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Fantasy-Freak Community => Culture Freak => Topic started by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 18, 2005, 07:39:50 PM

Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 18, 2005, 07:39:50 PM
Welcome to Darius' Poetry Corner. The thread for poems, either by poets or of your (and someday my) poems.

I was going to start this tread with a classic poem but since some FF'rs spawned, I chose differently. Please enjoy this short poem.

 :peace:
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 18, 2005, 07:40:35 PM
CRADLE SONG
by: William Blake (1757-1827)

SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
 
Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
 
As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
 
O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Aimless on November 19, 2005, 01:46:36 AM
OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADEE DOO
I'VE GOT A PERFECT PUZZLE FOR YOU
OOMPA LOOMPA, DOOMPADAH DEE
IF YOU ARE WISE YOU'LL LISTEN ME
WHAT DO YOU GET WHEN YOU GUZZLE DOWN SWEETS
EATING AS MUCH AS AN ELEPHANT EATS
WHAT ARE YOU AT GETTING TERRIBLY FAT
WHAT DO YOU THINK WILL COME OF THAT
I DON'T LIKE THE LOOK OF IT
OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADEE DAH
IF YOU'RE NOT GREEDY YOU WILL GO FAR
YOU WILL LIVE IN HAPPINESS TOO
LIKE THE OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADEE DO
DOOMPADEE DOO
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 19, 2005, 05:17:58 PM
The Raven
by: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this, and nothing more."
 
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
 
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
This it is, and nothing more."
 
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;--
Darkness there, and nothing more.
 
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this, and nothing more.
 
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
 
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
 
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
 
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
 
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
 
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore'."
 
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
 
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
 
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
 
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
 
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
 
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
 
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Auryn on November 19, 2005, 10:44:59 PM
Thin hates you for this thread apparently, Darius.  I don't know why.  He's a bitter, cynical man.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: The Artist Formerly Known As Genome on November 20, 2005, 07:07:03 PM
Oh well, at least you posted The Raven. Which is fantastically cool.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 21, 2005, 08:46:26 PM
A SUNSET
by: Victor Hugo (1802-1885)

I LOVE the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens,
Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens,
In numerous leafage bosomed close;
Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere
On cloudy archipelagos.
 
Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:
Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through,
As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew
A sudden elemental sword.
 
The sun at bay with splendid thrusts still keeps the sullen fold;
And momently at distance sets, as a cupola of gold,
The thatched roof of a cot a-glance;
Or on the blurred horizon joins his battle with the haze;
Or pools the blooming fields about with inter-isolate blaze,
Great moveless meres of radiance.
 
Then mark you how there hangs athwart the firmament's swept track,
Yonder a mighty crocodile with vast irradiant back,
A triple row of pointed teeth?
Under its burnished belly slips a ray of eventide,
The flickerings of a hundred glowing clouds in tenebrous side
With scales of golden mail ensheathe.
 
Then mounts a palace, then the air vibrates--the vision flees.
Confounded to its base, the fearful cloudy edifice
Ruins immense in mounded wrack;
Afar the fragments strew the sky, and each envermeiled cone
Hangeth, peak downward, overhead, like mountains overthrown
When the earthquake heaves its hugy back.
 
These vapors, with their leaden, golden, iron, bronzèd glows,
Where the hurricane, the waterspout, thunder, and hell repose,
Muttering hoarse dreams of destined harms,--
'Tis God who hangs their multitude amid the skiey deep,
As a warrior that suspendeth from the roof-tree of his keep
His dreadful and resounding arms!
 
All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.
 
O contemplate the heavens! Whenas the vein-drawn day dies pale,
In every season, every place, gaze through their every veil?
With love that has not speech for need!
Beneath their solemn beauty is a mystery infinite:
If winter hue them like a pall, or if the summer night
Fantasy them starre brede.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Croi Boi on November 22, 2005, 07:48:47 AM
Quote
Oh well, at least you posted The Raven. Which is fantastically cool.


But a little played.  :P
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 25, 2005, 09:55:25 PM
Fear
by: Rudyard Kipling

ERE Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the Jungle very softly flits a Shadow and a sigh--
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
And the whisper spreads and widens far and near;
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now--
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Ere the Moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,
When the downward-dipping tails are dank and drear;
Comes a breathing hard behind thee, snuffle-snuffle through the night--
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
On thy knees and draw the bow, bid the shrilling arrow go;
In the empty mocking thicket plunge the spear;
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek--
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
 
When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the silvered pine trees fall,
When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer;
Through the trumpets of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all--
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap;
Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear;
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter--this is Fear!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 28, 2005, 10:06:45 PM
SONNET #1
by: William Shakespeare

FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thout that are now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 03, 2005, 11:36:17 AM
TO IRELAND IN THE COMING TIMES
by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

KNOW, that I would accounted be
True brother of a company
That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
Ballad and story, rann and song;
Nor be I any less of them,
Because the red-rose-bordered hem
Of her, whose history began
Before God made the angelic clan,
Trails all about the written page.
When Time began to rant and rage
The measure of her flying feet
Made Ireland's heart begin to beat;
And Time bade all his candles flare
To light a measure here and there;
And may the thoughts of Ireland brood
Upon a measured quietude.
 
Nor may I less be counted one
With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,
Because, to him who ponders well,
My rhymes more than their rhyming tell
Of things discovered in the deep,
Where only body's laid asleep.
For the elemental creatures go
About my table to and fro,
That hurry from unmeasured mind
To rant and rage in flood and wind;
Yet he who treads in measured ways
May surely barter gaze for gaze.
Man ever journeys on with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon,
A Druid land, a Druid tune!
 
While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;
And we, our singing and our love,
What measurer Time has lit above,
And all benighted things that go
About my table to and fro,
Are passing on to where may be,
In truth's consuming ecstasy,
No place for love and dream at all;
For God goes by with white footfall.
I cast my heart into my rhymes,
That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Fred's Bimbo Girl on December 04, 2005, 01:01:54 PM
here's one of mine. it's untitled.



i stumble
i scrabble
i clutch and grasp
and i weep

darkness
thick and tangible
smothering

i open my mouth to cry out
and darkness pours in
denying
drowning

where is the light?
just one tiny pinprick of starlight
in this doom would do
no breath
no hope

i struggle
i flail
i batter and thrash


and i fail
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 07, 2005, 08:17:48 PM
ZIRA: IN CAPTIVITY
translated into English by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

LOVE me a little, Lord, or let me go,
I am so weary walking to and fro
Through all your lonely halls that were so sweet
Did they but echo to your coming feet.

When by the flowered scrolls of lace-like stone
Our women's windows -- I am left alone,
Across the yellow Desert, looking forth,
I see the purple hills towards the north.

Behind those jagged Mountains' lilac crest
Once lay the captive bird's small rifled nest.
There was my brother slain, my sister bound;
His blood, her tears, drunk by the thirsty ground.

Then, while the burning village smoked on high,
And desecrated all the peaceful sky,
They took us captive, us, born frank and free,
On fleet, strong camels through the sandy sea.

Yet, when we rested, night-times, on the sand
By the rare waters of this weary land,
Our captors, ere the camp was wrapped in sleep,
Talked, and I listened, and forgot to weep.

"Is he not brave and fair?" they asked, "our King,
Slender as one tall palm-tree by a spring;
Erect, serene, with gravely brilliant eyes,
As deeply dark as are those desert skies.

"Truly no bitter fate," they said, and smiled,
"Awaits the beauty of this captured child!"
Then something in my heart began to sing,
And secretly I longed to see the King.

Sometimes the other maidens sat in tears,
Sometimes, consoled, they jested at their fears,
Musing what lovers Time to them would bring;
But I was silent, thinking of the King.

Till, when the weary endless sands were passed,
When, far to south, the city rose at last,
All speech forsook me and my eyelids fell,
Since I already loved my Lord so well.

Then the division: some were sent away
To merchants in the city; some, they say,
To summer palaces, beyond the walls.
But me they took straight to the Sultan's halls.

Every morning I would wake and say
"Ah, sisters, shall I see our Lord to-day?"
The women robed me, perfumed me, and smiled;
"When were his feet unfleet to pleasure, child?"

And tales they told me of his deeds in war,
Of how his name was reverenced afar;
And, crouching closer in the lamp's faint glow,
They told me of his beauty, speaking low.

What need, what need? the women wasted art;
I loved you with every fibre of my heart
Already. My God! when did I not love you,
In life, in death, when shall I not love you?

You never seek me. All day long I lie
Watching the changes of the far-off sky
Behind the lattice-work of carven stone.
And all night long, alas! I lie alone.

But you come never. Ah, my Lord the King,
How can you find it well to do this thing?
Come once, come only: sometimes, as I lie,
I doubt if I shall see you first, or die.

Ah, could I hear your footsteps at the door
Hallow the lintel and caress the floor,
Then I might drink your beauty, satisfied,
Die of delight, ere you could reach my side.

Alas, you come not, Lord: life's flame burns low,
Faint for a loveliness it may not know,
Faint for your face, Oh, come -- come soon to me --
Lest, though you should not, Death should, set me free!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 10, 2005, 06:47:39 PM
PASSION
by: Charlotte Bronte (1816-1855)

SOME have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I'd hazard death to-morrow.

Could the battle-struggle earn
One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
The heady fight to try!

Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands
I roam full far away,
Wilt thou to those distant lands
In spirit ever stray?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
Bid me--bid me go
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
On Indian Sutlej's flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves
With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus' borders yawn with graves,
Yet, command me go!

Though rank and high the holocaust
Of nations steams to heaven,
Glad I'd join the death-doomed host,
Were but the mandate given.

Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.

If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
Darest thou turn aside?
Darest thou then my fire reprove,
By scorn, and maddening pride?

No--my will shall yet control
Thy will, so high and free,
And love shall tame that haughty soul--
Yes--tenderest love for me.

I'll read my triumph in thine eyes,
Behold, and prove the change;
Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
Once more in arms to range.

I'd die when all the foam is up,
The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
Life's dull dregs only lie.

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
Hope blest with fulness large,
I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword,
And perish in the charge!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Devlyn, the special edition on December 13, 2005, 02:57:42 PM
Quote
here's one of mine. it's untitled.



i stumble
i scrabble
i clutch and grasp
and i weep

darkness
thick and tangible
smothering

i open my mouth to cry out
and darkness pours in
denying
drowning

where is the light?
just one tiny pinprick of starlight
in this doom would do
no breath
no hope

i struggle
i flail
i batter and thrash


and i fail


I like this one. It's a bit how I feel right now :P.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 14, 2005, 09:07:13 PM
THE BLACK CHRIST
by: Arthur Shearly Cripps (1869-1952)

PILATE and Caïaphas
They have brought this thing to pass--
That a Christ the Father gave,
Should be guest within a grave.
 
Church and State have willed to last
This tyranny not over-past;
His dark southern Brows around
They a wreath of briars have bound,
In His dark despiséd Hands
Writ in sores their writing stands.
 
By strait starlit ways I creep,
Caring while the careless sleep,
Bearing balms, and flow’rs to crown
That poor Head the stone holds down,
Through some crack or crevice dim
I would reach my sweets to Him.
 
Easter suns they rise and set,
But that stone is steadfast yet:
Past my lifting ’tis but I
When ’tis lifted would be nigh.
I believe, whate’er they say,
The sun shall dance an Easter Day,
And I that through thick twilight grope
With balms of faith, and flow’rs of hope,
Shall lift mine eyes and see that stone
Stir and shake, if not be gone.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 18, 2005, 08:30:13 PM
INDIAN DANCERS
by: Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)

EYES ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire
Drink deep of the hush of the hyacinth heavens that glimmer around them in fountains of light;
O wild and entrancing the strain of keen music that cleaveth the stars like a wail of desire,
And beautiful dancers with houri-like faces bewitch the voluptuous watches of night.
 
The scents of red roses and sandalwood flutter and die in the maze of their gem-tangled hair,
And smiles are entwining like magical serpents the poppies of lips that are opiate-sweet;
Their glittering garments of purple are burning like tremulous dawns in the quivering air,
And exquisite, subtle and slow are the tinkle and tread of their rhythmical, slumber-soft feet.
 
Now silent, now singing and swaying and swinging, like blossoms that bend to the breezes or showers,
Now wantonly winding, they flash, now they falter, and, lingering, languish in radiant choir;
Their jewel-girt arms and warm, wavering, lily-long fingers enchant through melodious hours,
Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 26, 2005, 06:59:44 PM
I AM THE GOD OF THE SENSUOUS FIRE
by: Sir Alfred Comyn Lyall (1835-1911)

I AM the God of the sensuous fire
That moulds all Nature in forms divine;
The symbols of death and of man’s desire,
The springs of change in the world, are mine;
The organs of birth and the circlet of bones,
And the light loves carved on the temple stones.
 
I am the lord of delights and pain,
Of the pest that killeth, of fruitful joys;
I rule the currents of heart and vein;
A touch gives passion, a look destroys;
In the heat and cold of my lightest breath
Is the might incarnate of Lust and Death.
 
If a thousand altars stream with blood
Of the victims slain by the chanting priest,
Is a great God lured by the savoury food?
I reck not of worship, or song, or feast;
But that millions perish, each hour that flies,
Is the mystic sign of my sacrifice.
 
Ye may plead and pray for the millions born;
They come like dew on the morning grass;
Your vows and vigils I hold in scorn,
The soul stays never, the stages pass;
All life is the play of the power that stirs
In the dance of my wanton worshippers.
 
And the strong swift river my shrine below
It runs, like man, its unending course
To the boundless sea from eternal snow;
Mine is the Fountain--and mine the Force
That spurs all nature to ceaseless strife;
And my image is Death at the gates of Life.
 
In many a legend and many a shape,
In the solemn grove and the crowded street,
I am the Slayer, whom none escape;
I am Death trod under a fair girl’s feet;
I govern the tides of the sentient sea
That ebbs and flows to eternity.
 
And the sum of the thought and the knowledge of man
Is the secret tale that my emblems tell;
Do ye seek God’s purpose, or trace his plan?
Ye may read your doom in my parable:
For the circle of life in its flower and its fall
Is the writing that runs on my temple wall.…
 
Let my temples fall, they are dark with age,
Let my idols break, they have stood their day;
On their deep hewn stones the primeval sage
Has figured the spells that endure alway;
My presence may vanish from river and grove,
But I rule for ever in Death and Love.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on January 02, 2006, 09:14:40 PM
WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING
by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

SO, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
 
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have a rest.
 
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: AshtrayMonument on January 04, 2006, 12:46:08 PM
The Bell That Tolls, My Saviour
by Edgar Allen Poe

When I wake up in the morning
And the clock lets out a warning
I don't think I'll ever make it on time
By the time I got my books I give myself a look
I'm at the corner just in time to see the bus fly by

It's alright cause I'm saved by the bell

If the teacher pops a test I know I'm a mess
And my dog ate all my homework last night
Ridin low in my chair she won't know tha t I'm there
If I can hand it in tomorrow it'll be alright

It's alright 'cause I'm saved by the bell.
It's alright 'cause I'm saved by the bell.
It's alright 'cause I'm saved by the bell.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Olli on January 04, 2006, 12:54:38 PM
My First Time
by Alex

The sky was dark
The moon was high
All alone
Just her and I
Her hair so soft
Her eyes so blue
I knew just what
She wanted to do
Her skin so soft
Her legs so fine
I ran my fingers
Down her spine
I didn't know how
But I tried my best
To place my hand
On her breasts
I remember my fear
My fast beating heart
But slowly she spread

Her legs apart
And when she did it
I felt no shame
All at once
The white stuff came
At last it's finished
It's all over now
My first time
Milking a COW!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: k0ge on January 05, 2006, 04:49:14 AM
As long as we're all being suitably masturbatory here...

Oz

Ruby slippers wrenched from
unknowing feet
Brand-new
footwear to make an impression
in this yellow-bricked world.

And my faithful Toto did follow
a gentle glance affirms
his presence at my heels

Skin the colour of envy,
Soul a sickly morass
she only sees red
tipped allure in possession of great power
Truth is but a heel-click away

Perhaps I cannot be your saviour
From the Wicked, wicked Witch.

Love is the most elegant form of insanity.

And she did wrench in return
My most beloved
Reduced to utility in a battle gone awry
Her heedless deed doth destroy
Each sunny slab
We have so laboriously endured

Oh.  What a world.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Soma on January 05, 2006, 05:47:15 AM
Kevin (K-Fed) Federline - Y'all Aint Ready

I shouldn't be sayin' keep
My damn name outcha mouth
But y'all keep increasin' my change ...
Go ahead and say whatcha wanna
I'm gonna sell about 2 mil
Uh, then I'm goner, uh
I know y'all wishin' you was in my position
Cause I keep gettin' into situations
That you wish you was in, cousin
I'm not your brother, I'm not your uncle, I'm Daddy do
Steppin' in this game and y'all ain't got a clue
My prediction is that y'all are gonna hate
On the style we create, straight 2008
But I know that you really can't wait
Because people always askin' me
When's the release date?
Well maybe, baby, you could wait and see
Until then all these Pavarattis followin' me
Gettin' anxious? Go take a peek
I'm starrin' in your magazines
Now every day and week
Back then, they call me K-fed
But you can call me Daddy instead
Back then, they call me K-fed
But you can call ...

Don't miss K-Fed's next masterpiece "Popozao"
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Thin on January 05, 2006, 12:30:44 PM
"Danger and evil are everywhere,
 Nature called he didn't care,
 Who can help the world survive,
 Who can keep a dream alive?
 alive alive!"
 
 "An Awesome alien hero,
 was destine to hear the cry,
 A watcher known as widget,
 he shot down from the sky!"
 "woh-oh woh-oh,
 Widget the world watcher
 woh-oh woh-oh,
 Widget the world watcher"
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: k0ge on January 05, 2006, 02:32:10 PM
Earth!
Fire!
Wind!
Water!
Heart!

GO PLANET!

With your powers combined I am Captain Planet!

Captain Planet, he's our hero,
Gonna take pollution down to zero,
He's our powers magnified,
And he's fighting on the planet side

Captain Planet, he's our hero,
Gonna take pollution down to zero,
Gonna help him put us under,
Bad guys who like to loot and plunder

"You'll pay for this Captain Planet!"

(chanting)
We're the planeteers,
You can be one too!
'Cause saving our planet is the thing to do,
Looting and polluting is not the way,
Hear what Captain Planet has to say:

"THE POWER IS YOURS!!"
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Devlyn, the special edition on January 05, 2006, 02:44:18 PM
Peaucaymahn

I wanna be the very best
like no one ever was
To catch them is my real test
To train them is my cause

I will travel across the land
searching far and wide
Each pokemon to understand
the power that's inside

Pokemon! its you and me
I know its my destiny,
Pokemon! Oh you're my best friend
in a world we must defend
Pokemon! a heart so true
Our courage will pull us through,

You teach me and I'll teach you,
Pokemon! gotto catch'em all

Every challenge allong the way
with courage I will face.
I will battle every day
to claim my rightful place.
Come with me,
the time is right,
there's no better team.
Arm in arm we'll win the fight!
It's always been our dream!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: AshtrayMonument on January 05, 2006, 04:03:45 PM
Now that's what I call poetry, Dev.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Thin on January 06, 2006, 03:12:12 AM
Yeah, he really emphasised teamwork.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on January 15, 2006, 07:28:48 PM
GRAND IS THE LEISURE OF THE EARTH
by: Jean Ingelow (1830-1897)

'GRAND is the leisure of the earth;
She gives her happy myriads birth,
And after harvest fears not dearth,
But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim.
Dread is the leisure up above
The while He sits whose name is Love,
And waits, as Noah did, for the dove,
To wit if she would fly to him.
 
‘He waits for us, while, houseless things,
We beat about with bruisèd wings
On the dark floods and water-springs,
The ruined world, the desolate sea;
With open windows from the prime
All night, all day, He waits sublime,
Until the fullness of the time
Decreed from His eternity.
 
‘Where is OUR leisure?--Give us rest.
Where is the quiet we possessed?
We must have had it once--were blest
With peace whose phantoms yet entice.
Sorely the mother of mankind
Longed for the garden left behind;
For we still prove some yearnings blind
Inherited from Paradise.’
 
‘Hold, heart!’ I cried; ‘for trouble sleeps,
I hear no sound of aught that weeps;
I will not look into thy deeps--
I am afraid, I am afraid!’
‘Afraid!’ she saith; ‘and yet ’tis true
That what man dreads he still should view--
Should do the thing he fears to do,
And storm the ghosts in ambuscade!’
 
‘What good!’ I sigh. ‘Was reason meant
To straighten branches that are bent,
Or soothe an ancient discontent,
The instinct of a race dethroned?
Ah! doubly should that instinct go,
Must the four rivers cease to flow,
Nor yield those rumours sweet and low
Wherewith man’s life is undertoned.’
 
‘Yet had I but the past,’ she cries,
‘And it was lost, I would arise
And comfort me some other wise.
But more than loss about me clings.
I am but restless with my race;
The whispers from a heavenly place,
Once dropped among us, seem to chase
Rest with their prophet-visitings.
 
‘The race is like a child, as yet
Too young for all things to be set
Plainly before him, with no let
Or hindrance meet for his degree;
But ne’ertheless by much too old
Not to perceive that men withhold
More of the story than is told,
And so infer a mystery.
 
‘If the Celestials daily fly
With messages on missions high,
And float, our nests and turrets nigh,
Conversing on Heaven’s great intents,
What wonder hints of coming things,
Whereto men’s hope and yearning clings,
Should drop like feathers from their wings
And give us vague presentiments.
 
‘And as the waxing moon can take
The tidal waters in her wake,
And lead them round and round, to break
Obedient to her drawings dim;
So may the movements of His mind,
The first Great Father of mankind,
Affect with answering movements blind,
And draw the souls that breathe by Him.
 
‘We had a message long ago
That like a river peace should flow,
And Eden bloom again below.
We heard, and we began to wait:
Full soon that message men forgot;
Yet waiting is their destined lot,
And, waiting for they know not what,
They strive with yearnings passionate.’
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on January 22, 2006, 08:11:12 PM
CHANCE MEETINGS
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)

IN the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive,
The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves,
In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices,
I suddenly face you,
 
Your dark eyes return for a space from her who is with you,
They shine into mine with a sunlit desire,
They say an 'I love you, what star do you live on?'
They smile and then darken,
 
And silent, I answer 'You too--I have known you,--I love you!--'
And the shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves
Interlace with low voices and footsteps and sunlight
To divide us forever.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on January 29, 2006, 02:56:52 PM
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
by: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"
 
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart's chamber.
 
"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse;
For this I sought thee.
 
"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
 
"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
 
"But when I older grew,
Joining the corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
 
"Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing.
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o'erflowing.
 
"Once as I told in glee
Tales from the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
 
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
 
"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.
 
"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
 
"She was a Prince's child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew's flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
 
"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his arméd hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
 
"Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
 
"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,
'Death without quarter!'
Midships with iron keel,
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water!
 
"As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.
 
"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloudlike we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I a lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward.
 
"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!
 
"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was grateful!
 
"Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"
--Thus the tale ended.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on February 02, 2006, 07:51:51 PM
MY SWEETEST LESBIA
by: Caius Valerius Catullus (87-57 B.C.)

MY sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive.
But, soon as once set our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
 
If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armor should not be;
No drum or trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of Love:
But fools do live and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.
 
When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends,
But let all lovers rich in triumph come
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
And crown with love my ever-during night.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on February 12, 2006, 03:50:34 PM
TO THE SUPREME BEING
by: Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed,
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
Which of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where Thou say'st it may;
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way,
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on February 20, 2006, 09:25:31 PM
JOHN MAYNARD
by: Horatio Alger (1832-1899)

'T WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse
One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or, leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam
That flecked the rippling tide.

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene,--
Could dream that ere an hour had sped
That frame of sturdy oak
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;
The captain's swarthy face grew pale;
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could avail
To quench the insidious flame.

The bad news quickly reached the deck,
It sped from lip to lip,
And ghastly Faces everywhere
Looked from the doomed ship.
"Is there no hope--no chance of life?"
A hundred lips implore,
"But one," the captain made reply,
"To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul
That hour should yet reveal,
By name John Maynard, eastern-born,
Stood calmly at the wheel.
"Head her south-east!" the captain shouts,
Above the smothered roar,--
"Head her south-east without delay!
Make for the nearest shore!"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,
Or clouds his dauntless eye,
As, in a sailor's measured tone,
His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"
Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,
Crowd forward wild with fear,
While at the stern the dreaded flames
Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
But still with steady hand
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly
He steered the ship to land.
"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"
He heard the captain cry;
A voice from out the stifling smoke
Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"

But half a mile! a hundred hands
Stretch eagerly to shore.
But half a mile! That distance sped
Peril shall all be o'er.
But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames
No longer slowly creep,
But gather round that helmsman bold,
With fierce, impetuous sweep.

"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice
The captain cries once more,
"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,
And we shall reach the shore."
Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart
Responded firmly still,
Unawed, though face to face with death,--
"With God's good help I will!"

The flames approach with giant strides,
They scorch his hand and brow;
One arm, disabled, seeks his side,
Ah! he is conquered now!
But no, his teeth are firmly set,
He crushes down his pain,
His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet!
Brave heart, thy task is o'er,
The pebbles grate beneath the keel.
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voice rise
In praise to God that he
Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
And from the engulphing sea.

But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel,--
His nerveless hands released their task,
He sank beside the wheel.
The wave received his lifeless corpse,
Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Never hero had
A nobler funeral pyre!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on February 28, 2006, 06:45:19 PM
CANCIÓN
by: Alvaro de Luna (1388-1453)

SINCE to cry
And to sigh
I ne'er cease;
And in vain
I would gain
My release;
Yet I still
Have the will,
Though I see
That the way
Every day
Is less free.
She is light
And the blight
Wrecks my joy;
Better death
Than such breath
I employ!
But perchance
For such glance
I was born;
And my grief
Is relief
For your scorn.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on March 04, 2006, 10:23:33 AM
LAMENT FOR THE TWO BROTHERS SLAIN BY EACH OTHER'S HAND
by: Aeschylus

NOW do our eyes behold
The tidings which were told:
Twin fallen kings, twin perished hopes to mourn,
The slayer, the slain,
The entangled doom forlorn
And ruinous end of twain.
Say, is not sorrow, is not sorrow's sum
On home and hearthstone come?
Oh, waft with sighs the sail from shore,
Oh, smite the bosom, cadencing the oar
That rows beyond the rueful stream for aye
To the far strand,
The ship of souls, the dark,
The unreturning bark
Whereon light never falls nor foot of Day,
Even to the bourne of all, to the unbeholden land.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on March 08, 2006, 07:12:06 PM
CHANCE MEETINGS
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)

IN the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive,
The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves,
In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices,
I suddenly face you,
 
Your dark eyes return for a space from her who is with you,
They shine into mine with a sunlit desire,
They say an 'I love you, what star do you live on?'
They smile and then darken,
 
And silent, I answer 'You too--I have known you,--I love you!--'
And the shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves
Interlace with low voices and footsteps and sunlight
To divide us forever.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on March 16, 2006, 08:19:23 PM
A GREY DAY
by: William Vaughn Moody (1869-1910)

GREY drizzling mists the moorlands drape,
Rain whitens the dead sea,
From headland dim to sullen cape
Grey sails creep wearily.
I know not how that merchantman
Has found the heart; but 't is her plan
Seaward her endless course to shape.
 
Unreal as insects that appall
A drunkard's peevish brain,
O'er the grey deep the dories crawl,
Four-legged, with rowers twain:
Midgets and minims of the earth,
Across old ocean's vasty girth
Toiling -- heroic, comical!
 
I wonder how that merchant's crew
Have ever found the will!
I wonder what the fishers do
To keep them toiling still!
I wonder how the heart of man
Has patience to live out its span,
Or wait until its dreams come true.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on March 19, 2006, 10:08:49 AM
THE CROSS
by: Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600-1681)

TREE which heaven has willed to dower
With that true fruit whence we live,
As that other death did give;
Of new Eden loveliest flower;
Bow of light, that in worst hour
Of the worst flood signal true
O'er the world, of mercy threw;
Fair plant, yielding sweetest wine;
Of our David harp divine;
Or our Moses tables new;
Sinner am I, therefore I
Claim upon thy mercies make;
Since alone for sinners' sake
God on thee endured to die.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on March 25, 2006, 09:22:50 AM
THE TREASURY
by: Alfonso X (1221-1284)

THE strange intelligence then reached my ears
That in the land of Egypt lived a man,
Who, wise of wit, subjected to his scan
The dark occurrences of uncome years;
He judged the stars, and by the moving spheres
And aspects of the heavens unveiled the dim
Face of futurity, which then to him
Appeared, as clear to us the past appears.
A yearning towards this sage inspired my pen
And tongue, that instant, with humility
Descending from my height of majesty;
Such mastery has a strong desire o'er men;
My earnest prayers I wrote -- I sent -- with ten
My noblest envoys, loaded each apart
With gold and silver, which with all my heart
I offered him, but the request was vain.
With much politeness the wise man replied,
"You, sire, are a great king, and I should be
Most glad to serve you, but in such a fee
Of gold and silver gems I take no sort of pride;
Deign, then, yourself to use them; I abide
Content in more abundant wealth; and may
Your treasures profit you in every way
That I can wish, your servant." I complied;
But sent the stateliest of my argosies,
Which reached, and from the Alexandrian port
Brought safe this cunning master to my court,
Who greeted me with all kind courtesies;
I knowing well his great abilities,
And learning in the movement of the spheres,
Have highly honored him these many years,
For honor is the birthright of the wise.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Julius on March 25, 2006, 07:10:49 PM
Olli is the captain of the ship, of the ship
Olli is the captain of the ship, of the ship!
But the ship is a tanker, and Olli is a wanker,
Oh Olli is the captain of the ship, of the ship!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on March 28, 2006, 07:52:44 PM
THE SWIMMERS
by: George Sterling (1869-1926)

WE were eight fishers of the western sea,
Who sailed our craft beside a barren land,
Where harsh with pines the herdless mountains stand
And lonely beaches be.
 
There no man dwells, and ships go seldom past;
Yet sometimes there we lift our keels ashore,
To rest in safety 'mid the broken roar
And mist of surges vast.
 
One strand we know, remote from all the rest,
Far north and south the cliffs are high and steep,
Whose naked leagues of rock repel the deep,
Insurgent from the west.
 
Tawny it lies, untrodden e'er by man,
Save when from storm we sought its narrow rift
To beach our craft and light a fire of drift
And sleep till day began.
 
Along its sands no flower nor bird has home.
Abrupt its breast, girt by no splendor save
The whorled and curving emerald of the wave
And scarves of rustling foam.
 
A place of solemn beauty; yet we swore,
By all the ocean stars' unhasting flight,
To seek no refuge for another night
Upon that haunted shore.
 
That year a sombre autumn held the earth.
At dawn we sailed from out our village bay;
We sang; a taut wind leapt along the day;
The sea-birds mocked our mirth.
 
Southwest we drave, like arrows to a mark;
Ere set of sun the coast was far to lee,
Where thundered over by the white-hooved sea
The reefs lie gaunt and dark.
 
But when we would have cast our hooks, the main
Grew wroth a-sudden, and our captains said:
"Seek we a shelter." And the west was red;
God gave his winds the rein.
 
And eastward lay the sands of which I told;
Thither we fled, and on the narrow beach
Drew up our keels beyond the lessening reach
Of waters green and cold.
 
Then set the wounded sun. The wind blew clean
The skies. A wincing star came forth at last.
We heard like mighty tollings on the blast
The shock of waves unseen.
 
The wide-winged Eagle hovered overhead;
The Scorpion crept slowly in the south
To pits below the horizon; in its mouth
Lay a young moon that bled.
 
And from our fire the ravished flame swept back,
Like yellow hair of one who flies apace,
Compelled in lands barbarian to race
With lions on her track.
 
Then from the maelstroms of the surf arose
Wild laughter, mystical, and up the sands
Came Two that walked with intertwining hands
Amid those ocean snows.
 
Ghostly they shone before the lofty spray--
Fairer than gods and naked as the moon,
The foamy fillets at their ankles strewn
Less marble-white than they.
 
Laughing they stood, then to our beacon's glare
Drew nearer, as we watched in mad surprise
The scarlet-flashing lips, the sea-green eyes,
The red and tangled hair.
 
Then spoke the god (goddess and god they seemed),
In harplike accents of a tongue unknown--
About his brows the dripping locks were blown;
Like wannest gold he gleamed.
 
Staring we sat; again the Vision spoke.
Beyond his form we saw the billows rave,--
The leap of those white leopards in the wave,--
The spume of seas that broke.
 
Yet sat we mute, for then a human word
Seemed folly's worst. And scorn began to trace
Its presence on the wild, imperious face;
Again the red lips stirred,
 
But spoke not. In an instant we were free
From that enchantment: fleet as deer they turned
And sudden amber leapt the sands they spurned.
We saw them meet the sea.
 
We heard the seven-chorded surf, unquelled,
Call in one thunder to the granite walls;
But over all, like broken clarion-calls,
Disdainful laughter welled.
 
Then silence, save for cloven wave and wind.
Our fire had faltered on its little dune.
Far out a fog-wall reared, and hid the moon.
The night lay vast and blind.
 
Silent, we waited the assuring morn,
Which rose on angered waters. But we set
Our hooded prows to sea, and, tempest-wet,
Beat up the coast forlorn.
 
And no man scorned our tale, for well they knew
Had mystery befallen: in our eyes
Were alien terrors and unknown surmise.
Men saw the tale was true.
 
And no man seeks a refuge on that shore,
Tho tempests gather in impelling skies;
Unseen, unsolved, unhazarded it lies,
Forsaken evermore.
 
For on those sands immaculate and lone
Perchance They list the sea's immeasured lyre,
When sunset casts an evanescent fire
Thro billows thunder-sown.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on April 09, 2006, 10:06:05 AM
DEBT
by: Jesse Rittenhouse (1869-1948)

MY debt to you, Belovéd,
Is one I cannot pay
In any coin of any realm
On any reckoning day;
 
For where is he shall figure
The debt, when all is said,
To one who makes you dream again
When all the dreams were dead?
 
Or where is the appraiser
Who shall the claim compute,
Of one who makes you sing again
When all the songs were mute?
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on April 09, 2006, 10:07:16 AM
THE EMBARRASSING EPISODE OF LITTLE MISS MUFFET
by: Guy Wetmore Carryl (1873-1904)

LITTLE Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet,
(Which never occurred to the rest of us)
And, as 'twas a June day, and just about noonday,
She wanted to eat--like the rest of us:
Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say
It is wholesome and people grow fat on it.
The spot being lonely, the lady not only
Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it.
 
A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled,
As rivulets always are thought to do,
And dragon flies sported around and cavorted,
As poets say dragon flies ought to do;
When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied
A horrible sight that brought fear to her,
A hideous spider was sitting beside her,
And most unavoidably near to her!
 
Albeit unsightly, this creature politely Said:
"Madam, I earnestly vow to you,
I'm penitent that I did not bring my hat.
I Should otherwise certainly bow to you."
Thought anxious to please, he was so ill at ease
That he lost all his sense of propriety,
And grew so inept that he clumsily stept
In her plate--which is barred in Society.
 
This curious error completed her terror;
She shuddered, and growing much paler, not
Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet
Which doubled him up in a sailor knot.
It should be explained that at this he was pained:
He cried: "I have vexed you, no doubt of it!
Your fists's like a truncheon." "You're still in my luncheon,"
Was all that she answered. "Get out of it!"
 
And the Moral is this: Be it madam or miss
To whom you have something to say,
You are only absurd when you get in the curd
But you're rude when you get in the whey.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on April 16, 2006, 07:05:30 PM
LALILA, TO THE FERENGI LOVER
translated into English by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

WHY above others was I so blessed
And honoured? to be the chosen one
To hold you, sleeping, against my breast,
As now I may hold your only son.

Twelve months ago; that wonderful night!
You gave your life to me in a kiss;
Have I done well, for that past delight,
In return, to have given you this?

Look down at his face, your face, beloved,
His eyes are azure as yours are blue.
In every line of his form is proved
How well I loved you, and only you.

I felt the secret hope at my heart
Turn suddenly to the living joy,
And knew that your life in mine had part
As golden grains in a brass alloy.

And learning thus, that your child was mine,
Thrilled by the sense of its stirring life,
I held myself as a sacred shrine
Afar from pleasure, and pain, and strife,

That all unworthy I might not be
Of that you had deigned to cause to dwell
Hidden away in the heart of me,
As white pearls hide in a dusky shell.

Do you remember, when first you laid
Your lips on mine, that enchanted night?
My eyes were timid, my lips afraid,
You seemed so slender and strangely white.

I always trembled; the moments flew
Swiftly to dawn that took you away,
But this is a small and lovely you
Content to rest in my arms all day.

Oh, since you have sought me, Lord, for this,
And given your only child to me,
My life devoted to yours and his,
Whilst I am living, will always be.

And after death, through the long To Be,
(Which, I think, must surely keep love's laws,)
I, should you chance to have need of me,
Am ever and always, only yours.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on April 20, 2006, 09:24:55 AM
HOW BEAUTY CONTRIVED TO GET SQUARE WITH THE BEAST
by: Guy Wetmore Carryl (1873-1904)

MISS Guinevere Platt
Was so beautiful that
She couldn't remember the day
When one of her swains
Hadn't taken the pains
To send her a mammoth bouquet.
And the postman had found,
On the whole of his round,
That no one received such a lot
Of bulky epistles
As, waiting his whistles,
The beautiful Guinevere got!
 
A significant sign
That her charm was divine
Was seen in society, when
The chaperons sniffed
With their eyebrows alift:
"Whatever's got into the men?"
There was always a man
Who was holding her fan,
And twenty that danced in details,
And a couple of mourners,
Who brooded in corners,
And gnawed their mustaches and nails.
 
John Jeremy Platt
Wouldn't stay in the flat,
For his beautiful daughter he missed:
When he'd taken his tub,
He would hie to his club,
And dally with poker or whist.
At the end of a year
It was perfectly clear
That he'd never computed the cost,
For he hadn't a penny
To settle the many
Ten thousands of dollars he'd lost!
 
F. Ferdinand Fife
Was a student of life:
He was coarse, and excessively fat,
With a beard like a goat's,
But he held all the notes
Of ruined John Jeremy Platt!
With an adamant smile
That was brimming with guile,
He said: "I am took with the face
Of your beautiful daughter,
And wed me she ought ter,
To save you from utter disgrace!"
 
Miss Guinevere Platt
Didn't hesitate at
Her duty's imperative call.
When they looked at the bride
All the chaperons cried:
"She isn't so bad, after all!"
Of the desolate men
There were something like ten
Who took up political lives,
And the flower of the flock
Went and fell off a dock,
And the rest married hideous wives!
 
But the beautiful wife
Of F. Ferdinand Fife
Was the wildest that ever was known:
She'd grumble and glare,
Till the man didn't dare
To say that his soul was his own.
She sneered at his ills,
And quadrupled his bills,
And spent nearly twice what he earned;
Her husband deserted,
And frivoled, and flirted,
Till Ferdinand's reason was turned.
 
He repented too late,
And his terrible fate
Upon him so heavily sat,
That he swore at the day
When he sat down to play
At cards with John Jeremy Platt.
He was dead in a year,
And the fair Guinevere
In society sparkled again,
While the chaperons fluttered
Their fans, as they muttered:
"She's getting exceedingly plain!"
The Moral: Predicaments often are found
That beautiful duty is apt to get round:
But greedy extortioners better beware
For dutiful beauty is apt to get square!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on April 28, 2006, 07:20:34 PM
AND IF I DID, WHAT THEN?
by: George Gascoigne (1525?-1577)

"AND if I did, what then?
Are you aggriev'd therefore?
The sea hath fish for every man,
And what would you have more?"
 
Thus did my mistress once,
Amaze my mind with doubt;
And popp'd a question for the nonce
To beat my brains about.
 
Whereto I thus replied:
"Each fisherman can wish
That all the seas at every tide
Were his alone to fish.
 
"And so did I (in vain)
But since it may not be,
Let such fish there as find the gain,
And leave the loss for me.
 
"And with such luck and loss
I will content myself,
Till tides of turning time may toss
Such fishers on the shelf.
 
"And when they stick on sands,
That every man may see,
Then will I laugh and clap my hands,
As they do now at me."
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on May 07, 2006, 08:22:51 PM
MALARIA
translated into English by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

HE lurks among the reeds, beside the marsh,
Red oleanders twisted in His hair,
His eyes are haggard and His lips are harsh,
Upon His breast the bones show gaunt and bare.

The green and stagnant waters lick his feet,
And from their filmy, iridescent scum
Clouds of mosquitoes, gauzy in the heat,
Rise with His gifts: Death and Delirium.

His messengers: they bear the deadly taint
On spangled wings aloft and far away,
Making thin music, strident and yet faint,
From golden eve to silver break of day.

The baffled sleeper hears th' incessant whine
Through his tormented dreams, and finds no rest.
The thirsty insects use his blood for wine,
Probe his blue veins and pasture on his breast.

While far away He in the marshes lies,
Staining the stagnant water with His breath,
An endless hunger burning in His eyes,
A famine unassuaged, whose food is Death.

He hides among the ghostly mists that float
Over the water, weird and white and chill,
And peasants, passing in their laden boat,
Shiver and feel a sense of coming ill.

A thousand burn and die; He takes no heed,
Their bones, unburied, strewn upon the plain,
Only increase the frenzy of His greed
To add more victims to th' already slain.

He loves the haggard frame, the shattered mind,
Gloats with delight upon the glazing eye,
Yet, in one thing His cruelty is kind,
He sends them lovely dreams before they die;

Dreams that bestow on them their heart's desire,
Visions that find them mad, and leave them blest,
To sink, forgetful of the fever's fire,
Softly, as in a lover's arms, to rest.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on May 25, 2006, 08:57:03 AM
HILLS
by: Arthur Guiterman (1871-1943)

I NEVER loved your plains!--
Your gentle valleys,
Your drowsy country lanes
And pleachéd alleys.
 
I want my hills! -- the trail
That scorns the hollow.--
Up, up the ragged shale
Where few will follow,
 
Up, over wooded crest
And mossy bowlder
With strong thigh, heaving chest,
And swinging shoulder,
 
So let me hold my way,
By nothing halted,
Until, at close of day,
I stand, exalted,
 
High on my hills of dream--
Dear hills that know me!
And then, how fair will seem
The lands below me,
 
How pure, at vesper-time,
The far bells chiming!
God, give me hills to climb,
And strength for climbing!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on May 25, 2006, 08:58:26 AM
THE YUKON
by: Joaquin Miller (1841-1913)

THE moon resumed all heaven now,
She shepherded the stars below
Along her wide, white steeps of snow,
Nor stooped nor rested, where or how.
 
She bared her full white breast, she dared
The sun e'er show his face again.
She seemed to know no change, she kept
Carousal constantly, nor slept,
Nor turned aside a breath, nor spared
The fearful meaning, the mad pain,
The weary eyes, the poor dazed brain,
That came at last to feel, to see
The dread, dead touch of lunacy.
 
How loud the silence! Oh, how loud!
How more than beautiful the shroud
Of dead Light in the moon-mad north
When great torch-tipping stars stand forth
Above the black, slow-moving pall
As at some fearful funeral!
 
The moon blares as mad trumpets blare
To marshaled warriors long and loud;
The cobalt blue knows not a cloud,
But oh, beware that moon, beware
Her ghostly, graveyard, moon-mad stare!
 
Beware white silence more than white!
Beware the five-horned starry rune;
Beware the groaning gorge below;
Beware the wide, white world of snow,
Where trees hang white as hooded nun--
No thing not white, not one, not one!
But most beware that mad white moon.
 
All day, all day, all night, all night
Nay, nay, not yet or night or day.
Just whiteness, whiteness, ghastly white,
Made doubly white by that mad moon
And strange stars jangled out of tune!
 
At last, he saw, or seemed to see,
Above, beyond, another world.
Far up the ice-hung path there curled
A red-veined cloud, a canopy
That topt the fearful ice-built peak
That seemed to prop the very porch
Of God's house; then, as if a torch
Burned fierce, there flushed a fiery streak,
A flush, a blush, on heaven's cheek!
 
The dogs sat down, men sat the sled
And watched the flush, the blush of red.
The little wooly dogs, they knew,
Yet scarcely knew what they were about.
They thrust their noses up and out,
They drank the Light, what else to do?
Their little feet, so worn, so true,
Could scarcely keep quiet for delight.
They knew, they knew, how much they knew
The mighty breaking up of night!
Their bright eyes sparkled with such joy
That they at last should see loved Light!
The tandem sudden broke all rule;
Swung back, each leaping like a boy
Let loose from some dark, ugly school--
Leaped up and tried to lick his hand--
Stood up as happy children stand.
 
How tenderly God's finger set
His crimson flower on that height
Above the battered walls of night!
A little space it flourished yet,
And then His angel, His first-born,
Burst through, as on that primal morn!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on June 04, 2006, 12:25:34 PM
THE PRAISE OF SPRING
by: Gonzalo de Berceo (1180-1246)

I, GONZALO de Berceo, in the gentle summertide,
Wending upon a pilgrimage, came to a meadow's side;
All green was it and beautiful, with flowers far and wide,--
A pleasant spot, I ween, wherein the traveller might abide.
 
Flowers with the sweetest odors filled all the sunny air,
And not alone refreshed the sense, but stole the mind from every care;
On every side a fountain gushed, whose waters pure and fair,
Ice-cold beneath the summer sun, but warm in winter were.
 
There on the thick and shadowy trees, amid the foliage green,
Were the fig and the pomegranate, the pear and apple seen;
And other fruits of various kinds, the tufted leaves between,
None were unpleasant to the taste and none decayed, I ween.
 
The verdure of the meadow green, the odor of the flowers
The grateful shadows of the trees, tempered with fragrant showers,
Refreshed me in the burning heat of the sultry noontide hours;
Oh, one might live upon the balm and fragrance of those bowers!
 
Ne'er had I found on earth a spot that had such power to please,
Such shadows from the summer sun, such odors on the breeze;
I threw my mantle on the ground, that I might rest at ease,
And stretched upon the greensward lay in the shadow of the trees.
 
There soft reclining in the shade, all cares beside me flung,
I heard the soft and mellow notes that through the woodland rung;
Ear never listened to a strain, for instrument or tongue,
So mellow and harmonious as the songs above me sung.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on June 10, 2006, 08:24:03 AM
THE MERRY LITTLE MAID AND WICKED LITTLE MONK

GOOD father, I have sent for you because
I would not tamper with the holy laws,
And yet, I know that something is amiss,
For when I see the youths and maidens kiss,
I tremble and my very knees grow weak
Until my chamber I am forced to seek
And there, with cheeks aflame, in floods of tears,
I toss with strangely mingled hopes and fears.
 
And, father, strange to say, throughout the night,
Although my figure, as you see, is slight,
I dream I have a ripe, voluptuous form,
And strong arms, 'round me, hold me close and warm,
Until at last, at last, I blush to say,
My very garments seem to melt away,
Until, as nature clad me, there I stand,
The willing victim to a wandering hand.
 
And at these times, when I seem not alone,
The form that holds me is not like my own.
It has not swelling globes, here, such as these,
No sloping thighs nor rounded, dimpled knees,
And stranger still--pray, father, dear, draw near,
The greatest difference seems to be--just--here.
 
Dear father, should I pray and fast, in pain?
Or sleep and dream those blissful dreams again?
It seems not sin and yet my mirror shows
A face where shame and deepest color glows.
Tell me, it is not wicked, father, dear.
To find myself with new sensations, here.
Ah! heaven! you burn, with fever too, it seems.
Are you, as well, a prey to fitful dreams?
 
And once I dreamed far more than I have told.
This handsome stranger once was overbold,
And I will show thee, father, if I may,
Just what was done. I could not but obey.
The sun had set. The stars were in the sky,
And I was trembling, though I knew not why
And here upon this couch, I lay, like this,
When on my lips I felt a burning kiss.
Yes! that is like it! Just the very same!!!
My arms reached upward. I was not to blame.
For all my soul seemed hungering to feel
The strange delight that made my senses reel.
It seemed so strange that pleasure should be pain
And yet I fain would suffer, once again.
 
'T was thus--and so--and ever did I strain
To meet, half way, the source of all my pain.
My voice came, fitful--broken--just as now--
I was not mistress of myself, I vow!--
I clasped the spirit visitor like this--
Through all my veins, I felt his maddening kiss.
My pulse went wild--I knew not what was done--
And--goodness gracious!*****
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on June 30, 2006, 12:23:20 PM
THE DREAM CALLED LIFE
by: Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600-1681)

A DREAM it was in which I found myself.
And you that hail me now, then hailed me king,
In a brave palace that was all my own,
Within, and all without it, mine; until,
Drunk with excess of majesty and pride,
Methought I towered so big and swelled so wide
That of myself I burst the glittering bubble
Which my ambition had about me blown
And all again was darkness. Such a dream
As this, in which I may be walking now,
Dispensing solemn justice to you shadows,
Who make believe to listen; but anon
Kings, princes, captains, warriors, plume and steel,
Ay, even with all your airy theatre,
May flit into the air you seem to rend
With acclamations, leaving me to wake
In the dark tower; or dreaming that I wake
From this that waking is; or this and that,
Both waking and both dreaming; such a doubt
Confounds and clouds our mortal life about.
But whether wake or dreaming, this I know
How dreamwise human glories come and go;
Whose momentary tenure not to break,
Walking as one who knows he soon may wake,
So fairly carry the full cup, so well
Disordered insolence and passion quell,
That there be nothing after to upbraid
Dreamer or doer in the part he played;
Whether tomorrow's dawn shall break the spell,
Or the last trumpet of the Eternal Day,
When dreaming, with the night, shall pass away.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on July 08, 2006, 08:47:56 AM
A LOVE LESSON
by: Thomas Burke (1887-1945)

LAST night I dreamed of the maid with yellow curls,
She came to me in the room above my shop,
And we two were alone, freed from the laws of day.
I held her then to myself.
I took from her her clothing, garment by garment,
And watched them fall about her feet--
White petals of a flower.
And I drew from her to myself her thoughts, one by one,
As often I had wished, till all of her was mine.
And then I was sad, for nothing was left to love.
 
And quickly I clothed her again, garment by garment,
And gave her back her thoughts, one by one,
And awoke in joy.
I was glad that the dream was a dream,
And that all of her was not mine;
For I had learned
That love released from bond, and unburdened of its fetters,
Is love no longer.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on July 08, 2006, 08:49:11 AM
RED IS THE COLOR OF BLOOD
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)

RED is the color of blood, and I will seek it:
I have sought it in the grass.
It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids.
 
It is hidden under the suave flesh of women--
Flows there, quietly flows.
It mounts from the heart to the temples, the singing mouth--
As cold sap climbs to the rose.
I am confused in webs and knots of scarlet
Spun from the darkness;
Or shuttled from the mouths of thirsty spiders.
 
Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.
I tire of the green of the world.
I am myself a mouth for blood ...
 
Here, in the golden haze of the late slant sun,
Let us walk, with the light in our eyes,
To a single bench from the outset predetermined.
Look: there are seagulls in these city skies,
Kindled against the blue.
But I do not think of the seagulls, I think of you.
 
Your eyes, with the late sun in them,
Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals.
This pale green suits them well.
 
Here is your finger, with an emerald on it:
The one I gave you. I say these things politely--
But what I think beneath them, who can tell?
 
For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness;
Flayed and torn, with a dulled face.
I think of you, writing, a thing of scarlet,
And myself, rising red from that embrace.
 
November sun is sunlight poured through honey:
Old things, in such a light, grow subtle and fine.
Bare oaks are like still fire.
Talk to me: now we drink the evening's wine.
Look, how our shadows creep along the grave!--
And this way, how the gravel begins to shine!
 
This is the time of day for recollections,
For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions,
Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar.
Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming.
It is dark, with a windy star.
 
If human mouths were really roses, my dear,--
(Why must we link things so?--)
I would tear yours petal by petal with slow murder.
I would pluck the stamens, the pistils,
The gold and the green,--
Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath
On a cold wave of death....
 
Now let us walk back, slowly, as we came.
We will light the room with candles; they may shine
Like rows of yellow eyes.
Your hair is like spun fire, by candle-flame.
You smile at me--say nothing. You are wise.
 
For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness;
Crushed and red, with pale face.
I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping.
And myself, rising red from that embrace.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Flunji on July 08, 2006, 09:14:47 AM
I like A Love Lesson :)
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: k0ge on July 08, 2006, 03:52:44 PM
This is the most masturbatory thread since the picture thread.  

Yes. I am a hypocrite.  Still though.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Aimless on July 08, 2006, 04:01:55 PM
I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz,

or barbed carnations thrown off by the fire.

I love you as certain hidden things are loved,

secretly, between night and soul.

 

I love you like the flower-less plant

carrying inside itself the light of those flowers,

and, graced by your love, a fierce perfume

risen from earth, is alive, concealed in my flesh.

 

I love you without knowing how, whence, when.

I love you truly, without doubts, without pride,

I love you so, and know, no other way to love,

 

none but this mode of neither You nor I,

so close that your hand over my chest is my hand,

so close they are your eyes I shut when I sleep.

:P
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on July 23, 2006, 09:32:09 AM
THE SILENT LOVER
by: Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)

PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion.
 
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty:
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
 
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on July 23, 2006, 09:33:39 AM
ODE TO PSYCHE
by: John Keats (1795-1821)

O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrances dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:
Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see
The wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
The wingèd boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
 
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censor teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
 
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censor teeming:
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
 
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who, breeding flowers, will never bread the same;
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on July 28, 2006, 07:30:42 PM
THE SOUL'S PRAYER
by: Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)

IN childhood’s pride I said to Thee:
‘O Thou, who mad’st me of Thy breath,
Speak, Master, and reveal to me
Thine inmost laws of life and death.
 
‘Give me to drink each joy and pain
Which Thine eternal hand can mete,
For my insatiate soul would drain
Earth’s utmost bitter, utmost sweet.
 
‘Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,
Withhold no gift or grief I crave,
The intricate lore of love and life
And mystic knowledge of the grave.’
 
Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low:
‘Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,
And thy unconquered soul shall know
All passionate rapture and despair.
 
‘Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,
And love shall burn thee like a fire,
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,
To purge the dross from thy desire.
 
‘So shall thy chastened spirit yearn
To seek from its blind prayer release,
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn
The simple secret of My peace.
 
‘I, bending from my sevenfold height,
Will teach thee of My quickening grace,
Life is a prism of My light,
And Death the shadow of My face.’
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on July 28, 2006, 07:31:54 PM
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
by: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
 
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Mattias on July 28, 2006, 09:09:03 PM
A calm breeze caresses her hair
A few silky hairs conceal her face for a moment
She removes them with a smile

A lonely sunbeam kisses her eyelids, her neck, her lips
Lips as sweet as springs first flowers
And her eyes, I could loose myself in them for hours
Her eyes, they shine like the sun

It is a dream. A dream from which I don't want to wake
But I know. I know that dawn is approaching

Then the wind changes
What was a waft of summer,
now feels cold as winter
And that is when I see it...

There is anothers arm around her waist
It is no longer the wind that caresses her hair
Not the sun kissing her lips
It is not for me her eyes are shining

Wake me
Please
Wake me
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 06, 2006, 09:45:29 AM
THE DISAPPOINTMENT
by: Aphra Behn

        I.

            ONE day the amorous Lysander,
            By an impatient passion swayed,
            Surprised fair Cloris, that loved maid,
            Who could defend herself no longer.
            All things did with his love conspire;
            The gilded planet of the day,
            In his * chariot drawn by fire,
            Was now descending to the sea,
            And left no light to guide the world,
            But what from Cloris' brighter eyes was hurled.
             
            II.
             
            In a lone thicket made for love,
            Silent as a yielding maid's consent,
            She with a charming languishment,
            Permits his force, yet gently strove;
            Her hands his bosom softly meet,
            But not to put him back designed,
            Rather to draw him on inclined;
            Whilst he lay trembling at her feet,
            Resistance 'tis in vain to show;
            She wants the power to say -- 'Ah! What d'ye do?'
             
            III.
             
            Her bright eyes sweet, and yet severe,
            Where love and shame confusedly strive,
            Fresh vigour to Lysander give;
            And breathing faintly in his ear,
            She cried -- 'Cease, cease -- your vain desire,
            Or I'll call out -- what would you do?
            My dearer honour even to you
            I cannot, must not give -- retire,
            Or take this life, whose chiefest part
            I gave you with the conquest of my heart.'
             
            IV.
             
            But he as much unused to fear,
            As he was capable of love,
            The blessed minutes to improve,
            Kisses her mouth, her neck, her hair;
            Each touch her new desire alarms,
            His burning trembling hand he pressed
            Upon her swelling snowy breast,
            While she lay panting in his arms.
            All her unguarded beauties lie
            The spoils and trophies of the enemy.
             
            V.
             
            And now without respect or fear,
            He seeks the object of his vows,
            (His love no modesty allows)
            By swift degrees advancing where
            His daring hand that altar siezed,
            Where gods of love do sacrifice:
            That awful throne, that paradise
            Where rage is calmed, and anger pleased,
            That fountain where delight still flows,
            And gives the universal world repose.
             
            VI.
             
            Her balmy lips encountering his,
            Their bodies, as their souls, are joined;
            Where both in transports unconfined
            Extend themselves upon the moss.
            Cloris half dead and breathless lay;
            Her soft eyes cast a humid light,
            Such as divides the day and night;
            Or falling stars, whose fires decay:
            And now no signs of life she shows,
            But what in short-breathed sighs returns and goes.
             
            VII.
             
            He saw how at her length she lay;
            He saw her rising bosom bare;
            Her loose thin robes, through which appear
            A shape designed for love and play;
            Abandoned by her pride and shame
            She does her softest joys dispense,
            Offering her virgin innocence
            A victim to love's sacred flame;
            While the o'er-ravished shepherd lies
            Unable to perform the sacrifice.
             
            VIII.
             
            Ready to taste a thousand joys,
            The too transported hapless swain
            Found the vast pleasure turned to pain;
            Pleasure which too much love destroys.
            The willing garments by he laid,
            And Heaven all opened to his view,
            Mad to possess, himself he threw
            On the defenceless lovely maid.
            But oh what envious gods conspire
            To snatch his power, yet leave him the desire!
             
            IX.
             
            Nature's support (without whose aid
            She can no human being give)
            Itself now wants the art to live;
            Faintness its slackened nerves invade;
            In vain th'enraged youth essayed
            To call its fleeting vigour back,
            No motion 'twill from motion take;
            Excess of love his love betrayed.
            In vain he toils, in vain commands;
            The insensible fell weeping in his hand.
             
            X.
             
            In this so amorous cruel strife,
            Where love and fate were too severe,
            The poor Lysander in despair
            Renounced his reason with his life.
            Now all the brisk and active fire
            That should the nobler part inflame,
            Served to increase his rage and shame,
            And left no spark of new desire:
            Not all her naked charms could move
            Or calm that rage that had debauched his love.
             
            XI.
             
            Cloris returning from the trance
            Which love and soft desire had bred,
            Her timorous hand she gently laid
            (Or guided by design or chance)
            Upon that fabulous Priapas,
            That potent god, as poets feign;
            But never did young shepherdess,
            Gathering of fern upon the plain,
            More nimbly draw her fingers back,
            Finding beneath the verdant leaves, a snake.
             
            XII.
             
            Then Cloris her fair hand withdrew,
            Finding that god of her desires
            Disarmed of all his awful fires,
            And cold as flowers bathed in morning dew.
            Who can the nymph's confusion guess?
            The blood forsook the hinder place,
            And strewed with blushes all her face,
            Which both disdain and shame expressed:
            And from Lysander's arms she fled,
            Leaving him fainting on the gloomy bed.
             
            XIII.
             
            Like lightning through the grove she hies,
            Or Daphne from the Delphic god,
            No print upon the grassy road
            She leaves, t'instruct pursuing eyes.
            The wind that wantoned in her hair,
            And with her ruffled garments played,
            Discovered in the flying maid
            All that the gods e'er made, of fair.
            So Venus, when her love was slain,
            With fear and haste flew o'er the fatal plain.
             
            XIV.
             
            The nymph's resentments none but I
            Can well imagine or condole:
            But none can guess Lysander's soul,
            But those who swayed his destiny.
            His silent griefs swell up to storms,
            And not one god his fury spares;
            He cursed his birth, his fate, his stars
            But more the shepherdess's charms,
            Whose soft bewitching influence
            Had damned him to the hell of impotence.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 06, 2006, 09:46:43 AM
A NYMPH WHEN AS THE SUMMER'S BEAMS
An anonymous poem

A NYMPH when as the Summer's beams
Made hot the colder air,
Into a fountain's Crystal streams,
To bathe her did repair:
And by degrees she boldly did at length
Those parts unhide:
Which to be bashful, nature made
So curious to be spied.
 
Oft downward would she cast her head,
And blushing look away;
Then twist her arms, and twine her thighs,
As fearful to betray
Her self unto her fearful self:
Thus frighted she at last,
Into the fountains swiftest streams,
Her purest body cast.
 
The waves did proudly bear her up,
And as she waded in the silver-brook,
Seem'd not to cleanse her as she swam,
But from her purifying took.
And underneath the Crystal streams,
As she did gliding pass,
She seemed like a Lily fair,
That's sunk into a glass.
 
And as she did her dainty arms
In sundry sort display,
Ofttimes she would Narcissus-like
With her own shadow play.
Oft would she lie upon her back:
With legs and arms both spread,
And imitate those wanton joys,
That women use in bed.
 
Women their modesty forget
And often lay aside;
This Nymph, that thought herself unseen,
Was by a Shepherd spy'd:
Who ravished with the sight he saw,
No longer staid to woo her,
But flung away his hook and scrip,
And boldly stept unto her.
She shrieking dived, thought to have hid
Herself, but all in vain,
The Waters to preserve her life,
Did bear her up again;
The Shepherd caught her in his arms,
And laid her on the brink,
And what he did without delay,
You know, or else may think.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 26, 2006, 01:09:16 PM
THE EVE OF WATERLOO
by: Lord Byron (1788-1824)

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? -- No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark! -- that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before;
Arm! arm! it is -- it is -- the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips -- "The foe! they come! they come!"
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 26, 2006, 01:11:11 PM
SHE SAT AND SANG
by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

SHE sat and sang alway
By the green margin of a stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
Beneath the glad sunbeam.
 
I sat and wept alway
Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
Weep leaves into the stream.
 
I wept for memory;
She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
Her songs died in the air.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 31, 2006, 09:10:50 PM
FREDERICKSBURG
by: Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1906)

THE increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road, I know
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. . . .
'T was such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars, as now, were waning overhead.
Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration; on yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath;
A signal rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:
Hark!--the artillery massing on the right,
Hark!--the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 31, 2006, 09:11:53 PM
THE DISAPPOINTMENT
by: Aphra Behn

ONE day the amorous Lysander,
By an impatient passion swayed,
Surprised fair Cloris, that loved maid,
Who could defend herself no longer.
All things did with his love conspire;
The gilded planet of the day,
In his * chariot drawn by fire,
Was now descending to the sea,
And left no light to guide the world,
But what from Cloris' brighter eyes was hurled.
 
II.
 
In a lone thicket made for love,
Silent as a yielding maid's consent,
She with a charming languishment,
Permits his force, yet gently strove;
Her hands his bosom softly meet,
But not to put him back designed,
Rather to draw him on inclined;
Whilst he lay trembling at her feet,
Resistance 'tis in vain to show;
She wants the power to say -- 'Ah! What d'ye do?'
 
III.
 
Her bright eyes sweet, and yet severe,
Where love and shame confusedly strive,
Fresh vigour to Lysander give;
And breathing faintly in his ear,
She cried -- 'Cease, cease -- your vain desire,
Or I'll call out -- what would you do?
My dearer honour even to you
I cannot, must not give -- retire,
Or take this life, whose chiefest part
I gave you with the conquest of my heart.'
 
IV.
 
But he as much unused to fear,
As he was capable of love,
The blessed minutes to improve,
Kisses her mouth, her neck, her hair;
Each touch her new desire alarms,
His burning trembling hand he pressed
Upon her swelling snowy breast,
While she lay panting in his arms.
All her unguarded beauties lie
The spoils and trophies of the enemy.
 
V.
 
And now without respect or fear,
He seeks the object of his vows,
(His love no modesty allows)
By swift degrees advancing where
His daring hand that altar siezed,
Where gods of love do sacrifice:
That awful throne, that paradise
Where rage is calmed, and anger pleased,
That fountain where delight still flows,
And gives the universal world repose.
 
VI.
 
Her balmy lips encountering his,
Their bodies, as their souls, are joined;
Where both in transports unconfined
Extend themselves upon the moss.
Cloris half dead and breathless lay;
Her soft eyes cast a humid light,
Such as divides the day and night;
Or falling stars, whose fires decay:
And now no signs of life she shows,
But what in short-breathed sighs returns and goes.
 
VII.
 
He saw how at her length she lay;
He saw her rising bosom bare;
Her loose thin robes, through which appear
A shape designed for love and play;
Abandoned by her pride and shame
She does her softest joys dispense,
Offering her virgin innocence
A victim to love's sacred flame;
While the o'er-ravished shepherd lies
Unable to perform the sacrifice.
 
VIII.
 
Ready to taste a thousand joys,
The too transported hapless swain
Found the vast pleasure turned to pain;
Pleasure which too much love destroys.
The willing garments by he laid,
And Heaven all opened to his view,
Mad to possess, himself he threw
On the defenceless lovely maid.
But oh what envious gods conspire
To snatch his power, yet leave him the desire!
 
IX.
 
Nature's support (without whose aid
She can no human being give)
Itself now wants the art to live;
Faintness its slackened nerves invade;
In vain th'enraged youth essayed
To call its fleeting vigour back,
No motion 'twill from motion take;
Excess of love his love betrayed.
In vain he toils, in vain commands;
The insensible fell weeping in his hand.
 
X.
 
In this so amorous cruel strife,
Where love and fate were too severe,
The poor Lysander in despair
Renounced his reason with his life.
Now all the brisk and active fire
That should the nobler part inflame,
Served to increase his rage and shame,
And left no spark of new desire:
Not all her naked charms could move
Or calm that rage that had debauched his love.
 
XI.
 
Cloris returning from the trance
Which love and soft desire had bred,
Her timorous hand she gently laid
(Or guided by design or chance)
Upon that fabulous Priapas,
That potent god, as poets feign;
But never did young shepherdess,
Gathering of fern upon the plain,
More nimbly draw her fingers back,
Finding beneath the verdant leaves, a snake.
 
XII.
 
Then Cloris her fair hand withdrew,
Finding that god of her desires
Disarmed of all his awful fires,
And cold as flowers bathed in morning dew.
Who can the nymph's confusion guess?
The blood forsook the hinder place,
And strewed with blushes all her face,
Which both disdain and shame expressed:
And from Lysander's arms she fled,
Leaving him fainting on the gloomy bed.
 
XIII.
 
Like lightning through the grove she hies,
Or Daphne from the Delphic god,
No print upon the grassy road
She leaves, t'instruct pursuing eyes.
The wind that wantoned in her hair,
And with her ruffled garments played,
Discovered in the flying maid
All that the gods e'er made, of fair.
So Venus, when her love was slain,
With fear and haste flew o'er the fatal plain.
 
XIV.
 
The nymph's resentments none but I
Can well imagine or condole:
But none can guess Lysander's soul,
But those who swayed his destiny.
His silent griefs swell up to storms,
And not one god his fury spares;
He cursed his birth, his fate, his stars
But more the shepherdess's charms,
Whose soft bewitching influence
Had damned him to the hell of impotence.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on September 07, 2006, 08:01:43 PM
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW
by: Robert Trail Spence Lowell (1816-1891)

OH, that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last;
That the enemy's mines crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,
And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee;
"When my father comes fame frae the pleugh," she said
"Oh! then please wauken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor,
In the flecking of woodbine shade,
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,
And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;
And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep; and I had my dream
Of an English village-lane,
And wall and garden; but one wild scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening
Till a sudden gladness broke
All over her face; and she caught my hand
And drew me near and spoke:

"The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa?
The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'!

"God bless thae bonny Hielanders!
We're saved! We're saved!" she cried;
And fell on her knees; and thanks to God
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery line her cry
Had fallen among the men,
And they started back; -- they were there to die;
But was life so near them, then?

They listened for life; the rattling fire
Far off, and the far-off roar,
Were all; and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said, "That slogan's done;
But can ye hear them noo,
'The Campbells are comin''? It's no dream;
Our succors hae broken through."

We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;
So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it made its way,
A thrilling, ceaseless sound:
It was no noise from the strife afar,
Or the sappers under ground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders!
And now they played "Auld Lang Syne."
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.

And they wept, and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;
And every one knelt down where he stood,
And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy day, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;
And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
As the pipes played "Auld Lang Syne."
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on September 17, 2006, 09:35:35 AM
WHEN THE SHY STAR GOES FORTH IN HEAVEN
by: James Joyce (1882-1941)

WHEN the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
 
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling,
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover's chant,
'Tis I that am your visitant.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on September 17, 2006, 09:36:44 AM
EMOTIONAL
by: Michael Strange

LEAN your mouth well over into the moonlight
So that I may kiss it full, O chance--
Press me into your pungent arms
So jagged with nightmare--so rent with spasmodic glories--
So pliant with momentary relaxing--
O your arms so compact with variety--
For no strident with triton freshness
And glossed as if by spray shaken off a burst of godliness
Out of glacier streams--
And now slippery-darkened with that moulten calm
Preceding some sinister extase--
 
O chance--stinging--refreshing
Like a sudden rain of flowers across my being that is ever held
So deliberately accessible--
O chance teasing with evasive glimpses of some further road
Ever lightening towards breathless eventualities--
Aye, for ever alternately veiling--disclosing--
That face approximate of Heaven--and hell.
 
I am resting by the edge of the sea--
But in my arm is a curve imperceptible
For the weight of your head--lover--comrade--
My feet are damp with the vigorous jet of the sea--
My body is splashed in a sudden pour of sunlight
Spreading down now in widening--blazing torrents--
From behind the pushed-away clouds--
Yet I long to be chilled--warmed--and surpassing these--
And by our limbs co-mingling--lover--comrade.
 
Sad, we must find each other--ourselves--life--out
Through this impediment of love--
(With its billion toe-stubbings along the Olympian track.)
Pathetic we must exercise by falling out of the sky
And chasing our own tails for awhile--
Instead of feeling our manes tearing out behind us
Along those freezing spiral vapours of the Continuous Ascension.
 
O You and I have stood poignantly close upon the edge of perilous slanting--
And with sublime sunbeams bouncing from upturned face to face
And measuring upon each utter equality of dazzle--
O you and I have leant fraternally together in a light
Reducing to proportionate form at last--
All those melancholy grotesques of conscious life--
Yea and together heard a conclusive goodness affirming
Through vast harp-sweet spaces--
Then--then--the reverential swoon of our knees
Before this momentary shining out of the beyond
Has been cause for a touch between us--
Ah, what union in this accidental knocking of knees
Before a Shared Presence--
When suddenly--suddenly--
The thrown-back hood of vision clamping down precipitant,
And a sadness in the air as of some Divine Retreat--
When my claw stirring--waking--reaching out--
And in your answering motion a gracious shoot of reverberating "yea"--
Then your eyes becoming a liquid gale
Importunate--parting--pressing aside my branches--
And your mouth a distortion of fire skipping--falling--
Clinging strangely among my blossoms--
My blossoms opening--shedding for you in ghastly broad abandon--
O love--love--unequipped--unaware
Of the subtle fatality in your own repletion.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on September 18, 2006, 10:10:49 AM
MY LADY CARRIES LOVE WITHIN HER EYES
by: Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)

MY lady carries love within her eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshiper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessèd oftenwhiles,
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
'Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on September 18, 2006, 10:11:56 AM
HYPOCRISY
by: Samuel Butler (1612-1680)

HYPOCRISY will serve as well
To propogate a church as zeal;
As persecution and promotion
Do equally advance devotion:
So round white stones will serve, they say,
As well as eggs to make hens lay.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on September 25, 2006, 07:09:30 PM
TO MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND
by: Anne Bradstreet (c.1612-1672)

IF ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompetence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay.
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persever
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on October 01, 2006, 12:57:16 PM
UNFORGOTTEN
translated into English by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

DO you ever think of me? you who died
Ere our Youth's first fervour chilled,
With your soft eyes closed and your pulses stilled
Lying alone, aside,
Do you ever think of me, left in the light,
From the endless calm of your dawnless night?

I am faithful always: I do not say
That the lips which thrilled to your lips of old
To lesser kisses are always cold;
Had you wished for this in its narrow sense
Our love perhaps had been less intense;
But as we held faithfulness, you and I,
I am faithful always, as you who lie,
Asleep for ever, beneath the grass,
While the days and nights and the seasons pass,--
Pass away.

I keep your memory near my heart,
My brilliant, beautiful guiding Star,
Till long life over, I too depart
To the infinite night where perhaps you are.
Oh, are you anywhere? Loved so well!
I would rather know you alive in Hell
Than think your beauty is nothing now,
With its deep dark eyes and its tranquil brow
Where the hair fell softly. Can this be true
That nothing, nowhere, exists of you?
Nothing, nowhere, oh, loved so well
I have never forgotten.
Do you still keep
Thoughts of me through your dreamless sleep?

Oh, gone from me! lost in Eternal Night,
Lost Star of light,
Risen splendidly, set so soon,
Through the weariness of life's afternoon
I dream of your memory yet.
My loved and lost, whom I could not save,
My youth went down with you to the grave,
Though other planets and stars may rise,
I dream of your soft and sorrowful eyes
And I cannot forget.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on October 05, 2006, 06:48:34 PM
WHITE MAGIC
by: George Sterling (1869-1926)

KEEP ye her brow with starshine crost
And bind with ghostly light her hair,
O powers benign, lest I accost
Song's peaceless angel unaware!
 
One eve her whisper came to earth,
As eastward woke a thorny star,
To tell me of her kingdom's worth
And what her liberations are:
 
She hath the Edens in her gift
And songs of sovereignties unborn;
In realms agone her turrets lift,
Wrought from the purples of the morn.
 
Where swings to foam the dusky sea,
She waits with sapphires in her hand
Whose light shall make thy spirit be
Lost in a still, enchanted land.
 
Musing, she hears the subtle tunes
From chords where faery fingers stray--
A rain of pearl from crumbling moons
Less clear and delicate than they.
 
The strain we lost and could not find
Think we her haunted heart forgets?
She weaves it with a troubled wind
And twilight music that regrets.
 
Often she stands, unseen, aloof,
To watch beside an ocean's brink
The gorgeous, evanescent woof
Cast from the loom of suns that sink.
 
Often, in eyries of the West,
She waits a lover from afar--
Frailties of blossom on her breast
And o'er her brow the evening star.
 
She stands to greet him unaware,
Who cannot find her if he seek:
A sigh, a scent of heavenly hair--
And oh, her breath is on his cheek!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on October 14, 2006, 06:18:00 PM
MELISINDA'S MISFORTUNE
by: Thomas Brown

TIRED with business of the day,
Upon her couch supinely lay
Fair Melisinda void of care,
No living creature being near:
When straight a calm and gentle sleep
Did o'er her drowsy eyelids creep;
Her senses thus be fetters tied,
By nimble fancy were supplied:
Her quick imagination brought
The ideas of her waking thought.
She dreamt herself a new made bride
In bed, by young Philander's side:
The posset eat, the stocking throw,
And all the company withdrawn;
And now the blest Elysium,
Of all her wished for joys, is come.
Philander, all dissolved in charms,
Lies raptured in her circling arms,
With panting breasts and swimming eyes
She meets the visionary joys;
In all the amorous postures love,
Which the height of ecstasy could move;
But as she roving did advance
Her trembling legs, O dire mischance!
The couch being near the fireside,
She expanded them, alas! too wide:
She exposed her nethermost attire
Unto the embraces of the fire;
So the chaste Phoenix of the East
With fluttering fires her spicy nest.
The flames at first did trembling seize
The dangling hem of the lost prize;
But finding no resistance, higher
As 'tis their nature to aspire,
Approaching near the seat of bliss,
The centre of earthly happiness,
Which vastly more of pleasure yields,
Than all the feigned Elysian fields.
 
At last the flames were grown so rude,
They boldly everywhere intrude;
They soon recalled the lady's sense,
And chased the pleasing vision thence:
Soon as her eyes recovered light,
She straight beheld the dismal sight.
 
Then viewing of her half-burnt smock,
Thus to herself the sad nymph spoke:
"Is this the effect of dreams? Is this
The fruit of all my fancy's bliss?
Misfortunes will, I see, betide,
When maidens throw their legs too wide:
Had I but kept my legs across,
I and my smock had had no loss:
I ought, I'm sure, to have more heed,
For ne'er had virgin greater need:
My kindness and my little care
Has left me scarce a smock to wear.
But I could bear the loss of them
Had not the fire disturbed my dream.
Ah! cruel flames, you're too unkind
To chase these fancies from my mind:
Down, down into your native cell
In your own blazing regions dwell:
Vex me no more, let me possess
My linen, or my dream in peace.
Thus the poor nymph, bewailed her treacherous luck,
At once to lose so good a dream and smock.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on October 28, 2006, 12:16:56 PM
BOSTON
by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

THE rocky nook with hilltops three
Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea
Took Boston in its arms;
The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore.

And where they went on trade intent
They did what freeman can,
Their dauntless ways did all men praise,
The merchant was a man.
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.

The waves that rocked them on the deep
To them their secret told;
Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep,
"Like us be free and bold!"
The honest waves refuse to slaves
The empire of the ocean caves.

Old Europe groans with palaces,
Has lords enough and more;--
We plant and build by foaming seas
A city of the poor;--
For day by day could Boston Bay
Their honest labor overpay.

We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?

The noble craftsmen we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union nevermore again.

The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride
Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.

Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.

What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast:
Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!

They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said: "Good-day!
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay!"
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.

"For you," they said, "no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the West."

O happy town beside the sea,
Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
No stouter fence, no steeper wall!

Bad news from George on the English throne:
"You are thriving well," said he;
"Now by these presents be it known,
You shall pay us a tax on tea;
'Tis very small,--no load at all,--
Honor enough that we send the call."

"Not so," said Boston, "good my lord,
We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your highness knows our homely word,)
Millions for self-government,
But for tribute never a cent."

The cargo came! and who could blame
If Indians seized the tea,
And, chest by chest, let down the same
Into the laughing sea?
For what avail the plough or sail
Or land or life, if freedom fail?

The townsmen braved the English king,
Found friendship in the French,
And Honor joined the patriot ring
Low on their wooden bench.

O bounteous seas that never fail!
O day remembered yet!
O happy port that spied the sail
Which wafted Lafayette!
Pole-star of light in Europe's night,
That never faltered from the right.

Kings shook with fear, old empires crave
The secret force to find
Which fired the little State to save
The rights of all mankind.

But right is might through all the world;
Province to province faithful clung,
Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,
Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung.

The sea returning day by day
Restores the world-wide mart;
So let each dweller on the Bay
Fold Boston in his heart,
Till these echoes be choked with snows,
Or over the town blue ocean flows.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 07, 2006, 04:50:34 PM
THE SACRIFICE OF IPHIGENIA (from "Agamemnon")
by: Aeschylus

NOW long and long from wintry Strymon blew
The weary, hungry, anchor-straining blasts,
The winds that wandering seamen dearly rue,
Nor spared the cables worn and groaning masts;
And, lingering on, in indolent delay,
Slow wasted all the strength of Greece away.
But when the shrill-voiced prophet 'gan proclaim
That remedy more dismal and more dread
Than the drear weather blackening overhead,
And spoke in Artemis' most awful name,
The sons of Atreus, 'mid their armed peers,
Their sceptres dashed to earth, and each broke out in tears,
And thus the elder king began to say:
"Dire doom! to disobey the gods' commands!
More dire, my child, mine house's pride, to slay,
Dabbling in virgin blood a father's hands.
Alas! alas! which way to fly?
As base deserter quit the host,
The pride and strength of our great league all lost?
Should I the storm-appeasing rite deny,
Will not their wrathfullest wrath rage up and swell?
Exact the virgin's blood?--oh, would 't were o'er and well!"
 
So, 'neath Necessity's stern yoke he passed,
And his lost soul, with impious impulse veering,
Surrendered to the accursed unholy blast,
Warped to the dire extreme of human daring.
The frenzy of affliction still
Maddens, dire counselor, man's soul to ill.
 
So he endured to be the priest
In that child-slaughtering rite unblest,
The first full offering of that host
In fatal war for a bad woman lost.
 
The prayers, the mute appeal to her hard sire,
Her youth, her virgin beauty,
Naught heeded they, the chiefs for war on fire.
So to the ministers of that dire duty
(First having prayed) the father gave the sign,
Like some soft kid, to lift her to the shrine.
 
There lay she prone,
Her graceful garments round her thrown;
But first her beauteous mouth around
Their violent bonds they wound,
With their rude inarticulate might,
Lest her dread curse the fatal house should smite.
But she her saffron robe to earth let fall:
The shaft of pity from her eye
Transpierced that awful priesthood--one and all.
Lovely as in a picture stood she by
As she would speak. Thus at her father's feasts
The virgin, 'mid the reveling guests,
Was wont with her chaste voice to supplicate
For her dear father an auspicious fate.
 
I saw no more! to speak more is not mine;
Not unfulfilled was Calchas' lore divine.
Eternal justice still will bring
Wisdom out of suffering.
So to the fond desire farewell,
The inevitable future to foretell;
'Tis but our woe to antedate;
Joint knit with joint, expands the full-formed fate.
Yet at the end of these dark days
May prospering weal return at length;
Thus in his spirit prays
He of the Apian land the sole remaining strength.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on November 22, 2006, 07:23:31 PM
PORTRAIT OF A BABY
by: Stephen Vincent Benét

HE LAY within a warm, soft world
Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled,
Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red,
Wave upon wave that broke and whirled
To vanish in the grey-green gloom,
Perspectiveless and shadowy.
A bulging world that had no walls,
A flowing world, most like the sea,
Compassing all infinity
Within a shapeless, ebbing room,
An endless tide that swells and falls . . .
He slept and woke and slept again.
As a veil drops, Time dropped away;
Space grew a toy for children's play,
Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense--
He lay in naked impotence;
Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls
Heavily up brown, light-baked walls,
To fall in wreck, her task undone,
Yet somehow striving toward the sun.
So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter,
Shut in the old way of a fighter,
His feet curled up to grip the ground,
His muscles tautened for a bound;
And though he felt, and felt alone,
Strange brightness stirred him to the bone,
Cravings to rise--till deeper sleep
Buried the hope, the call, the leap;
A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark.
He was absorbed into the dark.
He woke again and felt a surge
Within him, a mysterious urge
That grew one hungry flame of passion;
The whole world altered shape and fashion.
Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn,
He scourged the heavens with his scorn,
Lifting a bitter voice to cry
Against the eternal treachery--
Till, suddenly, he found the breast,
And ceased, and all things were at rest,
The earth grew one warm languid sea
And he a wave. Joy, tingling, crept
Throughout him. He was quenched and slept.
 
So, while the moon made broad her ring,
He slept and cried and was a king.
So, worthily, he acted o'er
The endless miracle once more.
Facing immense adventures daily,
He strove still onward, weeping, gayly,
Conquered or fled from them, but grew
As soil-starved, rouph pine-saplings do.
Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect.
He gripped the air and stood erect
And splendid. With immortal rage
He entered on man's heritage!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 02, 2006, 01:17:13 PM
OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD
by: William Knox (1789-1825)

OH! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
 
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.
 
The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,--
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
 
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
 
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
 
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
 
The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
 
So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
 
For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
 
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.
 
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
The scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
 
They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
 
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
 
'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,--
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 02, 2006, 01:18:21 PM
THE STAR
by: Edgar Lee Masters (1868-1950)

I AM a certain god
Who slipped down from a remote height
To a place of pools and stars.
And I sat invisible
Amid a clump of trees
To watch the mad men.
 
There were cries and groans about me,
And shouts of laughter and curses.
Figures passed by with self-absorbed contempt
Wrinkling in bitter smiles about their lips.
Others hurried on with set eyes
Pursuing something.
Then I said this is the place for mad Frederick--
Mad Frederick will be here.
 
But everywhere I could see
Figures sitting or standing
By little pools.
Some seemed grown into the soil
And were helpless.
And of these some were asleep.
Others laughed the laughter
That comes from dying men
Trying to face Death.
And others said "I should be content."
And others said "I will fly."
Whereupon sepulchral voices muttered,
As of creatures sitting or hanging head down
From limbs of the trees,
"We will not let you."
And others looked in their pools
And clasped hands and said "Gone--all gone."
By other pools there were dead bodies,
Some of youth, some of age.
They had given up the fight,
They had drunk poisoned water,
They had searched
Until they fell--
All had gone mad.
 
Then I, a certain god,
Curious to know
What it is in pools and stars
That drives men and women
Over the earth in this quest,
Waited for mad Frederick
And then I heard his step.
 
I knew that long ago
He sat by one of these pools
Enraptured of a star's image
And that hands, for his own good,
As they said,
Dumped clay into the pool
And blotted his star.
And I knew that after that
He had said: "They will never spy again
Upon my ecstasy.
They will never see me watching one star.
I will fly by rivers
And by little brooks
And by the edge of lakes
And by little bends of water
Where no wind blows,
And glance at stars as I pass--
They will never spy again
Upon my ecstasy."
 
And I knew that mad Frederick
In this flight
Through years of restlessness and madness
Was caught by the image of a star
In a mere beyond a meadow,
Down from a hill, under a forest,
And had said:
"No one sees;
Here I can find life
Through vision of eternal things!"
But they had followed him.
They stood on the brow of the hill,
And when they saw him gazing into the water
They rolled a great stone down the hill,
And shattered the star's image.
Then mad Frederick fled with laughter.
It echoed through the wood.
And he said, "I will look for moons.
I will punish them who disturb me,
By worshipping moons."
But when he sought moons
They left him alone.
And he did not want the moons.
And he was alone, and sick from the moons,
And covered as with a white blankness,
Which was the worst madness of all.
 
And I, a certain god,
Waiting for mad Frederick
To enter this place of pools and stars,
Saw him at last.
With a sigh he looked about upon his fellows
Sitting or standing by their pools.
And some of the pools were covered with scum
And some were glazed as of filth
And some were grown with weeds
And some were congealed as of the north wind
And a few were yet pure
And held the star's image.
And by these some sat and were glad.
Others had lost the vision:
The star was there, but its meaning vanished.
And mad Frederick going here and there
With no purpose
Only curious and interested
As I was, a certain god,
Came by a certain pool
And saw a star.
 
He shivered.
He clasped his hands.
He sank to his knees.
He touched his lips to the water!
 
Then voices from the limbs of the trees muttered:
"There he is again."
"He must be driven away."
"The pool is not his."
"He does not belong here."
So as when bats fly in a cave
They swooped from their hidings in the trees
And dashed themselves in the pool.
Then I saw what these flying things were.
But no matter;
They were thoughts evil and envious
And selfish and dull,
But with power to destroy.
And mad Frederick turned away from the pool
And covered his eyes with his arms.
Then a certain god
Of less power than mine
Came and sat beside me and said:
"Why do you allow this to be?
They are all seeking,
Why do you not let them find their heart's delight?
Why do you allow this to be?"
But I did not answer.
The lesser god did not know
That I have no power,
That only the God has the power
And that this must be
In spite of all lesser gods.
 
And I saw mad Frederick
Arise and ascend to the top of a high hill.
And I saw him find the star
Whose image he had seen in the pool.
Then he knelt and prayed:
"Give me to understand, O star,
Your inner self, your eternal spirit,
That I may have you and not images of you,
So that I may know what has driven me through the world,
And may cure my soul.
For I know that you are Eternal Love
And I can never escape you.
And if I cannot escape you
Then I must serve you.
And if I must serve you
It must be to good and not ill--
You have brought me from the forest of pools
And the images of stars,
Here to the hill's top.
Where now do I go?
And what shall I do?"
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Julius on December 04, 2006, 12:05:55 AM
Stop multiple double-posting?
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 10, 2006, 07:37:29 PM
BEFORE THE RAIN
by: Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1906)

WE knew it would rain, for all the morn
A spirit on slender ropes of mist
Was lowering its golden buckets down
Into the vapory amethyst.
Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens--
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
Dipping the jewels out of the sea,
To sprinkle them over the land in showers.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind--and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on December 25, 2006, 09:09:03 AM
Christmas 2000

Hustle and bustle and hurry and run
looking for gifts that bring so much fun.
A visit to Santa we also must make
because of our children for all of our sakes.

The food preparations must get underway
like cookies and candies for our special day.
Gifts must be wrapped and bows must be ties
and trees must be trimmed and lights hung outside.

Cards must be bought and then must be signed
And addresses and mailed to reach friends on time.
The kids must be bathed and tucked into bed
where they will wait to hear Santa's sled.

But when morning comes midst all the squeals,
faces depicting what our children feel;
it makes all the hustle and hurry and run
so very worthwhile for these little ones.

Now let's remember the child in our lives
given to us when God's son arrived
to teach is to love each other and then
to die on the cross to save us from sin.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on January 11, 2007, 08:47:20 PM
ON THE TOMB OF SAYID
by: Abd Almalec Alharithy

BLEST are the tenants of the tomb!
With envy I their lot survey;
For SAYID shares the solemn gloom,
And mingles with their mouldering clay.
 
Dear youth! I'm doom'd thy loss to mourn
When gathering ills around combine;
And whither now shall MALEC turn,
Where look for any help but thine?
 
At this dread moment when the foe
My life with rage insatiate seeks,
In vain I strive to ward the blow,
My buckler falls, my sabre breaks.
 
Upon thy grassy tomb I knelt,
And sought from pain a short relief--
Th' attempt was vain -- I only felt
Intenser pangs and livelier grief.
 
The bud of woe no more represt,
Fed by the tears that drench'd it there,
Shot forth and fill'd my labouring breast
Ready to blossom in despair.
 
But tho' of SAYID I'm bereft,
From whom the stream of bounty came,
SAYID a nobler meed has left--
Th' exhaustless heritage of fame.
 
Tho' mute the lips on which I hung,
Their silence speaks more loud to me
Than any voice from mortal tongue,
"What SAYID was let MALEC be."
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on February 12, 2007, 06:31:10 PM
WHAT POLLY FOUND IN HER STOCKING
by: Louisa May Alcott (1832-1888)

WITH the first pale glimmer,
Of the morning red,
Polly woke delighted
And flew out of bed.
To the door she hurried,
Never stopped for clothes,
Though Jack Frost's cold fingers
Nipt her little toes.
There it hung! the stocking,
Long and blue and full;
Down it quickly tumbled
With a hasty pull.
Back she capered, laughing,
Happy little Polly;
For from out the stocking
Stared a splendid dolly!
Next, what most she wanted,
In a golden nut,
With a shining thimble,
Scissors that would cut;
Then a book all pictures,
"Children in the Wood."
And some scarlet mittens
Like her scarlet hood.
Next a charming jump-rope,
New and white and strong;
(Little Polly's stocking
Though small was very long,)
In the heel she fumbled,
"Something soft and warm,"
A rainbow ball of worsted
Which could do no harm.
In the foot came bon-bons,
In the toe a ring,
And some seeds of mignonette
Ready for the spring.
There she sat at daylight
Hugging close dear dolly;
Eating, looking, laughing,
Happy little Polly!
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on April 15, 2007, 08:27:38 PM
THE REMORSE OF THE DEAD

by: Charles Baudelaire

O SHADOWY Beauty mine, when thou shalt sleep
In the deep heart of a black marble tomb;
When thou for mansion and for bower shalt keep
Only one rainy cave of hollow gloom;
 
And when the stone upon thy trembling breast,
And on thy straight sweet body's supple grace,
Crushes thy will and keeps thy heart at rest,
And holds those feet from their adventurous race;
 
Then the deep grave, who shares my reverie,
(For the deep grave is aye the poet's friend)
During long nights when sleep is far from thee,
 
Shall whisper: "Ah, thou didst not comprehend
The dead wept thus, thou woman frail and weak"--
And like remorse the worm shall gnaw thy cheek.
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: Devlyn, the special edition on April 16, 2007, 09:30:31 PM
Are the Dutch that traumatized then?

--------------

yes, that was a response to you signature
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: nunya on April 18, 2007, 03:16:48 AM
remembered from my 6th grade teacher - the worlds shortest poem.

FLEAS
by: Anon

Adam
Had'em
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: nunya on August 04, 2007, 02:51:00 AM
Their once was a man from Nantucket .......
Title: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 07, 2007, 07:56:37 PM
THE DREAM CALLED LIFE

by: Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600-1681)

[size=16]A[/size] DREAM it was in which I found myself.
And you that hail me now, then hailed me king,
In a brave palace that was all my own,
Within, and all without it, mine; until,
Drunk with excess of majesty and pride,
Methought I towered so big and swelled so wide
That of myself I burst the glittering bubble
Which my ambition had about me blown
And all again was darkness. Such a dream
As this, in which I may be walking now,
Dispensing solemn justice to you shadows,
Who make believe to listen; but anon
Kings, princes, captains, warriors, plume and steel,
Ay, even with all your airy theatre,
May flit into the air you seem to rend
With acclamations, leaving me to wake
In the dark tower; or dreaming that I wake
From this that waking is; or this and that,
Both waking and both dreaming; such a doubt
Confounds and clouds our mortal life about.
But whether wake or dreaming, this I know
How dreamwise human glories come and go;
Whose momentary tenure not to break,
Walking as one who knows he soon may wake,
So fairly carry the full cup, so well
Disordered insolence and passion quell,
That there be nothing after to upbraid
Dreamer or doer in the part he played;
Whether tomorrow's dawn shall break the spell,
Or the last trumpet of the Eternal Day,
When dreaming, with the night, shall pass away.
Title: Re: Darius' poetry Corner
Post by: GrimReaper of Wrestling on August 09, 2008, 04:49:15 PM
TO THE SUPREME BEING

by: Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed,
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
Which of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where Thou say'st it may;
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way,
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.