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#61 |
Slattern of the Swail
Join Date: Jul 2004
Posts: 15,654
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Witch - Jean Tepperman
They told me I smile prettier with my mouth closed. They said-- better cut your hair-- long, it's all frizzy, looks Jewish. They hushed me in restaurants looking around them while the mirrors above the table jeered infinite reflections of a raw, square face. They questioned me when I sang in the street. They stood taller at tea smoothly explaining my eyes on the saucers, trying to hide the hand grenade in my pants pocket, or crouched behind the piano. They mocked me with magazines full of breasts and lace, published in their triumph when the doctor's oldest son married a nice sweet girl. They told me tweed-suit stories of various careers of ladies. I woke up at night afraid of dying. They built screens and room dividers to hide unsightly desire sixteen years old raw and hopeless they buttoned me into dresses covered with pink flowers. They waited for me to finish then continued the conversation. I have been invisible, weird and supernatural. I want my black dress. I want my hair curling wild around me. I want my broomstick from the closet where I hid it. Tonight I meet my sisters in the graveyard. Around midnight if you stop at a red light in the wet city traffic, watch for us against the moon. We are screaming, we are flying, laughing, and won't stop.
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In Barrie's play and novel, the roles of fairies are brief: they are allies to the Lost Boys, the source of fairy dust and ...They are portrayed as dangerous, whimsical and extremely clever but quite hedonistic. "Shall I give you a kiss?" Peter asked and, jerking an acorn button off his coat, solemnly presented it to her. —James Barrie Wimminfolk they be tricksy. - ZenGum |
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#62 |
~~Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.~~
Join Date: Apr 2006
Posts: 6,828
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cold cold world by W. Jude Aher
in the night the deep deep night do i dance where mirror images are lost within i bleed across the shattered hopes the ice reflections would you that a child might live, without seeing their eyes without hearing their cries black in light am i wandering in dreams where only shadows dance oh, this cold cold world of chance i see their eyes i hear their cries that a child might live, would i… - jude This guy looks like elsp. to me. Or maybe it's just a generational thing that I see similarities in. ![]() http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/w__jude_aher/photo |
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#63 |
The Un-Tuckian
Join Date: Apr 2007
Location: South Central...KY that is
Posts: 39,517
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An Indian At the Burial Place Of His Fathers
by William Cullen Bryant It is the spot I came to seek,-- My fathers' ancient burial-place Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot--I know it well-- Of which our old traditions tell. For here the upland bank sends out A ridge toward the river-side; I know the shaggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide,-- The plains, that, toward the southern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie. A white man, gazing on the scene, Would say a lovely spot was here, And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, Between the hills so sheer. I like it not--I would the plain Lay in its tall old groves again. The sheep are on the slopes around, The cattle in the meadows feed, And labourers turn the crumbling ground, Or drop the yellow seed, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade, And herds of deer, that bounding go O'er hills and prostrate trees below. And then to mark the lord of all, The forest hero, trained to wars, Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, And seamed with glorious scars, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare The wolf, and grapple with the bear. This bank, in which the dead were laid, Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the artless Indian maid Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the gray chief and gifted seer Worshipped the god of thunders here. But now the wheat is green and high On clods that hid the warrior's breast, And scattered in the furrows lie The weapons of his rest; And there, in the loose sand, is thrown Of his large arm the mouldering bone. Ah, little thought the strong and brave Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth-- Or the young wife, that weeping gave Her first-born to the earth, That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough. They waste us--ay--like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go Towards the setting day,-- Till they shall fill the land, and we Are driven into the western sea. But I behold a fearful sign, To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind, Save ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead. Before these fields were shorn and tilled, Full to the brim our rivers flowed; The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dashed and rivulets played, And fountains spouted in the shade. Those grateful sounds are heard no more, The springs are silent in the sun; The rivers, by the blackened shore, With lessening current run; The realm our tribes are crushed to get May be a barren desert yet.
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#64 |
Slattern of the Swail
Join Date: Jul 2004
Posts: 15,654
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I'm feeling all nostalgic-like.
DULCE ET DECORUM EST Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori.
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In Barrie's play and novel, the roles of fairies are brief: they are allies to the Lost Boys, the source of fairy dust and ...They are portrayed as dangerous, whimsical and extremely clever but quite hedonistic. "Shall I give you a kiss?" Peter asked and, jerking an acorn button off his coat, solemnly presented it to her. —James Barrie Wimminfolk they be tricksy. - ZenGum |
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#65 |
polaroid of perfection
Join Date: Sep 2005
Location: West Yorkshire
Posts: 24,185
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Turns out I have a closer connection to a poet I much admire than I thought.
The arts centre where I do occupational therapy (pottery) is an old school. I knew this - I was in two musicals based in the theatre there. But the blue plaque was put up well after my am-dram days - after his death in 2007. Vernon Scannell was Aylesbury born, and I did not know this. My first English teacher almost definitely did - she was the one who read us A Case of Murder (here). And he went to school in the building now known as the Queens Park Arts Centre. So as this thread reminded me that there are other poetry lovers out there, I'm also sharing this one of his. Which I find delightfully creepy. Reminds me very much of Betjamin's False Security, which I also found disturbing, but memorable. And dare I say it, a bit Dr Who?! I probably should have posted one of Scannell's war poems - to continue the theme - but to be honest, it's always been the childhood ones that appealed to me. Hide & Seek. Call out, call loud - "I'm ready. Come and find me!" The sacks in the tool-shed smell like the seaside. They'll never find you in the salty dark, But be careful that your feet aren't sticking out, Wiser not to risk another shout. The floor is cold. They'll probably be searching the bushes, near the swing. Whatever happens you mustn't sneeze When they come prowling in. And here they are, whispering at the door You've never heard them sound so hushed before. Don't breathe, don't move, stay dumb. Hide in your blindness, they're moving closer Someone stumbles, mutters Their words and laughter scuttle and they're gone, But don't come out just yet, they'll try the lane And then the greenhouse and back here again. They must be thinking that you're very clever, Getting more puzzled as they search all over. It seems a long time since they went away. Your legs are stiff, the cold bites through your coat. The dark damp smell of sand moves in your throat. It's time to let them know that you're the winner Push off the sacks, uncurl and stretch. That's better! Out of the shed and call to them - "I've won! Here I am! Come and own up! I've caught you!" The darkening garden watches, nothing stirs The bushes hold their breath, the sun is gone Yes, here you are - But where are they who sought you? Vernon Scannell (late of Aylesbury)
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Life's hard you know, so strike a pose on a Cadillac Last edited by Sundae; 08-07-2009 at 01:08 PM. Reason: Location, location, location |
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#66 | |
We have to go back, Kate!
Join Date: Apr 2004
Location: Yorkshire
Posts: 25,964
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@ Bri: that was probably the first poem that ever really got me. I remember our English teacher reading it out to us at school.
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#67 |
Slattern of the Swail
Join Date: Jul 2004
Posts: 15,654
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It really got me, too, when I first read it. A great poem, isn't it?
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In Barrie's play and novel, the roles of fairies are brief: they are allies to the Lost Boys, the source of fairy dust and ...They are portrayed as dangerous, whimsical and extremely clever but quite hedonistic. "Shall I give you a kiss?" Peter asked and, jerking an acorn button off his coat, solemnly presented it to her. —James Barrie Wimminfolk they be tricksy. - ZenGum |
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#68 |
~~Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.~~
Join Date: Apr 2006
Posts: 6,828
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Under One Small Star
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all. Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due. May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade. My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second. My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first. Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger. I apologize for my record of minutes to those who cry from the depths. I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m. Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time. Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water. And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage, your gaze always fixed on the same point in space, forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed. My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs. My apologies to great questions for small answers. Truth, please don't pay me much attention. Dignity, please be magnanimous. Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train. Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then. My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once. My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man. I know I won't be justfied as long as I live, since I myself stand in my own way. Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words, then labor heavily so that they may seem light. - Wislawa Symborska |
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#69 |
“Hypocrisy: prejudice with a halo”
Join Date: Mar 2007
Location: Savannah, Georgia
Posts: 21,393
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"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
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Anyone but the this most fuked up President in History in 2012! |
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#70 |
“Hypocrisy: prejudice with a halo”
Join Date: Mar 2007
Location: Savannah, Georgia
Posts: 21,393
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I am the Reaper
I am the Reaper. All things with heedful hook Silent I gather. Pale roses touched with the spring, Tall corn in summer, Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms— Reaping, still reaping— All things with heedful hook Timely I gather. I am the Sower. All the unbodied life Runs through my seed-sheet. Atom with atom wed, Each quickening the other, Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless. Ceaselessly sowing, Life, incorruptible life, Flows from my seed-sheet. Maker and breaker, I am the ebb and the flood, Here and Hereafter, Sped through the tangle and coil Of infinite nature, Viewless and soundless I fashion all being. Taker and giver, I am the womb and the grave, The Now and the Ever William Ernest Henley
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Anyone but the this most fuked up President in History in 2012! |
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#71 |
“Hypocrisy: prejudice with a halo”
Join Date: Mar 2007
Location: Savannah, Georgia
Posts: 21,393
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Double Ballade on the Nothingness of Things
The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain. Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral That covers praise and blame, The -isms and the -anities, Magnificence and shame:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" The Fates are subtle girls! They give us chaff for grain. And Time, the Thunderer, hurls, Like bolted death, disdain At all that heart and brain Conceive, or great or small, Upon this earthly ball. Would you be knight and dame? Or woo the sweet humanities? Or illustrate a name? O Vanity of Vanities! We sound the sea for pearls, Or drown them in a drain; We flute it with the merles, Or tug and sweat and strain; We grovel, or we reign; We saunter, or we brawl; We search the stars for Fame, Or sink her subterranities; The legend's still the same:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" Here at the wine one birls, There some one clanks a chain. The flag that this man furls That man to float is fain. Pleasure gives place to pain: These in the kennel crawl, While others take the wall. She has a glorious aim, He lives for the inanities. What come of every claim? O Vanity of Vanities! Alike are clods and earls. For sot, and seer, and swain, For emperors and for churls, For antidote and bane, There is but one refrain: But one for king and thrall, For David and for Saul, For fleet of foot and lame, For pieties and profanities, The picture and the frame:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" Life is a smoke that curls-- Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls, A figment thin and vain, Into the vast Inane. One end for hut and hall! One end for cell and stall! Burned in one common flame Are wisdoms and insanities. For this alone we came:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" Envoy Prince, pride must have a fall. What is the worth of all Your state's supreme urbanities? Bad at the best's the game. Well might the Sage exclaim:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" William Ernest Henley
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Anyone but the this most fuked up President in History in 2012! |
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#72 |
~~Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.~~
Join Date: Apr 2006
Posts: 6,828
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good finds Merc. I enjoyed those.
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#73 | |
I hear them call the tide
Join Date: Dec 2005
Location: Perpetual Chaos
Posts: 30,852
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Quote:
I loved this, it made me think of my friend fighting breast cancer... and then the last line made me think of this..... ....ah, well, can't win every time
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The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity Amelia Earhart |
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#74 |
“Hypocrisy: prejudice with a halo”
Join Date: Mar 2007
Location: Savannah, Georgia
Posts: 21,393
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Beautiful...
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Anyone but the this most fuked up President in History in 2012! |
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#75 | |
We have to go back, Kate!
Join Date: Apr 2004
Location: Yorkshire
Posts: 25,964
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So many wonderful poems. Larkin's poem that Sundae posted takes me back to my English A-levels, when I and a bunch of other 17 year olds 'discovered' Larkin for the first time. Ah bliss.
@ Merc: Invictus is one my favourite poems of all time. Utterly beautiful. Here's one of my other favourite poems. It's a little long; but I think it's marvellous. Oliver Goldsmith's The Deserted Village. Written after the death of the poet's brother, and in the wake of the Inclosure Act, and the 'death of the countryside' which followed. I think it captures so much of the anger and sorrow at a world which was changing, forcibly; and the coldness of the new age of capital: The Deserted Village (part 1) by Oliver Goldsmith Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, where every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er your green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene; How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made; How often have I blessed the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree: While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down! The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong look of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these, With sweet succession, taught even toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms -But all these charms are fled.
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