Poems anyone?
- Thread starter SexyDevilGirl
- Start date
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
W.H. Auden
As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
Love has no ending.
I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky
The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or To-day.
Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.
It was late, late in the evening
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
Love has no ending.
I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky
The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or To-day.
Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.
It was late, late in the evening
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
Marjorie Agosin-Human Rights Activist
El Dios De Los Ninos
Mientras la desnudaban amarrandola
y con precision de anfitriones y cirujanos
le preguntaron que en
que Dios ceria
si en el de los moros o judios
ella cabizbaja y tan lejana
repetia
yo creo en el Dios de los ninos
and English
The God of Children
They undressed her and bound her
and speaking precisely as diplomats and surgeons
asked her
which God she believed in
that of the Moors or that of the Jews
head hanging and so far away
she kept saying
I believe in the God of children
:|
El Dios De Los Ninos
Mientras la desnudaban amarrandola
y con precision de anfitriones y cirujanos
le preguntaron que en
que Dios ceria
si en el de los moros o judios
ella cabizbaja y tan lejana
repetia
yo creo en el Dios de los ninos
and English
The God of Children
They undressed her and bound her
and speaking precisely as diplomats and surgeons
asked her
which God she believed in
that of the Moors or that of the Jews
head hanging and so far away
she kept saying
I believe in the God of children
:|
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
Bouville said:
I can not read that poem without shedding tears :cry:
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
Bouville said:
someimtes tears are good, they wash away fear :|
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
Bouville said:
deal :|
maidenrawx
Member
Cyrus said:
Isn't "Thing That Shouldn't be" - Metallica has the Same wording :?
MaidenMadness
Active Member
charles baudelaire -To The Reader
Stupidity, delusion, selfishness and lust
torment our bodies and possess our minds,
and we sustain our affable remorse
the way a beggar nourishes his lice
Our sins are stubborn, our contrition lame;
we want our scruples to be worth our while-
how cheerfully we crawl back to the mire:
with few cheap tears washing our stains away!
Satan Trismegistus subtly rocks
our ravished spirits on his wicked bed
until the precious metal of our will
is leached out by this cunning alchemist:
the Devil's hand directs our every move-
the things we loathed become the things we love:
day by day we drop though stinking shades
quite undeterred on our descent to Hell!
Like a poor profligate who sucks and bites
the withered breasts of some well-seasoned troll,
we snatch in passing at clandestine joys
and squeeze the oldest orange harder yet.
Wriggling in our brains like a million worms,
a demon demos holds its revels there,
and when we breathe, the Lethe in our lungs
trickles sighing on its secret course.
If rape and arson, poison and the knife
have not yet stitched their ludicrous designs
onto the banal buckram of our fates,
it is because our souls lack enterprise!
But here among the scorpions and the hounds,
the jackals, apes and vultures, snakes and wolves,
monsters that howl and growl and squeal and crawl,
in all the squalid zoo of vices,
one is even uglier and fouler than the rest,
although the least flamboyant of the lot;
this beast would gladly undermine the earth
Stupidity, delusion, selfishness and lust
torment our bodies and possess our minds,
and we sustain our affable remorse
the way a beggar nourishes his lice
Our sins are stubborn, our contrition lame;
we want our scruples to be worth our while-
how cheerfully we crawl back to the mire:
with few cheap tears washing our stains away!
Satan Trismegistus subtly rocks
our ravished spirits on his wicked bed
until the precious metal of our will
is leached out by this cunning alchemist:
the Devil's hand directs our every move-
the things we loathed become the things we love:
day by day we drop though stinking shades
quite undeterred on our descent to Hell!
Like a poor profligate who sucks and bites
the withered breasts of some well-seasoned troll,
we snatch in passing at clandestine joys
and squeeze the oldest orange harder yet.
Wriggling in our brains like a million worms,
a demon demos holds its revels there,
and when we breathe, the Lethe in our lungs
trickles sighing on its secret course.
If rape and arson, poison and the knife
have not yet stitched their ludicrous designs
onto the banal buckram of our fates,
it is because our souls lack enterprise!
But here among the scorpions and the hounds,
the jackals, apes and vultures, snakes and wolves,
monsters that howl and growl and squeal and crawl,
in all the squalid zoo of vices,
one is even uglier and fouler than the rest,
although the least flamboyant of the lot;
this beast would gladly undermine the earth
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
Dominga
I was asleep for a long time among the rubble
The howls of the others
rang in my ears
There very close just over there
I seemed to be dead among them,
the children and their sunday outfits
Then I discovered myself alive,
and I will tell you more about what
I saw and heard
I am Dominga Faustino del Mozote,
from Salvador
My voice remained clothed in silence, cuddled in fear.
For many days, or maybe years
I did not find the words
I also had died with them
and thought that this was heaven:
a very thick and dark clump of soil
Then someone woke me.
It was the echoes of the dead girls
the trees blushed with all their laughter I am alive, I was cold
Fear was a concave knife
The angels did not arrive
as the priest had assured us
But I lived
I want to tell you that they killed children, women
and women with children inside
They took them beyond the hill
They took them alive and suddenly screams were heard
Enormous bonfires in all the hills
carried the crimson dresses of death
and of a life that struggled
The soldiers put on the shoes of
the dead and danced with them
and took off with the tinsel jewels
This is how these young men were
They were children from the wild forest
I didn't see them but felt the echoes of their savage words
For many years I didn't leave theses wooded lands
The days seemed like nights
and I didn't have light or memory
It was well before the stampedes
and the burning of my flesh
Now I begin to remember
Memory is tepid like blood
the blood of vacant sacrifices
Suddenly, everything became like a blue well in
an evil night
Someone called at the door and cut out their tongues
as if they simply had left me to die
alone or to live alone because it was all
the same to be or not to be,
to be or exist dazed, without memory,
without clear autumns
Death's sleep penetrated there
among the pasture lands,
but they have found me so that I will tell you.
I have begun to tie up my dream bag
I carry a daughter inside it.
:|
I was asleep for a long time among the rubble
The howls of the others
rang in my ears
There very close just over there
I seemed to be dead among them,
the children and their sunday outfits
Then I discovered myself alive,
and I will tell you more about what
I saw and heard
I am Dominga Faustino del Mozote,
from Salvador
My voice remained clothed in silence, cuddled in fear.
For many days, or maybe years
I did not find the words
I also had died with them
and thought that this was heaven:
a very thick and dark clump of soil
Then someone woke me.
It was the echoes of the dead girls
the trees blushed with all their laughter I am alive, I was cold
Fear was a concave knife
The angels did not arrive
as the priest had assured us
But I lived
I want to tell you that they killed children, women
and women with children inside
They took them beyond the hill
They took them alive and suddenly screams were heard
Enormous bonfires in all the hills
carried the crimson dresses of death
and of a life that struggled
The soldiers put on the shoes of
the dead and danced with them
and took off with the tinsel jewels
This is how these young men were
They were children from the wild forest
I didn't see them but felt the echoes of their savage words
For many years I didn't leave theses wooded lands
The days seemed like nights
and I didn't have light or memory
It was well before the stampedes
and the burning of my flesh
Now I begin to remember
Memory is tepid like blood
the blood of vacant sacrifices
Suddenly, everything became like a blue well in
an evil night
Someone called at the door and cut out their tongues
as if they simply had left me to die
alone or to live alone because it was all
the same to be or not to be,
to be or exist dazed, without memory,
without clear autumns
Death's sleep penetrated there
among the pasture lands,
but they have found me so that I will tell you.
I have begun to tie up my dream bag
I carry a daughter inside it.
:|
zgodt
Member
"Death's Little Helpers"
Even on Sundays we waited for them.
They'd knock on the door
Without bothering to look at the name.
In a book of photographs, I saw one of them
Stop to fire a pistol into the head
Of a child lying next to a rain puddle.
Its eyes were open and so were mine
The day I caught the eye of a cow
Between the slats of a cattle car.
I was crossing the tracks
In a great hurry to get somewhere.
The train had stopped mysteriously.
The engineer stuck his head out and waved.
I could hear the pistol shots.
Your hearing is amazing, people told me.
He's delusional, others said.
The dog paced around the room
Because he could hear it too.
After a while we all get used to things.
I never got used to it, so here I am awake.
-- Charles Simic
Even on Sundays we waited for them.
They'd knock on the door
Without bothering to look at the name.
In a book of photographs, I saw one of them
Stop to fire a pistol into the head
Of a child lying next to a rain puddle.
Its eyes were open and so were mine
The day I caught the eye of a cow
Between the slats of a cattle car.
I was crossing the tracks
In a great hurry to get somewhere.
The train had stopped mysteriously.
The engineer stuck his head out and waved.
I could hear the pistol shots.
Your hearing is amazing, people told me.
He's delusional, others said.
The dog paced around the room
Because he could hear it too.
After a while we all get used to things.
I never got used to it, so here I am awake.
-- Charles Simic
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
zgodt said:
Marjorie Agosin, she's a Humanitarian and Poet. Her book Absence of Shadows is the most astounding collection of poetry I've ever read. I've actually been able to get people who hate poetry to read it- it makes them weep :|
zgodt
Member
This is another of my all time favorite poems. It's a little hard to slog through in places, but be patient. The payoff is worth it. 
Cascade Experiment
Because faith creates its verification
and reaching you will be no harder than believing
in a planet’s caul of plasma,
or interacting with a comet
in its perihelion passage, no harder
than considering what sparking of the vacuum, cosmological
impromptu flung me here, a periphrasis, perhaps,
for some denser, more difficult being,
a subsidiary instance, easier to grasp
than the span I foreshadow, of which I am a variable,
my stance is passional toward the universe and you.
Because faith in facts can help create those facts,
the way electrons exist only when they’re measured,
or shy people stand alone at parties,
attract no one, then go home to feel more shy,
I begin by supposing our attrition’s no quicker
than a star’s, that like electrons
vanishing on one side
of a wall and appearing on the other
without leaving any holes or being
somewhere in between, the soul’s decoupling
is an oscillation so inward nothing outward
as the eye can see it.
The childhood catechisms all had heaven,
an excitation of mist.
Grown, I thought a vacancy awaited me.
Now I find myself discarding and enlarging
both these views, an infidel of amplitude.
Because truths we don’t suspect have a hard time
making themselves felt, as when thirteen species
of whiptail lizards composed entirely of females
stay undiscovered due to bias
against such things existing,
we have to meet the universe halfway.
Nothing will unfold for us unless we move toward what
looks to us like nothing: faith is a cascade.
The sky’s high solid is anything
but, the sun going under hasn’t
budged, and if death divests the self
it’s the sole event in nature
that’s exactly as it seems.
Because believing a thing’s true
can bring about that truth,
and you might be the shy one, lizard or electron,
known only through advances
presuming your existence, let my glance be passional
toward the universe and you.
--Alice Fulton
Cascade Experiment
Because faith creates its verification
and reaching you will be no harder than believing
in a planet’s caul of plasma,
or interacting with a comet
in its perihelion passage, no harder
than considering what sparking of the vacuum, cosmological
impromptu flung me here, a periphrasis, perhaps,
for some denser, more difficult being,
a subsidiary instance, easier to grasp
than the span I foreshadow, of which I am a variable,
my stance is passional toward the universe and you.
Because faith in facts can help create those facts,
the way electrons exist only when they’re measured,
or shy people stand alone at parties,
attract no one, then go home to feel more shy,
I begin by supposing our attrition’s no quicker
than a star’s, that like electrons
vanishing on one side
of a wall and appearing on the other
without leaving any holes or being
somewhere in between, the soul’s decoupling
is an oscillation so inward nothing outward
as the eye can see it.
The childhood catechisms all had heaven,
an excitation of mist.
Grown, I thought a vacancy awaited me.
Now I find myself discarding and enlarging
both these views, an infidel of amplitude.
Because truths we don’t suspect have a hard time
making themselves felt, as when thirteen species
of whiptail lizards composed entirely of females
stay undiscovered due to bias
against such things existing,
we have to meet the universe halfway.
Nothing will unfold for us unless we move toward what
looks to us like nothing: faith is a cascade.
The sky’s high solid is anything
but, the sun going under hasn’t
budged, and if death divests the self
it’s the sole event in nature
that’s exactly as it seems.
Because believing a thing’s true
can bring about that truth,
and you might be the shy one, lizard or electron,
known only through advances
presuming your existence, let my glance be passional
toward the universe and you.
--Alice Fulton
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'
'Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink'
........................
'Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.'
........................
I like this poem
'Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink'
........................
'Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.'
........................
I like this poem
SexyDevilGirl
Active Member
Canvases
And on the threshold of dreams
the city was a canvas
of stones,
of floating knives,
maimed hands passing through the
dense night,
and sorrow was
a reddish cloak,
and Jerusalem, a
nightmare,
a city of walls
unleashing crimson
floods among
the shadows
And on the threshold of dreams
the city was a canvas
of stones,
of floating knives,
maimed hands passing through the
dense night,
and sorrow was
a reddish cloak,
and Jerusalem, a
nightmare,
a city of walls
unleashing crimson
floods among
the shadows