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Thread: my fav. poem

  1. #1
    I
    isis Guest

    Default my fav. poem

    I who am the beauty of the green Earth,
    and the white moon among the stars,
    and the mystery of the waters,
    call unto your soul: a rise and come unto me,
    for i am the soul of nature....


    i love this poem

  2. #2
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    Default

    Nice poem Isis.
    This is my fav poem its called "Strange meeting"


    It seemed that out of battle I escaped
    Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
    Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

    Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
    Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
    Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
    With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
    Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
    And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,-
    By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

    With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
    Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
    And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
    "Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn."
    "None," said that other, "save the undone years,
    The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
    Was my life also, I went hunting wild
    After the wildest beauty in the world,
    Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
    But mocks the steady running of the hour,
    And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
    For by my glee might many men have laughed,
    And of my weeping something had been left,
    Which must die now I mean the truth untold,
    The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
    Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
    Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
    They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
    None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
    Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
    Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
    To miss the march of this retreating world
    Into vain citadels that are not walled.
    Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
    I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
    Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
    I would have poured my spirit without stint
    But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
    Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
    I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
    I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
    Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
    I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
    Let us sleep now... "

    -- Wilfred Owen

  3. #3
    I
    isis Guest

    Default

    that is a cool poem i like it..

  4. #4
    H
    Harlock Guest

    Default

    road not taken is one of my faviorates

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth.

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim,
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same.

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.

    i made one once and had to turn it in for a english paper, and never got it back. I liked that one, that and the rhyme of an ancient mariner but thats too long to post

  5. #5
    I
    isis Guest

    Default

    cool poems lol like them all...

  6. #6
    O
    Odin Guest

    Default

    all good poems I'll have to search for mine

  7. #7
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    Default

    here's mine...

    Thirst!
    Not the thirst of the throat
    Though that be the wildest and worst
    Of physical pangs - that smote
    Alone to the heart of Christ,
    Wringing the one wild cry
    "I thirst!" from His agony,
    While the soldiers drank and diced;
    Not the thirst benign
    That calls the worker to wine;
    Not the bodily thirst
    (Though that be frenzy accursed)
    When the mouth is full of sand,
    And the eyes are gummed up, and the ears
    Trick the soul till it hears
    Water, water at hand,
    When a man will dig his nails
    In his breast, and drink the blood
    Already that clots and stales
    Ere his tongue can tip its flood,
    When the sun is a living devil
    Vomiting vats of evil,
    And the moon and the night but mock
    The wretch on his barren rock,
    And the dome of the heaven high-arched
    Like his mouth is arid and parched,
    And the caves of his heart high-spanned
    Are choked with alkali sand!

    Not this! but a thirst uncharted;
    Body and soul alike
    Traitors turned black-hearted,
    Seeking a space to strike
    In a victim already attuned
    To one vast chord of wound;
    Every separate bone
    Cold, an incarnate groan
    Distilled from the icy sperm
    Of Hell's implacable worm
    Every drop of the river
    Of blood aflame and a-quiver
    With poison secret and sour -
    With a sudden twitch at the last
    Like certain jagged daggers.
    (With bloodshot eyes dull-glassed
    The screaming Malay staggers
    Through his village aghast).
    So blood wrenches its pain
    Sardonic through heart and brain.
    Every separate nerve
    Awake and alert, on a curve
    Whose asymptote's name is "never"
    In a hyperbolic "for ever!"
    A bitten and burning snake
    Striking its venom within it,
    As if it might serve to slake
    The pain for the tithe of a minute.

    Awake, for ever awake!
    Awake as one never is
    While sleep is a possible end,
    Awake in the void, the abyss
    Whose thirst is an echo of this
    That martyrs, world without end,
    (World without end, Amen!)
    The man that falters and yields
    For the proverb's "mouth and an hour"
    To the lure of the snow-starred fields
    Where the opium poppy's aflower

    Only the prick of a needle
    Charged from the wizard well!
    Is this sufficient to wheedle
    A soul from heaven to hell?
    Was a man's spirit weaned
    From fear of its ghosts and gods
    To fawn at the feet of a fiend?
    Is it such terrible odds -
    The heir of ages of wonder,
    The crown of earth for an hour,
    The master of tide and thunder
    Against the juice of a flower?
    Ay! in the roar and the rattle
    Of all the armies of sin,
    This is the only battle
    He never was known to win.

    Save to the thirst - not thirst
    As here it is weakly written,
    Not thirst in the brain black-bitten,
    In the soul more sorely smitten!
    One dare not think of the worst!
    Beyond the raging and the raving
    Hell of the physical craving
    Lies, in the brain benumbed,
    At the end of time and space,
    An abyss, unmeasured, unplumbed -
    The haunt of a face!

    She it is, she, that found me
    In the morphia honeymoon;
    With silk and steel she bound me,
    In her poisonous milk she drowned me,
    Even now her arms surround me,
    Stifling me into the swoon
    That still - but oh, how rarely! -
    Comes at the thrust of the needle,
    Steadily stares and squarely,
    Nor needs to fondle and wheedle
    Her slave agasp for a kiss,
    Hers whose horror is his
    That knows that viper womb,
    Speckled and barred with black
    On its rusty amber scales,
    Is his tomb -
    The straining, groaning, rack
    On which he wails - he wails!
    Her cranial dome is vaulted,
    Her mad Mongolian eyes
    Aslant with ecstasies
    Of things immune, exalted
    Far beyond stars and skies,
    Slits of amber and jet -
    Her snout for the quarry set
    Fleshy and heavy and gross,
    Bestial, broken across,
    And below it her mouth that drips
    Blood from the lips
    That hide the fangs of a snake,
    Drips on the venomous udders
    Mountainous flanks that fret,
    And the spirit sickens and shudders
    At the hint of a worse thing yet.

    Olya! the golden bait
    Barbed with infinite pain,
    Fatal, fanatical mate
    Of a poisoned body and brain!
    Olya! the name that leers
    Its lecherous longing and knavery,
    Whispers in crazing ears
    The secret spell of her slavery.

    Horror indeed intense,
    Seduction indeed intenser,
    Swinging the smoke of sense
    From the bowl of a smouldering censer!
    Behind me, behind and above,
    She stands, that mirror of love.
    Her fingers are supple-jointed;
    Her nails are polished and pointed,
    And tipped with spurs of gold:
    With them she rowls the brain.
    Her lust is critical, cold;
    And her Chinese cheeks are pale,
    As she daintily picks, profane
    With her octopus lips, and the teeth
    Jagged and black beneath,
    Pulp and blood from a nail.

    One swift prick was enough
    In days gone by to invoke her:
    She was incarnate love
    In the hours when I first awoke her.
    Little by little I found
    The truth of her, stripped of clothing,
    Bitter beyond all bound,
    Leprous beyond all loathing.
    Black, the plague of the pit,
    Her pustules visibly fester,
    Cancerous kisses that bit
    As the asp caressed her.

    Dragon fire lure and dread,
    Tiger of fury and lust,
    The quick in chains to the dead,
    The slime alive in the dust,
    Brazen shame like a flame,
    An orgy of pregnant pollution
    With hate beyond aim or name -
    Orgasm, death, dissolution!
    Know you now why her eyes
    So fearfully glaze, beholding
    Terrors and infamies
    Like filthy flowers unfolding?
    Laughter widowed of ease,
    Agony barred from sadness,
    Death defeated of pace,
    Is she not of madness?

    She waits for me, lazily leering,
    As moon goes murdering moon;
    The moon of her triumph is nearing;
    She will have me wholly soon.

    And you, you puritan others,
    Who have missed the morphia craving,
    Cry scorn if I call you brothers,
    Curl lip at my maniac raving,
    Fools, seven times beguiled,
    You have not known her? Well!
    There was never a need she smiled
    To harry you into hell!

    Morphia is but one
    Spark of its secular fire.
    She is the single sun -
    Type of all desire!
    All that you would, you are -
    And that is the crown of your craving.
    You are the slaves of the wormwood star.
    Analysed, reason is raving.
    Feeling, examined, is pain.
    What heaven were to hope for a doubt of it!
    Life is anguish, insane;
    And death is - not a way out of it!
    LVX

  8. #8
    L
    Lady Dunsany Guest

    Default

    I was going to say The Road Not Taken but Harlock beat me to it. Here is another of my favorites.

    Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

    Some say the world will end in fire;
    Some say in ice.
    From what I've tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor 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.

  9. #9
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    Default

    The Conqueror Worm, by Edgar Allen Poe. You'll find that the last two stanzas are in my sig.

    Lo! 'tis a gala night
    Within the lonesome latter years!
    An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
    In veils, and drowned in tears,
    Sit in a theatre, to see
    A play of hopes and fears,
    While the orchestra breathes fitfully
    The music of the spheres.

    Mimes, in the form of God on high,
    Mutter and mumble low,
    And hither and thither fly-
    Mere puppets they, who come and go
    At bidding of vast formless things
    That shift the scenery to and fro,
    Flapping from out their Condor wings
    Invisible Woe!

    That motley drama- oh, be sure
    It shall not be forgot!
    With its Phantom chased for evermore,
    By a crowd that seize it not,
    Through a circle that ever returneth in
    To the self-same spot,
    And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
    And Horror the soul of the plot.

    But see, amid the mimic rout
    A crawling shape intrude!
    A blood-red thing that writhes from out
    The scenic solitude!
    It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
    The mimes become its food,
    And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
    In human gore imbued.

    Out- out are the lights- out all!
    And, over each quivering form,
    The curtain, a funeral pall,
    Comes down with the rush of a storm,
    While the angels, all pallid and wan,
    Uprising, unveiling, affirm
    That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
    And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
    And thou, Mercury, most nefarious beast...

  10. #10
    I
    isis Guest

    Default

    i love Edgar Allen Poe poems lol the tale tell hart is a good one...

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