Author Topic: Darius' poetry Corner  (Read 8944 times)

Offline Devlyn, the special edition

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Darius' poetry Corner
« Reply #25 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!
First and Proudest Member of the Unmelodramatic Music Fundamentalists Association!
blehg, a blog!

Offline AshtrayMonument

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« Reply #26 on: January 05, 2006, 04:03:45 pm »
Now that's what I call poetry, Dev.
People always tell me that they're crazy. Crazy people aren't so fucking boring.

Offline Thin

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« Reply #27 on: January 06, 2006, 03:12:12 am »
Yeah, he really emphasised teamwork.

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #28 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.’
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #29 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #30 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #31 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #32 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #33 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!
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #34 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #35 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #36 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #37 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #38 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #39 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline Julius

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« Reply #40 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!
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
- Arthur C. Clarke
God to Earth: “Cry more, noobs!”
- Marc Laidlaw

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #41 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #42 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?
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #43 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #44 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #45 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!
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #46 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."
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #47 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.
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #48 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!
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich

Offline GrimReaper of Wrestling

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« Reply #49 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!
Oh God I am the american dream
I do not think Im too extreme
An I'm a handsome sonofabitch
I'm gonna get a good job 'n be real rich