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Index » Entertainment » Books » Poetry Forum Page: Previous  1, 2, 3, 4 ... 210, 211, 212  Next
Post to this Topic
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Apr 27, 2023 - 6:09am

The First Green of Spring

Out walking in the swamp picking cowslip, marsh marigold,
this sweet first green of spring. Now sautéed in a pan melting
to a deeper green than ever they were alive, this green, this life,

harbinger of things to come. Now we sit at the table munching
on this message from the dawn which says we and the world
are alive again today, and this is the world’s birthday. And

even though we know we are growing old, we are dying, we
will never be young again, we also know we’re still right here
now, today, and, my oh my! don’t these greens taste good.

oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Mar 8, 2023 - 12:02pm



Longing

Could I from this valley drear,

Where the mist hangs heavily,
Soar to some more blissful sphere,
Ah! how happy should I be!
Distant hills enchant my sight,
Ever young and ever fair;
To those hills I'd take my flight
Had I wings to scale the air.

Harmonies mine ear assail,
Tunes that breathe a heavenly calm;
And the gently-sighing gale
Greets me with its fragrant balm.
Peeping through the shady bowers,
Golden fruits their charms display.
And those sweetly-blooming flowers
Ne'er become cold winter's prey.

In you endless sunshine bright,
Oh! what bliss 'twould be to dwell!
How the breeze on yonder height
Must the heart with rapture swell!
Yet the stream that hems my path
Checks me with its angry frown,
While its waves, in rising wrath,
Weigh my weary spirit down.

See—a bark is drawing near,
But, alas, the pilot fails!
Enter boldly—wherefore fear?
Inspiration fills its sails,
Faith and courage make thine own,—
Gods ne'er lend a helping-hand;
'Tis by magic power alone
Thou canst reach the magic land!

Friedrich von Schiller
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Feb 21, 2023 - 5:08am

VIII – from “Twelve Songs”

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Feb 9, 2023 - 6:46am

In Praise of a Teacher

by Nikki Giovanni

The reason Miss Delaney was my favorite teacher, not just my
favorite English teacher, is that she would let me read any book I
wanted and would allow me to report on it. I had the pleasure of
reading The Scapegoat as well as We the Living as well as Silver
Spoon
(which was about a whole bunch of rich folk who were
unhappy), and Defender of the Damned, which was about
Clarence Darrow, which led me into Native Son because the real
case was defended by Darrow though in Native Son he got the
chair despite the fact that Darrow never lost a client to the chair
including Leopold and Loeb who killed Bobby Frank. Native Son
led me to Eight Men and all the rest of Richard Wright but I
preferred Langston Hughes at that time and Gwendolyn Brooks
and I did reports on both of them. I always loved English because
whatever human beings are, we are storytellers. It is our stories
that give a light to the future. When I went to college I became a
history major because history is such a wonderful story of who we
think we are; English is much more a story of who we really are.
It was, after all, Miss Delaney who introduced the class to My
candle burns at both ends; /It will not last the night; /But, ah, my
foes, and, oh, my friends— /It gives a lovely light.
And I thought
YES. Poetry is the main line. English is the train.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jan 25, 2023 - 5:12am

Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small—
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn’t
be so hard.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jan 22, 2023 - 7:18pm

for a late January day

Darkness (excerpt)

by Lord Byron

I had a dream, which was not all a dream:
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless and pathless, and the icy Earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air!
Morn came, and went, and came - and brought no day.
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light.
And they did live by watchfires - and the thrones,
The palaces of crownéd kings, the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons. Cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face.
Happy were those which dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch!
A fearful hope was all the World contained -
Forests were set on fire, but hour by hour
They fell and faded, and the crackling trunks
Extinguished with a crash, and all was black.

Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: La Villa Toscana
Gender: Male


Posted: Jan 22, 2023 - 3:22pm

 ScottN wrote:

Geography of the Forehead

Everyone thinks the brain is so complicated,
but let’s look at the facts. The frontal lobe,
for example, is located in the front! And
the temporal lobe is where the clock is.
What could be simpler?

The hippocampal fissure is where big, dumb
thoughts camp, while at the Fissure of Rolando
dark-skinned men with one gold earring lie
around the fire and play guitars.

The superior frontal convolution is where
a lot of really nice houses are set back off
a twisty road, while the inferior frontal
convolution is a kind of trailer park, regularly
leveled by brainstorms.

The area of Broca is pretty much off limits.
And if you know Broca, you know why.



Dutch? Or not...
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jan 17, 2023 - 10:03am

New Year's

by Dana Gioia

Let other mornings honor the miraculous.
Eternity has festivals enough.
This is the feast of our mortality,
The most mundane and human holiday.

On other days we misinterpret time,
Pretending that we live the present moment.
But can this blur, this smudgy in-between,
This tiny fissure where the future drips

Into the past, this flyspeck we call now
Be our true habitat? The present is
The leaky palm of water that we skim
From the swift, silent river slipping by.

The new year always brings us what we want
Simply by bringing us along—to see
A calendar with every day uncrossed,
A field of snow without a single footprint.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jan 12, 2023 - 5:05am

Geography of the Forehead

Everyone thinks the brain is so complicated,
but let’s look at the facts. The frontal lobe,
for example, is located in the front! And
the temporal lobe is where the clock is.
What could be simpler?

The hippocampal fissure is where big, dumb
thoughts camp, while at the Fissure of Rolando
dark-skinned men with one gold earring lie
around the fire and play guitars.

The superior frontal convolution is where
a lot of really nice houses are set back off
a twisty road, while the inferior frontal
convolution is a kind of trailer park, regularly
leveled by brainstorms.

The area of Broca is pretty much off limits.
And if you know Broca, you know why.

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 25, 2022 - 6:37am

 ScottN wrote:

Christmas Light

When everyone had gone
I sat in the library
With the small silent tree,
She and I alone.
How softly she shone!

And for the first time then
For the first time this year,
I felt reborn again,
I knew love’s presence near.

Love distant, love detached
And strangely without weight,
Was with me in the night
When everyone had gone
And the garland of pure light
Stayed on, stayed on.

“Christmas Light” by May Sarton




ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 25, 2022 - 5:33am

Christmas Light

When everyone had gone
I sat in the library
With the small silent tree,
She and I alone.
How softly she shone!

And for the first time then
For the first time this year,
I felt reborn again,
I knew love’s presence near.

Love distant, love detached
And strangely without weight,
Was with me in the night
When everyone had gone
And the garland of pure light
Stayed on, stayed on.

“Christmas Light” by May Sarton
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 16, 2022 - 7:42am

The Day Beauty Divorced Meaning

by Leslie Harrison

Their friends looked shocked—said not
possible
, said how sad. The trees carried on
with their treeish lives—stately except when
they shed their silly dandruff of birds. And
the ocean did what oceans mostly do—
suspended almost everything, dropped one
small ship, or two. The day beauty divorced
meaning, someone picked a flower, a fight,
a flight. Someone got on a boat.
A closet lost its suitcases. Someone
was snowed in, someone else on. The sun
went down and all it was, was night.

miamizsun

miamizsun Avatar

Location: (3283.1 Miles SE of RP)
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 15, 2022 - 2:46pm

 Manbird wrote:


Cool site! Most of the poetry generated there is ten (10) times better than any of the junk I've ever written. 


ok, but not because you say so!

How To Scratch Mother Lips

For a day, maybe thousand,
I rested under a harrowing wind
at a bus stop, waiting for the aunt to be inside.
Carry me onto your raft - the apple of my school -


/poem/9288b8d98c54a191



Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: La Villa Toscana
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 15, 2022 - 2:27pm

 miamizsun wrote:

I Expected Mothers

Our new rose, our scrupulous ritual tetrahedrons.
In the face of so many blades to animosity.
Within the scratching receptacles.
I'd do it for the branch in which you preserve
for the honeysuckles of cashmire you've built.

A loaf of bread baked with lewd sincerity and salt.
The green car weaves in transforming your eyelids.
It showers like a flag outside the cathedral.

-poetry ninja (ai generated)

/poem/d651b4862dedc231






Cool site! Most of the poetry generated there is ten (10) times better than any of the junk I've ever written. 

miamizsun

miamizsun Avatar

Location: (3283.1 Miles SE of RP)
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 15, 2022 - 1:44pm

I Expected Mothers

Our new rose, our scrupulous ritual tetrahedrons.
In the face of so many blades to animosity.
Within the scratching receptacles.
I'd do it for the branch in which you preserve
for the honeysuckles of cashmire you've built.

A loaf of bread baked with lewd sincerity and salt.
The green car weaves in transforming your eyelids.
It showers like a flag outside the cathedral.

-poetry ninja (ai generated)

/poem/d651b4862dedc231




Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: La Villa Toscana
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 14, 2022 - 1:51pm


Unslept

Of an evening sky this blood entailed

There was blood in the forest

And blood on the trail

The shotgun suicide sky has wept

All its forlorn gore and most of its flesh

Bone - it had none - nor tendons to stretch

Its breath without lungs but still sucked once

Then strangled the black neck of twilight

The silence the night the quiet the none

A torn photo of daylight remained

Like eventual or sometime or maybe

A thin sprocket of light a razor the drain

Of becoming but teased - extinguished

His tar becomes dark


Of deep night sky this charcoal emitted

The patient's mouth gaping

His charcoal ingrained

Upon lips and between broken teeth

His stomach is pumped completely

And all that remains is sweet stain

And black sticky between his burned ribs

This is where the suicide patient

Lies darkly his wrists without skin

This is where the wound was compressed

And look... they found the bottle

Empty of his daylight prescribed

And having swallowed it all

He vomited night


Of specular dawn this horror arising

A stainless steel table

At an angle of seven degrees

Sluices catch serums and juices that seep

From the suicide specter with sun in his eyes

Wrinkles of cloud sprinkle drops of despair

Over purple edged moles with black shaven hairs

The urine is dried by a pale burning sun

The saliva stains gathered in jars

The snake stalks the rodent with a tongue

That can smell and the tang in the forest appalled

And people who sleep through all of this glory

Never visit this forest at all

This is the place where insomniacs walk

The landscape where lunatics fall

– Rob Diebold







Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Nov 13, 2022 - 9:48am

Cold clouds scuttle past
The half moon. The sun warms us.
The dog and I walk.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Oct 2, 2022 - 5:31am

Something Told the Wild Geese
by Rachel Field
 
Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered,—‘Snow.’
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned,—‘Frost.’
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,—
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Sep 12, 2022 - 3:16pm

A Dream Within A Dream

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?

EAP

Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: La Villa Toscana
Gender: Male


Posted: Aug 19, 2022 - 5:07pm

 ScottN wrote:
 
h/t Manbird
 
 
Sylvia Plath
 
 
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ——
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly call out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ——
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness — blackness and silence

love love love this



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