my favorite is my created poems.
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my favorite is my created poems.
The Highwayman (a few posts above) is one of my all time faves as well. I love the irrepressible drama of the rhythm.
At this time of year ( that is Rememberance Week) I often think of Wilfred Owen's all too few poems.
Futility
Move him to the sun-
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds,-
Woke, once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved - still warm- too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
-O what made fatuous sun beams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
by : Edgar Allan Poe
I have many favorite poems but this one always stands out to me; I first heard it quoted in the "Shakleton" mini-series movie and then after looking up the entire poem I found it to be quite compelling.
Prospice ~ Robert Browning
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
While looking this up online; I found a site with an analysis of the poem. I hope to explore that further when I have time.
The line quoted in the miniseries is: "For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,"...this is my favorite line of the poem.
The Highwayman ~ Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)Quote:
Originally Posted by alakungfu
alakungfu,This poem was set to music by Loreena Mckennitt and it is one of my favorites of hers. I always get chills when I listen to the lyrics or read the poem. It is so beautiful.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Janine
JANINE .Can you tell me the album it's on, I love the singer and the poem. They seem made for each other
parched with thirst am i, and dying.
nay, drink of me, the ever-flowing spring
where on the right is a fair cypress.
who are you? where are you?--i am the son
of earth and of star-filled heaven, but
from heaven alone is my house.
you will find to the left of the house of hades a spring,
and by the side thereof standing a white cypress.
to this spring approach not near.
but you shall find another, from the lake of memory
cold water flowing forth, and there are guardians before it.
say, "i am a child of Earth and starry heaven;
but my race is of heaven alone. this you know yourselves.
but i am parched with thirst and i perish. give me quickly
the cold water flowing forth from the lake of memory."
and of themselves they will give you to drink of the holy spring:
and thereafter you will have lordship among the other heroes.
http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c2.../sh/Unihex.gif
Who's the poet ?
its an ancient greek tomb prayerQuote:
Originally Posted by Guinivere
http://www.metalrecordsonline.com/me...0frost%202.JPG
on topic:
Tristesses de la lune
Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,
Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.
Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,
Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.
— Charles Baudelaire
soundtrack included <3
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--OfNFi8GJw
[LEFT]Sometimes you want to talk
about love and despair
and the ungratefulness of children
A man is no use whatever then .
You want then your mother
or your sister
or the girl with whom you went to through the school,
and your first love ,and her -
first child -a girl-
and your second.
You sit with them and talk .
She sews and you sit and sip
and speak of the rate of rice
and the price of tea
and the scarcity of cheese.
You know both that you 've spoken
of love,despair and ungratefulness of children.
Because I'm growing old and will not be here much longer, I like poetry about age, the past, death, people you loved who have died, etc. This is one that I especially like.
Rock Me To Sleep, by Elizabeth Akers Allen
Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight;
Mother, come back from that echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore.
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth all the silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep.
Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years,
I am so weary of toil and of tears;
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain -
Take them, and give me my childhood again.
I have grown weary of dust and decay -
Weary of flinging my soul - wealth away,
Weary of sowing for others to reap -
Rock me to sleep, Mother rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue;
Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between.
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother-rock me to sleep.
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms over my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother-rock me to sleep.
Mother, dear Mother, the years been long,
Since I last listened to your lullaby song.
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother-rock me to sleep.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
-Wordsworth
Qasida in praise of the Holy Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)
When I saw his light shining forth,
In fear I covered my eyes with my palms,
Afraid for my sight because of the beauty of his form.
So I was scarcely able to look at him at all.
The lights from his light are drowned in his light
and his face shines out like the sun and moon in one.
A spirit of light lodged in a body like the moon,
a mantle made up of brilliant shining stars.
I bore it until I could bear it no longer.
I found the taste of patience to be like bitter aloes.
I could find no remedy to bring me relief
other than delighting in the sight of the one I love.
Even if he had not brought any clear signs with him,
the sight of him would dispense with the need for them.
Muhammad is a human being but not like other human beings.
Rather he is a flawless diamond and the rest of mankind is just stones.
Blessings be on him so that perhaps Allah may have mercy on us
on that burning Day when the Fire is roaring forth its sparks
-Hassan ibn Thabit.
[written 1400 years ago]
Prometheus
Shroud your heaven, Zeus,
With cloudy vapours,
And do as you will, like the boy
That knocks the heads off thistles,
With oak-trees and mountain-tops;
Now you must leave alone
My Earth for Me,
And my hut, which you did not build,
And my hearth,
The glowing whereof
You envy me.
I know of nothing poorer
Under the sun, than you, you Gods!
Your majesty
Is barely nourished
By sacrificial offerings
And prayerful exhalations,
And should starve
Were children and beggars not
Fools full of Hope.
When I was a child,
And did not know the in or out,
I turned my wandering eyes toward
The sun, as if, beyond, there were
An ear to hear my lament,
A heart, like mine,
To be moved to pity for the afflicted.
Who helped me
Against the pride of the Titans?
Who delivered me from Death,
From Slavery?
Did you not accomplish it all yourself,
My holy, burning Heart?
And shone, young and good,
Deceived, your thanks for salvation
To the sleeping one above?
Should I honour you? Why?
Have you softened the sufferings,
Ever, of the burdened?
Have you stilled the tears,
Ever, of the anguished?
Was I not forged as a Man
By almighty Time
And eternal Fate,
My masters and thine?
Do you somehow imagine
That I should hate Life,
Flee to the desert,
Because not every
Flowering dream should bloom?
Here I sit, I form humans
After my own image;
A race, to be like me,
To sorrow, to weep,
To enjoy and delight itself,
And to heed you not at all -
Like Me!
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe