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Thread: Poetry

  1. #1
    Senior Member ernie's Avatar
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    Default Poetry

    The Red Wheelbarrow
    by William Carlos Williams

    so much depends
    upon

    a red wheel
    barrow

    glazed with rain
    water

    beside the white
    chickens.
    You cannot get there, you can only be there. - Eckhart Tolle


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    Senior Member abalene's Avatar
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    "Poetry is an abstraction bloodied."
    “Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business.”

  3. #3
    Senior Member ernie's Avatar
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    a song in the front yard
    BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS

    I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.
    I want a peek at the back
    Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.
    A girl gets sick of a rose.

    I want to go in the back yard now
    And maybe down the alley,
    To where the charity children play.
    I want a good time today.

    They do some wonderful things.
    They have some wonderful fun.
    My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine
    How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine.
    My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae
    Will grow up to be a bad woman.
    That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late
    (On account of last winter he sold our back gate).

    But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.
    And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,
    And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace
    And strut down the streets with paint on my face.
    You cannot get there, you can only be there. - Eckhart Tolle


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    Senior Member earlnemo's Avatar
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    I Would in That Sweet Bosom Be

    I would in that sweet bosom be
    (O sweet it is and fair it is!)
    Where no rude wind might visit me.
    Because of sad austerities
    I would in that sweet bosom be.

    I would be ever in that heart
    (O soft I knock and soft entreat her!)
    Where only peace might be my part.
    Austerities were all the sweeter
    So I were ever in that heart.


    James Joyce

  5. #5

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    Victory

    the woman whose face has just finished breaking
    with a joy so infinite

    and heavy that it might be grief has won
    a car on a giveaway show, for her family,

    for an expanse of souls that washes from a million
    picture tubes onto the blank reaches

    of the air. meanwhile, the screams are packing
    the air to a hardness: in the studio

    the audience will no longer move, will be caught
    slowly, like ancient, staring mammals, figuring

    out the double-cross within the terrible progress
    of a glacier. here, i am suddenly towering

    with loneliness, repeating to this woman’s
    only face, this time, again, i have not won.

    Denis Johnson

  6. #6

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    School Prayer

    In the name of the daybreak
    and the eyelids of morning
    and the wayfaring moon
    and the night when it departs,

    I swear I will not dishonor
    my soul with hatred,
    but offer myself humbly
    as a guardian of nature,
    as a healer of misery,
    as a messenger of wonder,
    as an architect of peace.

    In the name of the sun and its mirrors...
    and the uttermost night
    and the crowning seasons
    of the firefly and the apple,

    I will honor all life
    —wherever and in whatever form
    it may dwell—on Earth my home,
    and in the mansions of the stars.

    Diane Ackerman

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    Senior Member abalene's Avatar
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    Sunday Morning
    By Wallace Stevens


    I

    Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
    Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
    And the green freedom of a cockatoo
    Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
    The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
    She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
    Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
    As a calm darkens among water-lights.
    The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
    Seem things in some procession of the dead,
    Winding across wide water, without sound.
    The day is like wide water, without sound,
    Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
    Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
    Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.


    II

    Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
    What is divinity if it can come
    Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
    Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
    In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
    In any balm or beauty of the earth,
    Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
    Divinity must live within herself:
    Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
    Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
    Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
    Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
    All pleasures and all pains, remembering
    The bough of summer and the winter branch.
    These are the measures destined for her soul.


    III

    Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
    No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
    Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
    He moved among us, as a muttering king,
    Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
    Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
    With heaven, brought such requital to desire
    The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
    Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
    The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
    Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
    The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
    A part of labor and a part of pain,
    And next in glory to enduring love,
    Not this dividing and indifferent blue.


    IV

    She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
    Before they fly, test the reality
    Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
    But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
    Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
    There is not any haunt of prophesy,
    Nor any old chimera of the grave,
    Neither the golden underground, nor isle
    Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
    Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
    Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
    As April’s green endures; or will endure
    Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
    Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
    By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.


    V

    She says, “But in contentment I still feel
    The need of some imperishable bliss.”
    Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
    Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
    And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
    Of sure obliteration on our paths,
    The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
    Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
    Whispered a little out of tenderness,
    She makes the willow shiver in the sun
    For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
    Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
    She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
    On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
    And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.


    VI

    Is there no change of death in paradise?
    Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
    Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
    Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
    With rivers like our own that seek for seas
    They never find, the same receding shores
    That never touch with inarticulate pang?
    Why set the pear upon those river banks
    Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
    Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
    The silken weavings of our afternoons,
    And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
    Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
    Within whose burning bosom we devise
    Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.


    VII

    Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
    Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
    Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
    Not as a god, but as a god might be,
    Naked among them, like a savage source.
    Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
    Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
    And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
    The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
    The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
    That choir among themselves long afterward.
    They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
    Of men that perish and of summer morn.
    And whence they came and whither they shall go
    The dew upon their feet shall manifest.


    VIII

    She hears, upon that water without sound,
    A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
    Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
    It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
    We live in an old chaos of the sun,
    Or old dependency of day and night,
    Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
    Of that wide water, inescapable.
    Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
    Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
    Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
    And, in the isolation of the sky,
    At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
    Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
    Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
    “Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business.”

  8. #8
    Senior Member ernie's Avatar
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    The Old Men Admiring Themselves In The Water


    I heard the old, old men say,
    'Everything alters,
    And one by one we drop away.'
    They had hands like claws, and their knees
    Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
    By the waters.
    'All that's beautiful drifts away
    Like the waters.'

    William Butler Yeats
    You cannot get there, you can only be there. - Eckhart Tolle


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    Senior Member Michael's Avatar
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    Seeing Off Yuan the Second on a Mission to Anxi
    Wang Wei

    At Weicheng morning rain has dampened light dust,
    By the hostel, the willows are all fresh and green.
    I urge my friend to drink a last cup of wine,
    West of Yang Pass, there will be no friends.
    When you do things right. people won't be sure that you've done anything at all.

  10. #10
    Senior Member ernie's Avatar
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    You cannot get there, you can only be there. - Eckhart Tolle


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