A Poem Thread

Discussion in 'Art & Culture' started by Angelus, Nov 9, 2002.

  1. Gawdzilla Sama Valued Senior Member

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    I thank you for stopping there.
     
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  3. LiteFeather09 Registered Member

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    Wow I really enjoyed reading all your poems!
     
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  5. wegs With brave wings, she flies . . . Valued Senior Member

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  7. wegs With brave wings, she flies . . . Valued Senior Member

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    Magical Realist likes this.
  8. Magical Realist Valued Senior Member

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    "When I sit to take a bath
    I'm always moved to wonderment,
    That what chills the finger not a bit
    Is so frigid upon the fundament."

    Ogden Nash
     
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  9. Gawdzilla Sama Valued Senior Member

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    I fought at Doggerel Banks,
    I fought at Second Molasses.
    I fought at local banks,
    I fought lads and lasses.
     
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  10. wegs With brave wings, she flies . . . Valued Senior Member

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  11. Michael 345 New year. PRESENT is 69 years old Valued Senior Member

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    Jack and Jill
    Went down the hill
    To fetch a pail of water
    Because everyone knows you need a very long rope to lower a pail from up on a hill and a pail of water is easier to collect from a stream
    Jack did not fall down
    And break his crown
    Because the ground is level so
    Jill did not come tumbling after
    Because she also was on level ground

    Up Jack did get - not, he had no need, as stated he did not fall down
    And home did trot - not, had no need
    And went to bed - not, as he had home did trot - not
    To mend his head - not, as he had not home did trot etc etc etc
    With vinegar and brown paper - not
    See above why not

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  12. wegs With brave wings, she flies . . . Valued Senior Member

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  13. wegs With brave wings, she flies . . . Valued Senior Member

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    Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
    By Mary Elizabeth Frye

    Do not stand at my grave and weep
    I am not there; I do not sleep.
    I am a thousand winds that blow,
    I am the diamond glints on snow,
    I am the sun on ripened grain,
    I am the gentle autumn rain.
    When you awaken in the morning's hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush
    Of quiet birds in circled flight.
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry,
    I am not there; I did not die.
     
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  14. Michael 345 New year. PRESENT is 69 years old Valued Senior Member

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    Well you are doing a bloody good imitation

    Sorry

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  15. wegs With brave wings, she flies . . . Valued Senior Member

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    I’m a ghost posting this right now. You should be afraid...
     
  16. Michael 345 New year. PRESENT is 69 years old Valued Senior Member

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    Great poem but please, low hanging fruit crying out like a balloon saying "Put a pin in me"

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  17. sideshowbob Sorry, wrong number. Valued Senior Member

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    "pity this busy monster, manunkind,
    not."
    -- e.e. cummings
     
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  18. wegs With brave wings, she flies . . . Valued Senior Member

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  19. iceaura Valued Senior Member

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    29,272
    (Dredged up from the fringe media aftermath of the U.S., not Chilean, 9/11)

    Mode Of Failure

    At the moment of failure, just when that flaw now somehow chosen key
    has fit its customary role in tales sure to find themselves soon
    amended by demand of contingency's illusory need,
    the first affected floor gives into the air beneath the second shoe,
    which is that floor itself in fall; and not the top, and not the bottom,
    and not the center of levels, not any marked or noted place
    one could in hope have known, pretend to have shied from
    in good time, saved others by foreboding's glory's grace.

    No omen had risen from the awkwardness and table clutter
    of diplomacy's cutlery and negotiation's enabling lies to face
    to face, some oceans over, the assumptions' wide subvocal mutter
    unnoticed, and without bearing regardless, the floor unknown in any case.
    What seemed inevitability in approach stepped off all sense,
    and found no sense, and had no story after, no life in words
    such as we lived and will live, such as a single lifetime lends
    to living, then and then and now just stopped, and nothing towards.

    We do not know how the tower of Babel fell, what piled it down,
    sowed confusion of tongue among all witnesses, blighted all
    with estrangement, sent each to their own understanding and separate town
    with a story, a story of an old God and a new building, untellable.
    Words fail the blow of the old hammer anyway, fail the split of ways,
    and these the common words. New redundancies of incomprehension
    a teller's slight of mind, a show of what it is to live through days
    of talking as anyone does all day any day now, and after one stroke never again.

    The God's eye CAT scan view shows only, at first, a small blurred patch
    where the little void began: the missed step, the puzzled grope,
    the sudden bloom of almost fear, throat's almost mild panic's catch
    at what had always been and walled and routed, what had no need of hope
    but founded other's, braced the outward lean. And they say that little blur
    marks nothing fell itself - a burst and bleed soon caught, the wound a nick -
    but what has pulled the pin on desperation, pronounced what sending will echo sure
    and avalanche in damage; make of skill and story rubble, storied tower broken brick.
     
    Last edited: Sep 10, 2019
  20. Curious layman Registered Member

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    21
    born 19.6.32 -deported 24.9.42

    Undesirable you may of been, untouchable
    you were not. Not forgotten
    or passed over at the proper time.

    As estimated, you died. Things marched,
    sufficient, to that end.

    Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented
    terror, so many routine cries.

    (I have made
    an elegy for myself it
    is true)

    September fattens on vines. Roses
    flake from the wall. The smoke
    of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.

    This is plenty. This is more than enough.

    Geoffrey Hill
     

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