If you were a poem

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

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Pendragon

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/l1...our/Boguet.gif

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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.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by ahsiam

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

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

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

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.]

great poem Kiz!

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"

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.

Dear Members,

I woill be the 'she' in this poem.
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“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.


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

Quote:

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Originally Posted by 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.


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

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

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.

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