Poems you Love

There's a great thread going on about poems our members write. I am not able to write anything there, for the few poems I wrote were in Portuguese... but I love poetry and there are many poems I just adore and others I'm willing to discover.

Let's share our favorite poems!

Please don't forget to give the credits to the author and mention the book it was published in, if you have that information.

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I found this one very funny, but can someone explain to me what is arn-o-one and narn-a-one?

Prayer to St Catherine *

St Catherine, St Catherine, O lend me thine aid,
And grant that I never may die an old maid.

A husband, St Catherine,
A good one, St Catherine;
But arn-a-one better than
Narn-a-one, St Catherine.

Sweet St Catherine,
A husband, St Catherine,
Handsome, St Catherine,
Rich, St Catherine.


Anonymous
* St Catherine is the patron saint of spinsters

from the book Love - Poems chosen by Fiona Waters

Originally posted by MariaLux
I found this one very funny, but can someone explain to me what is arn-o-one and narn-a-one?

Prayer to St Catherine *

St Catherine, St Catherine, O lend me thine aid,
And grant that I never may die an old maid.

A husband, St Catherine,
A good one, St Catherine;
But arn-a-one better than
Narn-a-one, St Catherine.

Sweet St Catherine,
A husband, St Catherine,
Handsome, St Catherine,
Rich, St Catherine.



Anonymous
* St Catherine is the patron saint of spinsters

from the book Love - Poems chosen by Fiona Waters

Maria,

Essentially, "arn-a-one" translates as anyone, and "narn-a-one" translates as no one

Thank you Stan, I thought it could be that, but was afraid it was my imagination. But it fits in perfectly! :)

A Red Red Rose

by Robert Burns

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune;

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

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Till a'the seas gang dry, my Dear,
and the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will love thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o'life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

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Classic Love Poems
Summersdale

This is my kinda thread!:D

I have to start with a couple of my favourite short poems here. My favourite poet is William Blake, he is able to convey messages in my mind that bring light to even the darkest corners. Allen Ginsberg once said of Blake, "It was like God had a human voice, with all the infinite tenderness and anciency and mortal gravity of a living Creator speaking to his son."

So here's 3 of my favourites from Blake:

Auguries Of Innocence.

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower.
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.




Opportunities.

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy.
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity's sunrise.




The Fly.

Little fly,
Thy summers play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not
thou a man like me?

For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly.
If I live,
Or if I die.


I love poetry and I'll be sure to put up some more poems very soon.
:)

P. B. Shelley

CLXXXIV. Love's Philosophy

THE fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
________________________________
e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
____________________________________
Gillian

From the book "The Song of Songs* - a new translation" by Marcia Falk

Love Lyrics from the Bible

At night in bed, I want him-
The one I love is not here.

I'll rise and search the city,
Through the streets and squares

Until the city watchsmen
Find me wandering there

And I ask them- have you seen him?
The one I love is not here.

When they have gone, I find him
And I won't let him go

Until he's in my mother's home,
The room where I was born.

O women of the city,
Swear by the wild field doe

Not to wake or rouse us
Till we fulfill our love.

*also known in English as the Song of Solomon

Beloved, what do you want of me?
I contain all that was, and that is, and shall be,
I am filled with the all.
Take of me all you please-
if you want all of myself, I'll not say no.
Tell me, beloved, what you want of me-
I am Love, who am filled with the all:
what you want,
we want, beloved-
tell us your desire nakedly.

by Marguerite Porete (?~1310) translated by Peter Dronke



All I was doing was Breathing

Something has reached out and taken in the beams of my eyes.
There is a longing, it is for his body, for every hair of that dark body.
All I was doing was being, and the Dancing Energy came by my house.
My family says: "Don't ever see him again!" And implies things in a low voice.
But my eyes have their own life; they laugh at rules, and know whose they are.
I believe i can bear on my shoulders whatever you want to say to me.
MIra says: Without the energy that lifts mountains, how am I to live?

by MIrabai (1498~1565?) translated by Robert Bly


both poems from the book Women in Praise of the Sacred, edit by Jane Hirshfield (Harper Collins Publishers)

Ok I know this is an obvious choice, but it needs to be put up!:D
This is one of the best and most famous poems ever written I would say. It's not a poem that's supposed to be taken literally. It's a poem about perfection. About being in a blissful state of awareness and it was written from the raw materials of inspiration. So, here it is:

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But Oh! That deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! As holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momentarily the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices phrophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, "Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise."

She Walks in Beauty
Lord Byron

I

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

II

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

III

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

God and Gold


As gold breeds misery
Misery breeds light
That makes the stones glare
For the pauper's delight.



Light is but the pauper's gold
Stones are but rocks
That pave the way where run
God's miserable flocks.


The world has many rocks
God has many flocks
God's a shepherd, I was told
God is made of gold.

by Vinicius de Moraes

Rio de Janeiro, 1959


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A Birthday


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My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

http://www.palermoviejo.com/palermoviejo/gifs/minigifs-segunda/pareja8.gif

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And pea****s with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleur-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

~ Christina Rossetti ~


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A poem by Jacques Prevert from the collection PAROLES published in 1949

BARBARA

Rappelle-toi Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là
Et tu marchais souriante
Epanouie ravie ruisselante
Sous la pluie
Rappelle-toi Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest
Et je t’ai croisée rue de Siam
Tu souriais
Et moi je souriais de même
Rappelle-toi Barbara
Toi que je ne connaissais pas
Toi qui ne me connaissais pas
Rappelle-toi
Rappelle-toi quand même ce jour-là
N’oublie pas
Un homme sous un porche s’abritait
Et il a crié ton nom
Barbara
Et tu as couru vers lui sous la pluie
Ruisselante ravie épanouie
Et tu t’es jetée dans ses bras
Rappelle-toi cela Barbara
Et ne m’en veux pas si je te tutoie
Je dis tu à tous ceux que j’aime
Même si je ne les ai vus qu’une seule fois
Je dis tu à tous ceux qui s’aiment
Même si je ne les connais pas
Rappelle-toi Barbara
N’oublie pas
Cette pluie sage et heureuse
Sur ton visage heureux
Sur cette ville heureuse
Cette pluie sur la mer
Sur l’arsenal
Sur le bateau d’Ouessant
Oh Barbara
Quelle connerie la guerre
Qu’es-tu devenue maintenant
Sous cette pluie de fer
De feu d’acier de sang
Et celui qui te serrait dans ses bras
Amoureusement
Est-il mort disparu ou bien encore vivant
Oh Barbara
Il pleut sans cesse sur Brest
Comme il pleuvait avant
Mais ce n’est plus pareil et tout est abîmé
C’est une pluie de deuil terrible et désolée
Ce n’est même plus l’orage
De fer d’acier de sang
Tout simplement des nuages
Qui crèvent comme des chiens
Des chiens qui disparaissent
Au fil de l’eau sur Brest
Et vont pourrir au loin
Au loin très loin de Brest
Dont il ne reste rien.

Another by Prévert from the same collection.

DÉJEUNER DU MATIN

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s’est levé
Il a mis
son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu’il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j’ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j’ai pleuré.

http://www.geocities.com/poeticarte/retrat.GIF

Here is a poem by the so-tragically-murdered-at-the-tender-for-a-genius-age-of-38-as-a-divine-casualty-of-the-Spanish-Civil-War-in-1936 Spanish genius Federico García Lorca from the collection ROMANCERO GITANO composed 1924-1928.

ROMANCE SONÁMBULO

Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montana.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella suena en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fria plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la estan mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.

Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha,
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduno,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
Pero quien vendra?
Y por donde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
sonando en la mar amarga.

Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo por su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los montes de Cabra.

Si yo pudiera, mocito,
ese trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo.
Ni mi casa es ya mi casa.

Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sabanas de holanda.
No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?

Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo.
Ni mi casa es ya mi casa.

Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas,
dejadme subir! dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.

Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lagrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal,
herian la madrugada.

Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento, dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
Compadre! Donde esta, dime?
Donde esta tu nina amarga?
Cuantas veces te espero!
Cuantas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!

Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecia la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fria plata.
Un carambano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso intima
como una pequena plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos,
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montana.

Beautiful, Patricia!!

Do you know this turned into a gorgeous song? Brazilian singer Fagner sang it, it's really a beautiful song!

I had never read the whole poem, and didn't even know he was murdered! I will read more about Lorca!

Gracias!

This is one of my Absolute favourite poems - I just love the language and imagery.

To Earthward
by Robert Frost.

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of--was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Downhill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

And I've posted this one before but I think it bears repeating! :D

Phenomenal Woman
By Maya Angelou


Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

One of my favorites for those days when you want to lie in bed with your shnoocums and sunbeams force you to move.



The Sun Rising
by John Donne

BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source:
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 7-8.

Ripening

your eyes are pure
clear and unjaded
as a deep clear pool
in a desert

like a rare incense
I breathe you in

you held me
you tasted me
you caressed me

(such a heartfelt possession,
yes, oh yes)

you poured your soul before me
and it seemed as if I were
home

they say that
age doesn’t matter --
I disagree

but I am glad
we are old enough
for us.

The Windhover

I caught this morning morning's minion, King-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird -- the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume here
Buckle! And the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

No Doctors Today, Thank You

They tell me that euphoria is the feeling of feeling wonderful; well, today I feel euphorian,
Today I have the agility of a Greek god and the appetite of a Victorian.
Yes, today I may even go forth without my galoshes:
Today I am a swashbuckler, would anybody like me to buckle any swashes?
This is my euphorian day,
I will ring welkins and before anybody answers I will run away.
I will tame me a caribou
And bedeck it with marabou.
I will pen me my memoirs.
Ah youth! youth! What Euphorian days them was!
I wasn't much of a hand for the boudoirs,
I was generally to be found where the food was.
Does anybody want any flotsam?
I've gotsam.
Does anybody want any jetsam?
I can getsam.
I can play "Chopsticks" on the Wurlitzer,
I can speak Portuguese like a Berlitzer.
I can don or doff my shoes without tying or untying the laces because I am wearing moccasins,
And I practically know the difference between serums and antitoccasins.
Kind people, don't think me purse-proud, don't set me down as vainglorious,
I'm just a little euphorious.

-- Ogden Nash

The Hosting of the Sidhe

The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

-- W.B. Yeats.

PS: John Donne rocks. :cool:

This poem came to me at a very significant time. It hangs on my fridge ever since. It has helped me tremendously through a lot of difficult decisons and times. Now I pass it on, in hopes that it will find a new fridge!


The Journey
Mary Oliver

one day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you kept shouting
their bad advice-

though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles

"mend my life!"
each voice cried.
but you didn't stop.

you knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with it's stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy was terrible.

it was already late enough,
and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen branches and stones.

but, little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds,
and their was a new voice which you slowly recognized
as your own
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper into the world
determined to do the only thing you could do-
determined to save the only life that you could save.

EVENING SKY GARNET RED
-RUMI

morning opens a door with help for
those who don't ask for any. Love

tears its shirt. Mind begins the
sewing repair. You come and both

run off. I burn like aloe wood to
touch the one who set this. Dressed

sometimes like disaster, sometimes
like a guide, the ox of the self

sweetens his mouth in a pasture. A
parrot falls in love with an Arabian

colt. Fish want linen shirts. The
drunken lion hunts drunken gazelles.

It cannot be said how you take form.
One man asks for spoiled cheese.

The prayer rugs all point different
ways. If you would soak again the

evening sky your garnet red, the
qibla tips would turn that way.


_____________________________


your eyes, when they really see
a rose or an anemone, flood the
wheeling universe with tears.

I love it, Danika. I really love this poem!

Yes, that cummings poem is great, and so are the Yeats. And Emily. Wow, we are posting wonderful poems.

One of my very favorites in English--a triumph of imagery:

"The Bells" by Edgar Allen Poe (circa 1845)

I.

HEAR the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! -
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! - how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.

Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now - now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

IV.

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy meaning of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people - ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls: -
And their king it is who tolls: -
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells -
Of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the sobbing of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells: -
To the tolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

I am a huge fan of Blake, and cummings and Dickensen!!! And many others!!!

Here is one of my fav e. e. cummings poems:



i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Another by cummings:


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

While in college, studying for my degree in English, I had the great priviledge to study under one of the best writer's of poetry that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. She became one of my mentors and a good friend.

This is one of my favorites. I think most of the women on this board can relate to this one.



Gretel

by Andrea Hollander Budy

A woman is born to this:
sift, measure, mix, roll thin.

She learns the dough until
it folds into her skin and there is

no difference. Much later
she tries to lose it. Makes bets

with herself and wins enough
to keep trying. One day she begins

that long walk in unfamiliar woods.
She means to lose everything

she is. She empties her dark pockets,
dropping enough crumbs

to feed all the men who have ever
touched her or wished.

When she reaches the clearing
she is almost transparent—

so thin
the old woman in the house seizes

only the brother. You know the rest:
She won’t escape that oven. She’ll eat

the crumbs meant for him, remember
something of his touch, reach

for the sifter and the cup.



from House Without a Dreamer, 1993
Story Line Press, Ashland, OR

Copyright 1993 by Andrea Hollander Budy.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission

Originally posted by ~Guinavere~

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


I am in love with this one now! I have to send it to Jason! Thanks for the beautiful poems that will brighten my day, Guin!!!

And this last one is so beautiful, too!

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the c0ck on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again,
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
Onto the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gray house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying,
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

-- Dylan Thomas.

Venus stands clear of the horizon,
And the red dog fights low in the sky.
With my lips I have tasted
The blessing of Hesperus --
I am the elder initiate.

Where is the wind on this night of nights?
She is there in the trees,
She is scattering the apples,
She is singing low on daggers of frost.
It has been long since I was warm --
Autumn is here, and my soul sings to Death.

And you, when will you return?
I long to capture your body,
To make the blood dance in your veins.
Soon I will lead you to beauty:
To the river, to the bridge of light,
And perhaps onward into forest,
Where the borderlines melt into green.

Well did you say I laugh too easily.
Et votre petit chien aussi.
I have blown the trump of Jericho,
I have danced the moon to lust --
I am the wind upon the sea.

Follow me, and so discover
The void of your deepest dream,
And the light of your sweetest nightmare.

Fall.
I will teach you to fly.

http://sc.groups.msn.com/tn/52/01/AgelessLoveUnofficalMemberPhotoAlbum/c8/9c4.jpg

The First Kiss of Love

by Lord Byron


Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove !
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.


Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love !


If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love.


I hate you, ye cold compositions of art !
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.


Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love ?


Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.


When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past -
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove -
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

Very cool, Maria.

Merci, mon amie!
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Possession

Listen as the wind blows
From across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning
Memories trapped in time
The night is my companion
And solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here
And not be satisfied?

And I would be the one
To hold you down
Kiss you so hard
I'll take your breath away
And after, I'd wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes dear

Through this world I've stumbled
So many times betrayed
Trying to find an honest word, to find
The truth enslaved
Oh, you speak to me in riddles
And you speak to me in rhyme
My body aches to breathe your breath
Your words keep me alive

Into this night I wander
It's morning that I dread
Another day of knowing of
The path I fear to tread
Oh, into the sea of waking dreams
I follow without pride
Nothing stands between us here
And I won't be denied

And I would be the one
To hold you down
Kiss you so hard
I'll take your breath away
And after, I'd wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes...

-Sarah McLachlan.

Mairg darab galar an grádh
(Love is a sad sickness)

translation from Irish to English by James Carney

Mairg darab galar an grádh,
Love is a sad sickness --
gibé fath fá n-abraim é
When speaking to him, whatever the cause,
is deacair sgarthain re a pháirt;
it is a hardship to separate after time together.
truagh an cás a bhfuilim féin.
Pity my own blood's case.
-- --
An grádh-soin tugas gan fhios,
This love of mine came without [my] knowledge;
ós é mo leas gan a luadh,
my benefits came over him without mention.
muna fhaghad furtacht tráth,
For us delay departure an hour,
biaidh mo bhláth go tana truagh.
if my flower would, till a time of pity.
-- --
An fear-soin dá dtugas grádh,
This man of mine -- love came, for him,
's nách féadaim a rádh ós aird,
and I cannot say from what direction;
dá gcuire sé mise i bpéin,
though buried, it's myself in pain,
go madh dó féin bhus céad mairg!
till I burn myself with a hundred sorrows!

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Anonymous: In the autumn fields

(translated by Jon LaCure)

From the early section of the love poems of the Kokinoshu.

In the autumn fields
mingled with the pampas grass
flowers are blooming
should my love too, spring forth
or shall we never meet?


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Note: These are actually traditional Irish song lyrics, but the way conflicting emotions are expressed is amazing.

A blacksmith courted me
Nine months and better
He fairly won my heart
Wrote me a letter
With his hammer in his hand
He looked quite clever
And if I was with my love
I'd live forever.

But where is my love gone
With his cheeks like roses
And his good black Billyc0ck on
Decked round with primroses
I'm afraid the scorching sun
Will shine and burn his beauty
And if I was with my love
I'd do my duty.

Strange news has come to town
Strange news is carried
Strange news flies up and down
That my love is married.
I wish them both much joy
Though they can't hear me
And may God reward him well
For the slighting of me!

Don't you remember when
You lay beside me
And you said you'd marry me
And not deny me
If I said I'd marry you
It was only for to try you
So bring your witness, love
And I'll not deny you.

No witness have I none
Save God Almighty
And may he reward you well
For the slighting of me.
(Her lips grew pale and wan
Ah, it made a poor heart tremble
To think she loved a one
And he proved deceitful.)

A blacksmith courted me
Nine months and better
He fairly won my heart
Wrote me a letter
With his hammer in his hand
He looked quite clever
And if I was with my love
I'd live forever.

Note: More song lyrics. This is by a Canadian singer named Jann Arden. This is a special song to me for personal reasons, since my ym is American...

Every tear you cry
Every doubt you have
All of these things will pass away
All of your big mistakes
Your little old heart would break
I’m wishing that I could take them back

Write down the things you don’t want
Burn them in a glass
Write down the things you dream of
Make a paper plane that flies to heaven

And buy a ticket for a plane
And come and see me, baby
Or drive your car all night
By just starlight
To Canada,
That’s where I’ll be waiting...

All of the empty rooms
All of the silent space
Every warm embrace is you
Nothing is like it was
There’s nobody here but us
I have been filled right up with this

Write down the words of sadness
Burn them in a cup
Write down the things you’ve wanted
Throw them to the wind
That’s soaring up to heaven

And buy a ticket for a plane
And come and see me baby
Or drive your car all night
By just starlight
To Canada...

That’s where I’ll be waiting.

Maria
by Jason Korolenko

Her face is a marble sculpture
Painted in golden brown flesh.
She stands strong and always wise
And loves with every breath.

Her lips are passion fruits
Dripping red with flame.
They speak an oath of destiny,
By forgiving lack of shame.

Her words are summer sunshine,
Bright and piercing light;
The shadows cast by luminescence
Burn away the fog of night.

Her name is breath of God,
Wrapped by smoky smiles,
And in her eyes I rest unbothered
Dancing all the while.

Oh, sweetie, this is the first poem someone has made for me!

Thank you! I wish I were a poet like you...

You are the muse that every poet, artist, musician wishes they had...I'm just lucky enough to call you mine.

A million kisses to you...the most gorgeous of women...

One of the pages I enjoy for Japanese poetry:

Prince Otsu (663-86): Poem sent by Prince Otsu to Lady Ishikawa

In the classical age much of the verse was occasional poetry, and poetic exchanges were a necessary part of courtship. In this exchange the Lady Ishikawa has taken Prince Otsu's poem and cleverly rearranged it. She repeats in the forth line what Prince Otsu has repeated in lines two and five of his poem.

How does Lady Ishakawa turn Prince Otsu's complaint at having been stood up into a compliment which reassures him of her continuing love?

Gentle foothills, and
in the dew drops of the mountains,
soaked, I waited for you--
grew wet from standing there
in the dew drops of the mountains.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lady Ishikawa (7th C. CE): Poem by Lady Ishikawa in response

Waiting for me,
you grew wet there
in gentle foothills,
in the dew drops of the mountains--
I wish I'd been such drops of dew.

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

All poems translated by Jon LaCure

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Jason, I will have to write something for you tonight. Just keep in mind I'm not a poet, just someone deeply in love. :)

Sensation

Arthur Rimbaud

Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :
Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien,
Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme ;
Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, heureux- comme avec une femme.


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Sensation

On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass :
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.

I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing :
But endless love will mount in my soul ;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman.


March, 1870
Translated by Oliver Bernard : Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)

Why do I love you?

I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.

I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself
But for what
You are making of me.

I love you
For ignoring the possibilities
Of the fool in me
And for laying firm hold
Of the possibilities for good.

Why do I love you?

I love you
For closing your eyes
do the discords
And for adding to the music in me
By worshipful listening

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple,
And out of the words
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.

I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
To make me happy.

You have done it
Without a word
Without a touch,
Without a sign.
You have done it
Just by being yourself

After all
Perhaps that is what
Love means

Roy Croft


and yes, Jason, you are a beautiful poet. Maria is blessed beyond measure.

Hehe, he is, beenmistaken (and you are right, I'm blessed!), and I am still trying to come up with something! It's even more difficult when it's not your native language...

Sweetie, it may take about 50 years, would you be patient? I know you'll be there anyway...
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Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles,
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce would bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

-W.B. Yeats.

...Still with me

So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away thou art present still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, they with thee...

Shakespeare, from Sonnet 47

Be like a tree in pursuit of your cause.
Stand firm, grip hard, reach upward,
bend to the winds of heaven, and learn tranquility.

-Richard St. Barbe-Baker

Grey Wolf,
We are sending you
To that Great God.
Tell Him
That we, who invented forgiveness
do not forgive;
That we, who speak of trust
cannot trust;
That we, who invoke faith
would not believe.

I write as though you could read,
But I know you understand.
When you have left the forests and the tundra
and no longer leave your sinewy trails within the snows,
tell Him that
you were made on a different day.

Your howls of bewilderment will echo with the mountain winds,
And your lost songs will join those of the whales.
Tell Him for me,
Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.

-O. Fred Donaldson

If You Were Coming In The Fall
by Emily 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 into separate drawers
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed
I'd count them on my hand
Subtracting 'till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's land

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

But now all ignorant of length,
Of times uncertain wing,
It goads me like the goblin bee
That will not state its sting!

Love

by Pablo Neruda

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.


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Danika, you stop scarying me, girl!

Jason just told me last night, when he saw the poem, he loved Pablo Neruda... you see, I posted for him... oh girl, we have to meet soon, this is very very weird! :eek:

Sonnet XVII (100 Love Sonnets, 1960)

Pablo Neruda

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
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,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.


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There are just some translations of some of her works... the originals are, of course, in Portuguese. She was born in Portugal in 1894, and committed suicide at the age of 36.. At least one of her poems became a song.

Kiss my hands, Love, make them feel caressed
Kiss them as if we two were only siblings,
Two birds singing in the sun and in the same nest.

Kiss them, Love!... The wildest fantasy is at my fingertips
To hold those kisses locked within my hands
The kisses that I dreamed were for my lips!...

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To be a poet is to be taller, to be bigger
Than average men! It is to bite as if you’re kissing!
It is to give alms, although you are a beggar,
Like the king of a realm where only pain is missing!
................................
It is to have inside yourself a flaming star,
To have the condor's mighty claw and wing!
................................
To be hungry and thirsty for the sky!
................................
To condense the world into one lonely cry!

http://www.smilieland.com/graphics2/bird1.gif

What kind of magic potion
Did you give me from that jar?
That I forget who I am
But always know who you are...

Carlos Drummond was one of the greatest Brazilian poets of the 20th century. After his death, and only after, his family finally agreed to publish a collection of Drummond's erotic poems, revealing a side of the poet that was until then unknown to the public. It's a great book, hard to imagine such a serious man wrote it...

The book is called O Amor Natural (the natural love) and one of the poems goes like this:


O Amor Natural

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

A love that cannot wait for bed

On hard floor, on carpet, rug

Our bodies weave the moist story's thread

And to rest from love, we go to bed

http://d21c.com/AnnesPlace/Fant/Torch2.gif

More of Carlos Drummond de Andrade in “Amar se Aprende Amando”

http://www.palermoviejo.com/palermoviejo/gifs/minigifs-segunda/pareja8.gif O mundo é grande


O mundo é grande e cabe
nesta janela sobre o mar.
O mar é grande e cabe
na cama e no colchão de amar.
O amor é grande e cabe
no breve espaço de beijar.

http://www.palermoviejo.com/palermoviejo/gifs/minigifs-segunda/pareja8.gif The world is large

The world is large and fits
in this window over the sea
The sea is large and fits
in the bed and in the mattress of love
Love is large and fits
in the brief space of a kiss.

And to continue the Portuguese language poems, this is by Fernando Pessoa, the greatest Portuguese poet of the 20th century.

This is his most famous poem, I chose one translation but there are many others:

"Autopsicografia"

O poeta é um fingidor.
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.

E os que lêem o que escreve,
Na dor lida sentem bem,
Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só que eles não têm.

E assim nas calhas de roda
Gira, a entreter a razão
Esse comboio de corda
Que se chama o coração

—Fernando Pessoa

"Autopsychography"

The poet is a fake.
His faking seems so real
That he will fake the ache
Which he can really feel.


And those who read his cries
Feel in the paper tears
Not two aches that are his
But one that is not theirs.


And so in its ring
Giving the mind a game
Goes this train on a string
And the heart is its name.


translation by Keith Bosley

http://www.bestanimations.com/Nature/Flora/WaterLily-05.gif

He Wishes For The Clothes Of Heaven

William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the halflight,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


http://www.millan.net/anims/giffar/ppollen.gif

Drinking Song

by William Butler Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.


http://saoriweyr.free.fr/darkbeauties/avril.gif

Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne

by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)


Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne,
Ô vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne,
Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis,
Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits,
Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues
Qui séparent mes bras des immensités bleues.

Je m'avance à l'attaque, et je grimpe aux assauts,
Comme après un cadavre un choeur de vermisseaux,
Et je chéris, ô bête implacable et cruelle !
Jusqu'à cette froideur par où tu m'es plus belle !


Translation

I Adore You As Much As The Vault Of Night

I adore you as much as the vault of night,
O vase of sadness, O taciturn light,
And I love you even more, dear, when you turn away
And when you, ornamented with my night, display
More ironically the depths of the sea
That separate my arms from blue immensities.

I advance to attack, I climb to assault
Like a choir of worms on a corpse's salt
And I cherish you, O beast implacable and cruel!
At your coldest you are most beautiful.



http://www.palermoviejo.com/palermoviejo/gifs/trouvailles2/4.gif

I love you
so far beyond this night,
that the edge,the very limit of my love,
silently recedes
and leads me to the promise of love's new self
In you, I find happiness in every waking moment
For you: may your life be filled with joy, love,
I love you,
so far beyond this night
that if there were no sun, no dawn,
this nights love would rise.

by eddie balchowski

ahhhh MARIALUX ..THANKYOU...what a beautiful collection!!

I love that poem you posted, too, and I hope you'll share more, I was feeling lonely here! This is my favorite thread of all times! :D

Originally posted by MariaLux


Kiss my hands, Love, make them feel caressed
Kiss them as if we two were only siblings,
Two birds singing in the sun and in the same nest.

Kiss them, Love!... The wildest fantasy is at my fingertips
To hold those kisses locked within my hands
The kisses that I dreamed were for my lips!...





AHHH! I love this one! My sweet husband is always kissing my hands. It is the most romantic jesture I have ever experienced. No other man in my life has ever kissed my hands.

Maria,

You post the most beatiful poetry!!!

Thanks, Guin!

This one is for the mothers in this site! It's by Nobel prize winner, Chilean poet, Gabriela Mistral (1889-1957). Her real name was Lucila Godoy y Alcayaga

Close To Me http://saoriweyr.free.fr/minigifs/animal-26[1].gif

Gabriela Mistral

Little fleece of my flesh
that I wove in my womb,
little shivering fleece,
sleep close to me!.

The partridge sleeps in the clover
hearing its heart beat.
My breathing will not wake you.
Sleep close to me!.

Little trembling blade of grass
astonished to be alive,
don't leave my breast.
Sleep close to me!.

I who have lost everything
am now afraid to sleep.
Don't slip away from my arms.
Sleep close to me!.



The original in Spanish:

APEGADO A MÍ http://saoriweyr.free.fr/minigifs/animal-26[1].gif
Velloncito de mi carne,
que en mi entraña yo tejí,
velloncito friolento,
¡duérmete apegado a mí!

La perdiz duerme en el trébol
escuchándole latir:
no te turben mis alientos,
¡duérmete apegado a mí!

Hierbecita temblorosa
asombrada de vivir,
no te sueltes de mi pecho:
¡duérmete apegado a mí!

Yo que todo lo he perdido
ahora tiemblo de dormir.
No resbales de mi brazo:
¡duérmete apegado a mí!

EVEN THE SUNLIGHT IS GRAY IN THESE EMPTY ROOMS INSIDE ME
WINDOWS BROKEN..DUSTY EVERYWHERE-IT IS A HOLLOW PLACE
THE AIR IS NOT MOVING..THERE IS NOTHING OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS TO MOVE.

IS THAT ME SITTING IN THE CORNER..IN THE DARK? OR IS IT WHO I WAS BEFORE I MET YOU?
LONG. SO LONG AGO BEFORE WE MET...IS SHE YOUR LITTLE BABY?
SHE IS SO TENDER AND OPEN.

THE EARTH SHAKES THIS ROOM WHEN I SMELL YOUR SHIRT.
A TORNADO OF PAIN GRABS ME AND THROWS ME INTO DARKNESS
ONLY YOU CAN SAVE ME
ONLY YOU CAN CONVINCE ME THIS IS NOT A DREAM
WHERE ARE YOU?

I IMAGINE YOU SITTING IN YOUR EMPTY ROOMS TOO
YOUR EYES CLOSED, WET.
YOUR STRONG ARMS WISHING TO CARRY ME TO THE EDGE OF THE ENDLESS
IF ONLY I COULD FLY TO YOU
IF ONLY I COULD FLY
WITH YOU.

Hi All:
Thank you Maria, for CLOSE TO ME. I read it to my son.

Dream Variation

By Langston Hughes

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me---
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall,slim tree....
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

I love Langston Hughes!!!

That is such a lovely poem...Makes me want to whirl and dance too...to be as free as a child!

Beautiful poem! I didn't know this poet... thanks Cheryl.

Now this next poem, I found it with those "-" all over, I don't know if it's like this in the original, I find it a bit too much... if someone knows, please tell me!

Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights - Wild Nights!

Wild Nights - Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile - the Winds -
To a Heart in port -
Done with the Compass -
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor -Tonight -
In Thee!

http://saoriweyr.free.fr/darkbeauties/fairy4.gif

When Sue Wears RED


By Langston Hughes


When Susanna Jones wears red
Her face is like an ancient cameo
Turned brown by the ages.

Come with a blast of trumpets,
Jesus!

When Susanna Jones wears red
A queen from some time-dead Egyyptian night
Walks once again.

Blow trumpets, Jesus!

And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red
Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain.

Sweet silver trumpets,
Jesus!!





Ummm......is this man in LOVE or What?? (LOL)

Sorry all about the poem I just added with ( ) in it. Trying to get the hang of putting my posts in color.

THe poem is from:
Selected Poems Langston Hughes

1959

I first read this book of poems in 1990. This happens to be one of my favorites and still makes me cry. Alice Walker won the American book award for her nover THE COLOR PURPLE. She also won the Pulitzer Prize.


BEYOND WHAT

By Alice Walker



We reach for destinies beyond what we have come to know and in the romantic hush of promises perceive each the other's life as known mystery. Shared. But inviolate. No Melting. No Squeezing into ONE. We swing our eyes around as well as side to side to see the World.




To choose, renounce, this, or that-------- call it a council between equals call it love.


Book: Her Blue Body Everything We Know: Earthling Poems 1965 -1990 Complete 1991

Wystan Hugh Auden
__________________

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought that love would last forever: 'I was wrong'

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Gotta bite this one...

Love in the Asylum...Dylan Thomas (anything by D. Thomas!)

The Winds of Fate...Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Into My Heart an Air That Kills...A.E. Houseman

Fire and Ice...Robert Frost

First Fig...Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes and oh, my friends-
It gives a lovely light.

The Kiss...Coventry Patmore

'I saw you take his kiss!' ''Tis true'.
'O modesty!' ''Twas strictly kept:
He thought me asleep - at least, I knew
He thought I thought he thought I slept'.

Womans Constancy...John Donne

just a taste...

Gillian, so beautiful!!

Strato, could you share with us those poems you mentioned? I loved the ones you posted! :)

Love in the Asylum...Dylan Thomas

A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl as mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my waking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.


The Winds of Fate...Ella Wheeler Wilcox

One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that blow.
'Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
Which tells us the way to go.

Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate,
As we voyage along through life:
'Tis the set of the soul
That decides its goal,
And not the calm or the strife.


'Into my heart an air that kills...' A.E. Houseman

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.


Fire and Ice...Robert Frost

Somee say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


Womans Constancy...John Donne

Now thou hast lov'd me one whole day,
To morrow when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then Antedate some new made vow?
Or say that now
We are not just these persons, which we were?
Or, that oathes made in reverentiall feare
Of lLove, and his wrath, any may foresweare?
Or, as true deaths, true maryages untie,
So lovers contracts, images of those,
Binde but till sleep, deaths image, them unloose?
Or, your owne end to Justifie,
For having purpos'd, change, and falsehood; you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vaine lunatique, against these scapes I could
Dispute and conquer, if I would,
Which I abstaine to doe,
For by to morrow, I may thinke so too.

(bit tricky that last one but persevere, metaphysical poets, eh!)

Beautiful choice, Strato!

I didn't know this next poet, I loved what I could read from him, especially this poem. What annoys me is not knowing if the poet really wrote it like it's presented.

No capital letters, paragraphs placed like this, I would like to know if this is exactly as the poet meant it to be...

A leaf falling in the air

Joseph Mayo Wristen

from the time it leaves
the branch of the tree
to the time it touches
the ground I will
have thought of you
my love, a thousand times

my hand resting against jagged rock

our life nettled above velvet clouds

shadow of softness your mind

touching earth’s diverse reflection

whispered words of love

your image inherited in my soul

unity of our two hearts beating

hoping you can feel the un

alloyed love I possess for you


from the time it leaves
the branch of the tree
to the time it touches
the ground I will
have thought of you
my love, a thousand times

a leaf falling in the air



http://www.enjoy.ne.jp/%7Etokutpk/HTML/Materials/Four_Season/Autumn/November/pic/021101.gif

My love is as a fever

Sonnet 147 by William Shakespeare

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.


http://www.enjoy.ne.jp/%7Etokutpk/HTML/Materials/Four_Season/Winter/February/pic/cut2.gif

Wow Maria! I thought the Argentine Rally stage was hot enuff!
Shakespeare at his utmost!!
Awesme choice, Maria...xxx

God! Dreadful typo, there! But hey....it's late... :D

L’Étrangère

Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

Ah ! que le monde est difficile !
Hélas ! il n’est pas fait pour moi.
Ma sœur, en ton obscur asile,
J’étais plus heureuse avec toi.
On m’appelle ici l’étrangère ;
C’est le nom de qui n’a point d’or,
Si je ris, je suis trop légère ;
Si je rêve... on en parle encor.

Si je mêle à ma chevelure
La fleur que j’aimais dans nos bois.
Je suis, dit-on, dans ma parure,
Timide et coquette à la fois ;
Puis-je ne pas la trouver belle ?
Le printemps en a fait mon bien :
Pour me parer je n’avais qu’elle ;
On l’effeuille, et je n’ai plus rien.

Je sors de cet âge paisible,
Où l’on joue avec le malheur :
Je m’éveille, je suis sensible,
Et je l’apprends par la douleur.
Un seul être à moi s’intéresse :
Il n’a rien dit, mais je le vois ;
Et je vois même à sa tristesse,
Qu’il est étranger comme moi.

Ah ! si son regard plein de charmes
Recèle un doux rayon d’espoir,
Quelle main essuiera les larmes
Qui m’empêchent de l’entrevoir ?
Soumise au monde qui m’observe,
Je dois mourir, jamais pleurer :
Et je n’use qu’avec réserve
Du triste espoir de soupirer !

http://www.enjoy.ne.jp/%7Etokutpk/HTML/Materials/Flowers/pic/sakura.gif

I won't even try to translate this... poetry is difficult to translate...

How Wisdom Glows

My eyes twinkled.
Jewels of discovery fell like tears,
Forming a shimmering pool at my unsteady feet.

Light radiated up,
Up over my nakedness,
Reaching my face,
Flushing my cheeks with heat.

More twinkled tears,
More understanding,
More light,
Until I was completely hidden
By sparkling jewels of wisdom.

by me

Emotional Cipher

What can be the difference
between love and infatuation
Is one the true feeling
and the other imagination
Elders say to infatuate
is the way to love for fools
Yet the mysteries of love
follow no definite rules
Maybe infatuation is
only physical attraction
Peppered with emotion
for the heat's distraction
But even true love
in it's purest sense
Is salted with
a taste of decadence
Both feelings may devolve
into that which is just
A purely physical attraction
known as the infamous lust

Although so very similar
there must be some difference
And if I were to choose
love would be my preference

by Troy (my sweetie :) )

and another:

Passion

Love me little, love me long
Hold me foever, keep me strong
All my tears of joy and bliss
Drawn from my eyes with a single kiss

Your simple touch and warm embrace
Wipe away my fears without a trace
My heart can only ever be free
As long as you are here with me

The Rainy Day
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Phenomenal Woman
Maya Angelou




Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I found this website while doing a google search for this poem. I'm thrilled to have found it. About 45 years ago, when I first heard it, we had one more line at the end. It was: "Soon, St Catherine."

St Catherine, St Catherine, O lend me thine aid,
And grant that I never may die an old maid.

A husband, St Catherine,
A good one, St Catherine;
But arn-a-one better than
Narn-a-one, St Catherine.

Sweet St Catherine,
A husband, St Catherine,
Handsome, St Catherine,
Rich, St Catherine.

Dont know if you can call this a poem but defintely inspiring.

AFTER AWHILE

After awhile you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesnt mean leaning
and company doesnt mean security
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child
and your learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight
After awhile you learn
that even sushine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers
And your learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn...

My grandmother passed away earlier this year and the main thing I will always remember about her was this poem that she would recite to me often when I was a child, and her funny Irish folk songs she'd sing. Does anybody know any more about this poem? I'd love to find out who the poem was by and its origin. I'm not sure if I've even remembered all the words but it goes something like this;

Gypsy Jane
She had corn flowers in her hair as she walked down the lane.

'You are very brown my dear'

'Ah, sir, that may be
For I spend half a year under tent or tree.

Sun shine, blow wind, fall gentle rain.
The earth be kind,
The years be kind,
Be kind to Gypsy Jane

You have a lovely collection of poetry here. May I add a couple by two Indian poets?



Evening - Gulzar

Day abandons it
Night disowns it

a poet picks it up
threads it
into a poem;
but sometimes
it is barren,
so impotent
it gives nothing,
not even to the poet.


The Looking Glass - Kamala Das

Getting a man to love you is easy
Only be honest about your wants as
Woman. Stand nude before the glass with him
So that he sees himself the stronger one
And believes it so, and you so much more
Softer, younger, lovelier. Admit your
Admiration. Notice the perfection
Of his limbs, his eyes reddening under
The shower, the shy walk across the bathroom floor,
Dropping towels, and the jerky way he
Urinates. All the fond details that make
Him male and your only man. Gift him all,
Gift him what makes you woman, the scent of
Long hair, the musk of sweat between the breasts,
The warm shock of menstrual blood, and all your
Endless female hungers. Oh yes, getting
A man to love is easy, but living
Without him afterwards may have to be
Faced. A living without life when you move
Around, meeting strangers, with your eyes that
Gave up their search, with ears that hear only
His last voice calling out your name and your
Body which once under his touch had gleamed
Like burnished brass, now drab and destitute.

A Woman Of A Certain Age


Is it in the lines? The little ones around the eyes.

Little creases in the skin,

that you can tell a Woman is,of a certain age?

Starts out baby smooth,then time and trouble,start to add lines.

One for each time,the heart is broken,

one for each lover lost,

for each child born,

one for each illusion shattered.

One for each bitter disappointment.

Is it in the lines?

Can you see that the Woman is,of a certain age?

One line for each betrayal,

one for each hundred promises broken.

Lines for talent and potential ignored.

One for each subtle insult endured.

One for each cruel sexist remark tolerated.

And for Love, a lot of deep lines for Love.

New love found,

old love lost.

Child love,

Mother love,

the white hot heat of physical love.

Mature love,

comfortable and easy love.

The old roller coaster, up then down.

Worry, fear, joy,hope, dreams, ambition,contrition and frustration,

a lot of lines for frustration.

In the middle of life,the lines begin to merge and blend,

a look in the mirror confirms, a touch of grey.

The face has become,the story line in that,comedy-tradegy called life.

The lines begin to converge and gain form,

finally, the story is told,

On the beautiful face of a Woman.


John.L. Arnold