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Poem of the Day

Light hearted chat. Don't ash on the floor.
KHD
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Re: Poem of the Day

#26

Post by KHD »

I call, but no one answers - Piero Raina

On the edge of an abandoned village
On the threshold of a farm
I thought I heard a lament
As if someone was crying softly
I approach the uneven doorway
I call, no one answers
That weeping was maybe an echo
Of a serene happy, faraway song
Lost on the wings of wind
Or maybe it was the flight of buzzing bees
Coming back from blossoming meadows
Or, at the fall of day
The chirping of hatchling
Up on the wrapped beech branches
Where a woven nest can be seen
Yet perhaps that arcane moan was nothing
But a cry of anguish from my heart
Lost when the evening comes and a black shadow
Falls like a blanket on the dying mountain.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#27

Post by isha »

I like all yer poems. Unfortunately I can't write my own, but I was thinking about this one last night. Not for any dark reasons. Just because of cosiness.

Resurrection by Vladimir Holan.

Is it true that after this life of ours we shall one day be awakened
by a terrifying clamour of trumpets?
Forgive me God, but I console myself
that the beginning and resurrection of all of us dead
will simply be announced by the crowing of the cock.

After that we’ll remain lying down a while…
The first to get up
will be Mother…We’ll hear her
quietly laying the fire,
quietly putting the kettle on the stove
and cosily taking the teapot out of the cupboard.
We’ll be home once more.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#28

Post by isha »

The Choice

The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.

William Butler Yeats
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Mirabeau
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Re: Poem of the Day

#29

Post by Mirabeau »

This is from the Dedication from The Supplicant Maidens by Aeschylus

DEDICATION
Take thou this gift from out the grave of Time.
The urns of Greece lie shattered, and the cup
That for Athenian lips the Muses filled,
And flowery crowns that on Athenian hair
Hid the cicala, freedom's golden sign,
Dust, in the dust have fallen. Calmly sad,
The marble dead upon Athenian tombs
Speak from their eyes "Farewell": and well have fared
They and the saddened friends, whose clasping hands
Win from the solemn stone eternity.
Yea, well they fared unto the evening god,
Passing beyond the limit of the world,
Where face to face the son his mother saw,
A living man a shadow, while she spake
Words that Odysseus and that Homer heard,—
I too, O child, I reached the common doom,
The grave, the goal of fate, and passed away.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#30

Post by isha »

In memory of Kevin Higgins, who has just died.

Congratulations
after Zbigniew Herbert

A few will be obliterated
but in an nice way.
We don’t like the word censorship,
abolished it yonks ago.
Certain word combinations must be
nudged to the bottom of the basket
until after we’ve all safely
choked to death in our dressing gowns.
Though, worryingly,
they always find their way back out again.

Others, we can leave optional.
You know the drift:
the suffering of academics, their divorces
after the regrettable entanglement with the student;
how it felt to phone the crematorium
to book a spot for their ninety five year old father.

But for having so successfully helped it
deny its own existence
the regime has made you
compulsory.

Your personage will be strapped
into an airplane seat, exported
to Asia and beyond,
like a Bangladeshi made t-shirt in reverse.

Your metaphors and similes will be at the service
of the International Happiness Corporation –
Diversity Department –
currently headquartering here for tax purposes.
You will walk through all the right doors
secretly wearing their logo.

Life will be mostly festivals
of enforced grinning,
during which you’ll pass the hours
counting each others’ teeth.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#31

Post by isha »

Another by Kevin Higgins

Advisory Epistle From Literature Quangocrat
after Alexander Pope

About my person, I at all times carry
a bowl of re-heated cocktail sausages
and a completed application form asking
that I be better funded next year. I only read novels
which interrogate the relationship
between gout and Islamist terrorism,
translated from the obligatory French;
and poets whose words make me sink
more comfortably into
my brown swivel chair.

It’s taken five hundred thousand Euro
strategically invested by a range
of government agencies
over the past three years to give
the literature loving public
me sitting here in this office, knowing
the name of the third most
popular poet in Mongolia;
a country I had to visit
three times last year,
at your expense, to ascertain
the correct pronunciation
of said verse-maker’s name.

My most ardent followers,
a hairy-palmed crew
of professional online smoochers
who append themselves to me
on the off-chance, like maggots
around an untreated wound,
each with an avant-garde masterpiece safely
locked way inside his or her head.

My own favourite writers? By far
those who are on nobody’s
side but their own.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#32

Post by isha »

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Enoch Von Clausewitz
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Re: Poem of the Day

#33

Post by Enoch Von Clausewitz »

for times in it; they're letting allsorts of undocumenteds into our country nowadays


The Stranger - Rudyard Kipling

The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk--
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock,
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wanted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy or sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control--
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf--
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.
"when illusion spin her nette, i'm never where i wanna be"

'Cardmarker , CrossDresser , Awarenesss Raiser & Freelance Disabuser' <all rights reserved>
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Re: Poem of the Day

#34

Post by Berties_Horse »

Khalil Gibran


Do not love half lovers

Do not entertain half friends

Do not live half a life

and do not die a half death


If you choose silence, then be silent

When you speak, do so until you are finished

Do not silence yourself to say something

And do not speak to be silent


If you accept, then express it bluntly

Do not mask it

If you refuse then be clear about it

for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance


Do not accept half a solution

Do not believe half truths

Do not dream half a dream

Do not fantasize about half hopes


Half the way will get you no where

Half an idea will bear you no results


Half a life is a life you didn't live,

A word you have not said

A smile you postponed

A love you have not had

A friendship you did not know


The half is a mere moment of inability

but you are able for you are not half a being

You are a whole that exists to live a life

not half a life.
Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.” - Voltaire
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#35

Post by isha »

A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island by Frank O Hara


The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."
"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."
I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
and wondering if maybe he wasn't
burning me
anyway.
"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You
may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that some people always will
complain about the atmosphere,
either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you
were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was
waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to
speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching.
It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the
heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep
now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"
Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#36

Post by isha »

Mother to Son
Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
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678904673
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Re: Poem of the Day

#37

Post by 678904673 »

And Death Shall Have No Dominion
Dylan Thomas

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#38

Post by isha »

"The world you see is just a movie in your mind.
Rocks dont see it.
Bless and sit down.
Forgive and forget.
Practice kindness all day to everybody
and you will realize you’re already
in heaven now.
That’s the story.
That’s the message.
Nobody understands it,
nobody listens, they’re
all running around like chickens
with heads cut off. I will try
to teach it but it will
be in vain, s’why I’ll
end up in a shack
praying and being
cool and singing
by my woodstove
making pancakes."

Jack Kerouac
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Del.Monte
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Re: Poem of the Day

#39

Post by Del.Monte »

Image
'no more blah blah blah'
678904673
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Re: Poem of the Day

#40

Post by 678904673 »

Kerouac's writing is best appreciated while having a drink in your hand while puffing on a nice fat banger
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#41

Post by isha »

Del.Monte wrote: Tue May 02, 2023 9:14 pm Image
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.

- Ezra Pound
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Re: Poem of the Day

#42

Post by 95438756 »

If I really wanna say,
There's no difference between
Post what's on your mind
And Poem if the day
Just not so much woke
That will not make ye croke
It doesn't matter if your rich or broke
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Apelles
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Re: Poem of the Day

#43

Post by Apelles »

Forgetfulness
BY BILLY COLLINS
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
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Apelles
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Re: Poem of the Day

#44

Post by Apelles »

To One Unknown
BY HELEN DUDLEY

I have seen the proudest stars
That wander on through space,
Even the sun and moon,
But not your face.

I have heard the violin,
The winds and waves rejoice
in endless minstrelsy,
Yet not your voice.

I have touched the trillium,
Pale flower of the land,
Coral, anemone,
And not your hand.

I have kissed the shining feet
Of Twilight lover-wise,
Opened the gates of Dawn—
Oh not your eyes!

I have dreamed unwonted things,
Visions that witches brew,
Spoken with images,
Never with you.
678904673
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Re: Poem of the Day

#45

Post by 678904673 »

This Be The Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN

They feck 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 another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#46

Post by isha »

We are trying to come out with a name for this year's favourite hare in the garden and I found this poem from the 13th century, translated by Seamus Heaney.

1200-1300


The Names of the Hare


The man the hare has met
will never be the better of it
except he lay down on the land
what he carries in his hand–
be it staff or be it bow–
and bless him with his elbow
and come out with this litany
with devotion and sincerity
to speak the praises of the hare.
Then the man will better fare.

'The hare, call him scotart,
big-fellow, bouchart,
the O'Hare, the jumper,
the rascal, the racer.

Beat-the-pad, white-face,
funk-the-ditch, shit-ass.

The wimount, the messer,
the skidaddler, the nibbler,
the ill-met, the slabber.

The quick-scut, the dew-flirt,
the grass-biter, the goibert,
the home-late, the do-the-dirt.

The starer, the wood-cat,
the purblind, the furze cat,
the skulker, the bleary-eyed,
the wall-eyed, the glance-aside
and also the hedge-springer.

The stubble-stag, the long lugs,
the stook-deer, the frisky legs,
the wild one, the skipper,
the hug-the-ground, the lurker,
the race-the-wind, the skiver,
the shag-the-hare, the hedge-squatter,
the dew-hammer, the dew-hopper,
the sit-tight, the grass-bounder,
the jig-foot, the earth-sitter,
the light-foot, the fern-sitter,
the kail-stag, the herb-cropper.

The creep-along, the sitter-still,
the pintail, the ring-the-hill,
the sudden start,
the shake-the-heart,
the belly-white,
the lambs-in-flight.

The gobshite, the gum-sucker,
the scare-the-man, the faith-breaker,
the snuff-the-ground, the baldy skull,
(his chief name is scoundrel.)

The stag sprouting a suede horn,
the creature living in the corn,
the creature bearing all men's scorn,
the creature no one dares to name.'

When you have got all this said
then the hare's strength has been laid.
Then you might go faring forth–
east and west and south and north,
wherever you incline to go–
but only if you're skilful too.
And now, Sir Hare, good-day to you.
God guide you to a how-d'ye-do
with me: come to me dead
in either onion broth or bread.


Middle English, trans. Seamus Heaney
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isha
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Re: Poem of the Day

#47

Post by isha »

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Re: Poem of the Day

#48

Post by Del.Monte »

In the realm of politics, a tale to be told,
Of a man named Boris, both spirited and bold.
A Member of Parliament, with a flair for the stage,
His resignation came, in a comical rampage.

Oh, Boris Johnson, a character unique,
With hair like a haystack, and a mischievous streak.
He stood at the helm, leading the ship's direction,
But his time in power faced a funny deflection.

With words like a jester, he charmed the nation,
Delivering speeches with great exaggeration.
His antics and blunders made people laugh,
But beneath the laughter, the public had a gaffe.

One day, amidst chaos and political strife,
Boris announced his resignation, the end of his life.
But it wasn't a solemn affair, oh no, not at all,
It was a spectacle, a grand theatrical brawl.

DM (June 2023) with Chat GPT. :mrgreen:
'no more blah blah blah'
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Apelles
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Re: Poem of the Day

#49

Post by Apelles »

Sleep

Come to me, best companion,
for you I’ll lose the teasing muses,
the brain’s ceaseless surgical analysis,
what I crave is not lust, nor even tenderness,
but long hours of oblivion.
A selfish lone float of recuperation,
without interruption (not even to pee or feed)
would be infinite bliss indeed.

After this embrace–that only you can give–
I’ll wake with my face reshaped
into a pleasing semblance of my youth,
my eyes without their veins of red,
my joints oiled and gliding as they should.
Just raise your mantle
over my worn out body and I will breathe
as cosy and silent as a daisy,
all my petals folded, waiting
for enough sun to convince me it is day.

Katie Donovan.
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Re: Poem of the Day

#50

Post by Banshee »

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee
And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.

Robert Frost
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