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Thread: The Poetry Corner: What Library

  1. #1
    Post your favorite poems, or create one of your own.
    Here's one to start it off...

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
    And sorry I could not travel both and be one traveller,
    Long I stood.
    And looked down one as far as I could
    to where it bent in undergrowth.

    Then took the other, just as fair,
    and having perhaps, the better claim,
    because it was grassy and wanted wear.
    Though as for that, the passings 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 road less travelled by
    and that has made all the difference.

    Robert Frost.

    I think the title is The Road not Taken.

    Its been awhile though.
    I welcome corrections.

    Peace

    (edited to change "poem" to "poems")

  2. Lounge   -   #2
    MagicNakor's Avatar On the Peripheral
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    I don't have a singular favourite poem. I have a lot of poems that I enjoy.

    things are quiet until hitler decides he'd like to invade russia
    so, he does
    the russians are like "OMG WTF D00DZ, STOP TKING"
    and the germans are still like "omg ph34r n00bz"
    the russians fall back, all the way to moscow
    and then they all begin h4xing, which brings on the russian winter
    the germans are like "wtf, h4x"
    -- WW2 for the l33t

  3. Lounge   -   #3
    I don't really have any singular favorites either, though I love many. I've always loved the lines;

    I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee: - no way but this,
    Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

    ~Othello


    and


    Funeral Blues

    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 crepe 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 for ever; 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.

    W. H. Auden


    I'll think of some other great ones. Excited to see what gets posted here.

  4. Lounge   -   #4
    chalice's Avatar ____________________
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    The Robert Frost poem is entitled "The road less travelled". can't choose a favourite poem so I'll pick a short one.

    THIS BE THE VERSE.

    They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
    They may not mean to but they do.
    They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra just for you.

    But they were fucked up in their turn.
    By fools in old-style hats and coats.
    Who half the time were soppy stern
    And half at one and others' throats.

    Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a costal shelf.
    Get out as early as you can
    And don't have any kids yourself.

    Philip Larkin

  5. Lounge   -   #5
    Skweeky's Avatar Manker's web totty
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    I have two:

    I don't know who wrote this one, but I absolutely love it:

    And then, a sense of law and beauty
    A face turned from the cloth
    Some call it evolution
    Others call it god


    The other one is written by Herman De Coninck, a Belgian poet (who died way too early). Unfortunately, I only know some parts by heart and I can't find it on the internet.
    The poem is called '35' or 'vijfendertig'. I'll look it up and post it then, or if someone else can find it he/she can send it to me....or post it here...

  6. Lounge   -   #6
    Originally posted by chalice@14 May 2003 - 07:26
    The Robert Frost poem is entitled "The road less travelled". can't choose a favourite poem so I'll pick a short one.

    THIS BE THE VERSE.

    They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
    They may not mean to but they do.
    They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra just for you.

    But they were fucked up in their turn.
    By fools in old-style hats and coats.
    Who half the time were soppy stern
    And half at one and others' throats.

    Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a costal shelf.
    Get out as early as you can
    And don't have any kids yourself.

    Philip Larkin
    Thanks for the title.

    I love the poem you posted.

    Very funny and very true.

    Here's one I wrote a few years ago:

    Weep not for me,
    nor for those who have gone before.
    We must live and we must die.
    We must ever wonder why.
    We must never cease to try
    to open wide the mystic door.

    Weep not for those
    who found comfort in the lie.
    Who believed but did not know
    if they had a place to go
    when their life-light ceased to glow
    and their soul set free to fly.

    Weep not for man
    who fulfills a greater need.
    As a worm can till the soil,
    as a leech can heal a boil,
    as a dead tree gives us oil
    with no knowlege of the deed.

  7. Lounge   -   #7
    chalice's Avatar ____________________
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    Very nice indeed!! I don't know if you're still writing but if you are it might be worth your while registering at this site. For someone of your talents it'll certainly offer copious feedback on your work. If you don't, I encourage you to keep writing anyway. Here's a sonnet.

    You can't jail me, I know what existentialism means.
    I'm too aware of transience, I have too many dreams.
    I can't ignore misgivings, a cell is far too small
    For respite against those living with the dying of it all.
    I'm just like you, Your Honour. A criminal I'm not.
    Too toilet-trained in excellence for pissing in a pot.
    A rationed rationality has brought me to this place.
    I was high-jacked by the alcohol, I'm sober now, Your Grace.
    I'm afraid I'm just too timid. My nature's too reserved
    For a primate for a cellmate with six more years to serve.
    I recognise my failings, I share all your distaste.
    But does it warrant wading out in all this human waste?
    I'll stoop and stutter endlessly, I'll lose my savoir-faire.
    My dashing looks and poetry books will deepen my despair.

    ChaliceOfWeeWee

  8. Lounge   -   #8
    MagicNakor's Avatar On the Peripheral
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    Well, here's three. They aren't in any particular order, though. Just how I've got it all organized on my harddrive.

    My prime of youth is but a frost of cares

    My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
    My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
    My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
    And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
    The day is gone and I yet I saw no sun,
    And now I live, and now my life is done.

    The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
    The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
    My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,
    I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,
    My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,
    And now I live, and now my life is done.

    I sought my death and found it in my womb,
    I lookt for life and saw it was a shade,
    I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,
    And now I die, and now I am but made.
    The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
    And now I live, and now my life is done.

    - Chidiock Tichborne

    Ode

    We are the music makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams;-
    World-losers and world forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
    Yet we are the movers and shakers
    Of the world for ever, it seems.

    With wonderful deathless ditties
    We build up the world’s great cities,
    And out of a fabulous story
    We fashion an empire’s glory:
    One man with a dream, at pleasure,
    Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
    And three with a new song’s measure
    Can trample a kingdom down.

    We, in the ages lying
    In the buried past of the earth,
    Built Nineveh with our sighing,
    And Babel itself in our mirth;
    And o’erthrew them with prophesying
    To the old of the new world’s worth;
    For each age is a dream that is dying,
    Or one that is coming to birth.

    A breath of our inspiration
    Is the life of each generation;
    A wondrous thing of our dreaming
    Unearthly, impossible seeming-
    The soldier, the king, and the peasant
    Are working together in one,
    Till our dream shall become their present,
    And their work in the world be done.

    They had no vision amazing
    Of the goodly house they are raising;
    They had no divine foreshowing
    Of the land to which they are going:
    But on one man’s soul it hath broken,
    A light that doth not depart;
    And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
    Wrought flame in another man’s heart.

    And therefore to-day is thrilling
    With a past day’s late fulfilling;
    And the multitudes are enlisted
    In the faith that their fathers resisted,
    And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
    Are bringing to pass, as they may,
    In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
    The dream that was scorned yesterday.

    But we, with our dreaming and singing,
    Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
    The glory about us clinging
    Of the glorious futures we see,
    Our souls with high music ringing:
    O men! it must ever be
    That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
    A little apart from ye.

    For we are afar with the dawning
    And the suns that are not yet high,
    And out of the infinite morning
    Intrepid you hear us cry-
    How, in spite of your human scorning,
    Once more God’s future draws nigh,
    And already goes forth the warning
    That ye of the past must die.

    Great hail! we cry to the comers
    From the dazzling unknown shore;
    Bring us hither your sun and your summers,
    And renew our world as of yore;
    You shall teach us your song’s new numbers,
    And things that we dreamed not before:
    Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
    And a singer who sings no more.

    -Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy

    To Lucasta, Going To the Wars

    Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
    That from the nunnery
    Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
    To war and arms I fly.
    True, a new mistress now I chase,
    The first foe in the field;
    And with a stronger faith embrace
    A sword, a horse, a shield.
    Yet this inconstancy is such
    As you too shall adore;
    I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
    Loved I not Honour more.

    -Richard Lovelace

    things are quiet until hitler decides he'd like to invade russia
    so, he does
    the russians are like "OMG WTF D00DZ, STOP TKING"
    and the germans are still like "omg ph34r n00bz"
    the russians fall back, all the way to moscow
    and then they all begin h4xing, which brings on the russian winter
    the germans are like "wtf, h4x"
    -- WW2 for the l33t

  9. Lounge   -   #9
    Skweeky's Avatar Manker's web totty
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    I forgot about this one: it's about the transitority of beauty and youth. How cruel nature is and how we all should enjoy our youth. A wise man he was...

    Ode à Cassandre

    Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
    Qui ce matin avait déclose
    Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
    A point perdu ceste vesprée
    Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
    Et son teint au votre pareil.

    Las ! voyez comme en peu d'espace,
    Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
    Las ! las ses beautés laissé choir !
    Ô vraiment marâtre Nature,
    Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure
    Que du matin jusques au soir !

    Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
    Tandis que votre âge fleuronne
    En sa plus verte nouveauté,
    Cueillez, cueillez votre jeunesse :
    Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
    Fera ternir votre beauté.

    Pierre de Ronsard

  10. Lounge   -   #10
    Originally posted by Skweeky@15 May 2003 - 16:55
    I forgot about this one: it's about the transitority of beauty and youth. How cruel nature is and how we all should enjoy our youth. A wise man he was...

    Ode à Cassandre

    Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
    Qui ce matin avait déclose
    Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
    A point perdu ceste vesprée
    Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
    Et son teint au votre pareil.

    Las ! voyez comme en peu d'espace,
    Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
    Las ! las ses beautés laissé choir !
    Ô vraiment marâtre Nature,
    Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure
    Que du matin jusques au soir !

    Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
    Tandis que votre âge fleuronne
    En sa plus verte nouveauté,
    Cueillez, cueillez votre jeunesse :
    Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
    Fera ternir votre beauté.

    Pierre de Ronsard
    Would that I spoke French, but alas, I am of a single tongue.

    To Magic,

    Now I know where Willie Wonka got that quote, "We are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams".

    To Chalice,

    Thanks for the complement and the link. I'll have to check it out this weekend.

    And of your poem, I loved it!

    I was trying to imagine someone going before a judge and saying those things.

    Peace

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