virgil]

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

Pen that is one great poem. Fabuous!! Perhaps the best poem I have read on lit net by a member. You have just reminded me of a great poem by Theodore Roethke, who also had bouts of mental illness, where he went in and out. It is called "In A Dark Time." Here:


In a Dark Time

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady stream of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
-- Theodore Roethke

[AuntShecky]

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on, and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak.


That's a description of Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing.
Also, a cameo of your auntie, but only at times!

The piece "If I Were a Poem" by Pendragon is resonant,
especially the concluding line. The desire to be noticed, or more specifically, acknowledged is universal, not the sole province of poets.
The theme of madness,though, I don't know. I'm just assuming the speaker of the poem is not the poet himself,
because after reading many other postings written by him, I would guess that "madness" is the last thing that comes to mind. (I mean that as a compliment, Pen.)

[Pendragon]

Thank you all, Sy, Virgil, Auntie--you are far too kind. I am afraid I am the subject of the poem, Auntie, and there are those who would call me crazy and mean it to the fullest extent of the term. What I have is Bi-Polar Disorder, controlable, but not curable. And in my case, rapid cycling makes it hard to treat, resulting in disability--no one would hire me for a job, I might have a spell at work. But it has been said that Bi Piolar is "the brilliant madness", as many very creative people have and do have it: writers, painters, musicans, designers, people who think beyond this world, because it is often too painful to live here where many do not understand and even mock or shun you. Then also, Hollywood seems to make every villian some mentel patient off his medication, and Bi Polar or Manic-Depresive Disorder, as it is also called, is one of their favorite targets. Boy has it worked around here! I am persona non grada to most people and churches in this berg.

Poetry helps let off the presure, and when people enjoy it, it lets off more pressure! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

If I Were A Poem Redux

If I were a poem,
There would be no restrictions,
Nothing to confine me—
My heart would walk from its bony prison
And face this world unafraid…

If I were a poem,
This dank white oubliette
Could no longer keep my thoughts from escaping—
Memories come soaring back to me—
Red Maple leaves on the breeze…

If I were a poem,
The Little Man with his hammer,
I could evict without any prior notice—
For I grow weary of the pain that lances
Through my skull every day…

If I were a poem,
My skin would be softest vellum,
No signs of wrinkles nor scarring—
Lines inscribed by wind and sun; steel pens and blood.
By The Great Pretender called Time…

If I were a poem,
And you were the reader:
Would we find common ground
A place to bond together,
Realizing that for this to work takes us both?

Would anyone read the lines that were written down,
If I were a poem…

Dale Harris
© 10/18/07

[blazeofglory]

If I were a pen, I would have of course loved paper
There would be a quiver or motion between me and the paper
Indeed it would stir up our emotions

A kind of circulation have gone from me to the the paper
Indeed the paper would be irrigated with my love
Its dryness, voidness would have been a-forested,

A kind of union
a communion between two desperate souls

One is dry land the other is rainfall

Both would together would weave a spring of life

The result of all this a poem for you read
And when you would read this poem
I write on the blank paper of your heart.
It would bring some convulsion, a jerk, a vibration
That is how life perpetuates

[PrinceMyshkin]

If I were a pen, I would have of course loved paper
There would be a quiver or motion between me and the paper
Indeed it would stir up our emotions

A kind of circulation have gone from me to the the paper
Indeed the paper would be irrigated with my love
Its dryness, voidness would have been a-forested,

A kind of union
a communion between two desperate souls

One is dry land the other is rainfall

Both would together would weave a spring of life

The result of all this a poem for you read
And when you would read this poem
I write on the blank paper of your heart.
It would bring some convulsion, a jerk, a vibration
That is how life perpetuates

One or two grammatical gaffes and I would prefer it if you dropped the explanatory last line but apart from that, what a glorious, inspired poem!

[blazeofglory]

One or two grammatical gaffes and I would prefer it if you dropped the explanatory last line but apart from that, what a glorious, inspired poem!

Thank you very much for suggestions, for English is my second language,a and indeed at times rich thoughts stirring up in my mind can not be contained in English. Any way I try to brush it.

[AuntShecky]

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.



I found this piece to be brilliant,Fifth Element. It's as good as anything I've seen published. I take it that "Stevie" is Stevie Smith, or am I incorrect.
I loved all of this, but especially the concluding couplet --
a boffo punchline.
If I were a real reviewer I would give you ****
(FOUR STARS)
Auntie

[TheFifthElement]

I found this piece to be brilliant,Fifth Element. It's as good as anything I've seen published. I take it that "Stevie" is Stevie Smith, or am I incorrect.
I loved all of this, but especially the concluding couplet --
a boffo punchline.
If I were a real reviewer I would give you ****
(FOUR STARS)
Auntie

Auntie you are too kind, really, really too kind, and I can't take the credit. This is not one of mine (obviously I should have credited the poet!) but is by Connie Bensley. I hadn't realised anyone thought I had written it (note to self to make that clear in future!).

If only I could write something so good :)

[ahsiam]

if i were a poem.........
words'd strangle to be expressed
lines'd scare to take the lead
harmony'd flow like waves of shabby river.


i were a poem........
thoughts full of perennial dreams
vision full of rainbows
words full of vintage letters
and voice full of songs


i were a poem........
floating like clouds
dancing with the steps of rain
like a sunray on the streams.


i became a poem
when thoughts had a melancholy cry
and letters born by those drops of tear,
when memories had silent nights with a shut heart
and words had a pain of those memories,
when rhythm had a crimson mistake
and pages went red by those rhythms.


now i am a poem
a poem with drooping words
a poem with recluse rhythm
a poem of hidden pain, kept untouched

here i am, a poem of scattered words....
to be lost in old weary pages.


i dont know why did i dare to write a poem on this title(since i am a beginner) but nothing to do, i did.:p

[gothic]

I must regret that I arrived here so late,really.so many good poems here to take your breath away.

pen,your poem brought tears to my eyes.I just don't know how else to put my feeling.

ahsiam,yours was a good one too.not only the last two lines were really touchy,as I told you before,but also the others lines.they were very stirring.not exaggerating.

here goes mine-

If I were a poem

If I were a poem,
I would never want you to read me,
for it would grizzle you bit by bit,
choke you to obmutescent blues.

I wouldn't want you to read me-
a poem full of rotten grief and grievances,
the words groaning and cursing,
unable to hold the grim obelisks of melancholy any more,
they beg for mercy.

Only if I were a poem
I would lead you to a cold blue sea,
waves petrified in eternal awe and agony of solitude,
where in the dunes the quicksand awaits you
hidden and silent...

If I were a poem
I would never want you to read me,
for another phoenix could blossom out of the fading lines
and fly you to the sun.

But
if you were looking for a poem
on which you could shed some dewy sympathy,
fated to melt to the sky of oblivion,
then I might be the poem for you.
A dark piteous poem unable ever to lift any heart.

[symphony]

*cough* nice ones, ahsiam and gothic!


obmutescent blues
ob...ob...
er come again?

[gothic]

What was that *cough* for?

[symphony]

Being a close friend, how can u not know that my cough always poses my inferiority OR modesty?!
Are u farabi or just someone who's online through her PC? :eek:

[gothic]

Inferiority?? okay,I must say I wasn't sure about that...and why did you write my real name,dear?wait till I see you,I'm gonna do you in!

[symphony]

Inferiority?? okay,I must say I wasn't sure about that...and why did you write my real name,dear?wait till I see you,I'm gonna do you in!
i loooooooooove irritating people! :banana:

[Pendragon]

If I were a poem,
How would I describe the horrors
A parent goes through as you come into town
And past by an automobile accident—
Fire trucks, and police cars, with ambulance in route—
And realize that the young man smoking the cigarette
Nervously talking to the Police Sergeant
Happens to be your own son…

If I were a poem,
Could I make you understand
How we whipped off the road and dashed back to the scene.
Hearts in our throats as we passed by the smashed car,
On to his truck with the radiator crushed in.
How I gave him a hug and went to check on the young lady,
My cousin already there from the rescue squad giving first aid,
She had no reproaches to give, but I could tell she was hurting,
Been there myself back a decade or so.

Would the poem let you know,
How it feels as a father—
To know that your son had no choice in the deal.
A truck cut her off, and she had to stop suddenly in traffic,
He’d checked his mirror and looked back—
One second in time to react was not enough.
Who gets the blame for this terrible tragedy?
We were told it was a toss up at the scene of it all.
But he was the youngest and had already had one wreck—
So when the evening was over, they blamed him for it all.

If I were a poem,
Could I tell you how much that I think it unfair,
That the man who cut off the traffic walks without anything?
How I feel for the poor girl who was injured and did nothing wrong,
And my son—who had gone to work on his day off, else he wouldn’t have been there—
Because of a ticket, gets stuck with paying for everyone’s damages,
Because witness changed their stories after I left,
And said the cutoff gave a signal,
And she stopped to let him out…
Not her…
So called witnesses…

[ahsiam]

I must regret that I arrived here so late,really.so many good poems here to take your breath away.

pen,your poem brought tears to my eyes.I just don't know how else to put my feeling.

ahsiam,yours was a good one too.not only the last two lines were really touchy,as I told you before,but also the others lines.they were very stirring.not exaggerating.

here goes mine-

If I were a poem

If I were a poem,
I would never want you to read me,
for it would grizzle you bit by bit,
choke you to obmutescent blues.

I wouldn't want you to read me-
a poem full of rotten grief and grievances,
the words groaning and cursing,
unable to hold the grim obelisks of melancholy any more,
they beg for mercy.

Only if I were a poem
I would lead you to a cold blue sea,
waves petrified in eternal awe and agony of solitude,
where in the dunes the quicksand awaits you
hidden and silent...

If I were a poem
I would never want you to read me,
for another phoenix could blossom out of the fading lines
and fly you to the sun.

But
if you were looking for a poem
on which you could shed some dewy sympathy,
fated to melt to the sky of oblivion,
then I might be the poem for you.
A dark piteous poem unable ever to lift any heart.


wonderful !!!!.............. and i really dont have anything to say.
i am so proud that symph and you are my friend.
and by the way symph its nice that you disclosed her name but dont try to irritate me. or i am going to...................:smash:

[ahsiam]

If I were a poem,
How would I describe the horrors
A parent goes through as you come into town
And past by an automobile accident—
Fire trucks, and police cars, with ambulance in route—
And realize that the young man smoking the cigarette
Nervously talking to the Police Sergeant
Happens to be your own son…

If I were a poem,
Could I make you understand
How we whipped off the road and dashed back to the scene.
Hearts in our throats as we passed by the smashed car,
On to his truck with the radiator crushed in.
How I gave him a hug and went to check on the young lady,
My cousin already there from the rescue squad giving first aid,
She had no reproaches to give, but I could tell she was hurting,
Been there myself back a decade or so.

Would the poem let you know,
How it feels as a father—
To know that your son had no choice in the deal.
A truck cut her off, and she had to stop suddenly in traffic,
He’d checked his mirror and looked back—
One second in time to react was not enough.
Who gets the blame for this terrible tragedy?
We were told it was a toss up at the scene of it all.
But he was the youngest and had already had one wreck—
So when the evening was over, they blamed him for it all.

If I were a poem,
Could I tell you how much that I think it unfair,
That the man who cut off the traffic walks without anything?
How I feel for the poor girl who was injured and did nothing wrong,
And my son—who had gone to work on his day off, else he wouldn’t have been there—
Because of a ticket, gets stuck with paying for everyone’s damages,
Because witness changed their stories after I left,
And said the cutoff gave a signal,
And she stopped to let him out…
Not her…
So called witnesses…


wow!!!!
the picture is so vivid that i felt i was there.and infact i felt i was the father or someone very close.
you go uncle pen!!:thumbs_up

[Pendragon]

I don't think I could write poetry like I do were I not surrounded by such a slew of talent. Everyone poem written on this thread is inspiring, for it draws from the emotions of the poet in situations we all can relate to. I honestly think this thread has produced some of the best poems by my fellow LitNet writers that I have ever read.

If this thread were a book of poetry,
it should not be ashamed to stand on the shelf among classics,
for it contains condensed moments of memories
as dear as any contained in those volumes
revered for long time as masterpieces...

Pendragon

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Four/Boguet.gif

[mazHur]

a great tribute to all at litnet by Pen.

Long Live Pen and all !


If you were a poem,
the realm of my heart,
would rebound with its words
like sweet kisses pouring
unto my lips from a rosy
embodiment of love
I will recite it day and night
and make my moments shine
with the bliss of its eternal
light and warmth
of feelings expressed
and conveyed to my famined
soul searching for life,
you being my poet and my poem
an me your object and heading
love, and love alone
from head to toe!

[symphony]

wonderful !!!!.............. and i really dont have anything to say.
i am so proud that symph and you are my friend.
and by the way symph its nice that you disclosed her name but dont try to irritate me. or i am going to...................:smash:
but i looooove irritating people :banana:
:lol:

[symphony]

If this thread were a book of poetry,
it should not be ashamed to stand on the shelf among classics,
for it contains condensed moments of memories
as dear as any contained in those volumes
revered for long time as masterpieces...

Pendragon


Ah, there there!

[AdoreroDio]

Are we supposed to write a poem "If I were a Poem", or post another poets work that we would be if we were a poem? I'm confused.......

[AdoreroDio]

Well if it's another's work then here is the poem I would be-

The Soul's Expression

With stammering lips and insufficient sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night
With dream and thought and feeling interwound
And inly answering all the senses round
With octaves of a mystic depth and height
Which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground.
This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air:
But if I did it,--as the thunder-roll
Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.

by :Elizabeth Barrett Browning

[symphony]

Are we supposed to write a poem "If I were a Poem", or post another poets work that we would be if we were a poem? I'm confused.......

It doesnt really matter. If there's a poem thats perfect for u, u can post that. Or u can write ur own if u think there's no poem that can exemplify the real u. :)

[Pendragon]

If—

If I could live inside of my poems
I know the perfect spot that I would choose.
There is a trail out there that winds from South to North,
Thousands follow it every year,
Few know it the way I do.
I would wend my way across the highlands,
Know which trees produce fruit in which season,
Never fear the animals that lurk in the shadows
For we have an understanding.
I can make a shelter in any sort of weather,
Build a fire when others are freezing,
I could live off of the land if I had to
You’d be surprised by what is well worth eating.
Never come into the towns at all,
Just stay out on the trail and make it home:
So if you hike along the AT.
From Georgia up to Maine,
And on some gentle evening Zephyr
Comes the smell of a campfire
And the soft music of a guitar
Somebody singing “Amazing Grace.”
I just might be there somewhere—
If I were a poem…

Pendragon
© 11/5/07

[gothic]

Everyone poem written on this thread is inspiring, for it draws from the emotions of the poet in situations we all can relate to. I honestly think this thread has produced some of the best poems by my fellow LitNet writers that I have ever read.

If this thread were a book of poetry,
it should not be ashamed to stand on the shelf among classics,
for it contains condensed moments of memories
as dear as any contained in those volumes
revered for long time as masterpieces...

Pendragon

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Four/Boguet.gif

I agree with you,uncle pen.this thread is already so rich with so many fabulous poems that it could top all others almost effortlessly. I think the title does the magic,as Sym mentioned to me earlier.

[gothic]

wonderful !!!!.............. and i really dont have anything to say.


oh,what would I do without you guys! you all are so inspiring!:p

[Pendragon]

If I Were If I Am a Poem

If I were a poem I’d be Gothic in style,
Draped in mold and spider webs and dust.
Black would be my banner and clothing as well,
From Victorian ages or perhaps even older.
My home would be haunted by various wraiths,
And creatures not easily understood nor explained.
It would probably stand all alone on a fog shrouded moor,
In a deep, dark woodland, or some massive cliff o’re the sea.

If I were a poem, you would notice the smell,
Must from ages long past and things best left forgotten.
You would notice the concert of groans and creaking sounds,
And the footsteps that follow, when no one is ever seen.
You would catch the slinking of shadow from the corners of your eyes,
And never be able to feel completely alone.
You might start avoiding the daylight, more comfortable with
The baleful eye of a golden harvest moon…

If I were a poem, I would be the old little bloke in the odd little flat,
That mother’s warn children to always steer clear.
In my outdated fashions and my preference for antique possessions,
And the fact that I can live in a home that is somewhat ordered chaos.
The thick heavy curtains shut out the light of the day,
And only in my own private library is there any sort of bright lights.
My books spill out of their shelves and have formed pylons on the floors,
Ah, but I know where each one is, and can find each in a trice.

Said I looked like a Rat catcher from two centuries ago, daft auld fool!
Wanted to cite me for being a general nuisance and a firetrap! Devil take ‘im!
There’s a book here somewhere I must find now, and then the deed is done!
Where’d I put that copy of The Necronomicon, anyways?

Pendragon
© 11/20/07

[kiz_paws]

This poem was sent to me by my brother, and I know NOT the author. It is cute and very, well, Canadian, and thus, me ;) Here goes --


It's winter in Canada
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At twenty-nine below.

Oh, how I love Canada
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And you nose gets frozen shut.

Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave Canada



'Cause I'm frozen to the ground!!

[Again, I am NOT the author of this poem.]

[motherhubbard]

great poem Kiz!

[dramasnot6]

This is simply a BRILLIANT thread idea!!!!

Of all the poems from all the poets that ring a bell with my heart and soul, the last line of an ee cummings' poem called "since feeling is first" does the trick.

"for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis"

[AwayAloneAlast]

These best describe my chaos:

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I beseech thee from
Darkness to promote me?

or

Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.


Milton is amazing.

[V.Jayalakshmi]

Dear Members,

I woill be the 'she' in this poem.
--------------------------------------------------
“A Wind Rose in the Night”

Aline Kilmer


A WIND rose in the night,
(She had always feared it so!)
Sorrow plucked at my heart
And I could not help but go.

Softly I went and stood 5
By her door at the end of the hall.
Dazed with grief I watched
The candles flaring and tall.

The wind was wailing aloud:
I thought how she would have cried 10
For my warm familiar arms
And the sense of me by her side.

The candles flickered and leapt,
The shadows jumped on the wall.
She lay before me small and still 15
And did not care at all.


-------------------------------------
What an imagery?I came across this poem as I was browisng Bartleby.com
Thank you.

[dramasnot6]

Dear Members,

I woill be the 'she' in this poem.
--------------------------------------------------
“A Wind Rose in the Night”

Aline Kilmer


A WIND rose in the night,
(She had always feared it so!)
Sorrow plucked at my heart
And I could not help but go.

Softly I went and stood 5
By her door at the end of the hall.
Dazed with grief I watched
The candles flaring and tall.

The wind was wailing aloud:
I thought how she would have cried 10
For my warm familiar arms
And the sense of me by her side.

The candles flickered and leapt,
The shadows jumped on the wall.
She lay before me small and still 15
And did not care at all.


-------------------------------------
What an imagery?I came across this poem as I was browisng Bartleby.com
Thank you.

It's a great poem..but..I feel disturbed when reading it. Interesting.

[asilef73]

Wind and Window Flower - Robert Frost

Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.

**************************
i'd be the window flower always thinking of naught to say.