Oops! I forgot to mention that I decided on the Relationships forum - because it seems to me that poetry is always about relationship.

Relationship to another........

Relationship to Nature...........

Relationship to the Creator.......

Or, for we followers of Process Theology, all three! 

This one still floors me, such simple elegance, describing so much.  In this case, the Schrodinger Equation, the Rule of Reality discovered by us imperfect, finite, but relentlessly curious and willing to be wrong, beings.

This is the kind of stuff that is, eventually, causing this to happen.

The real language and 'commandments' of creation.

More wordy type poetry to come later.

'Tis a fearful thing poem has really spoken  to me. I beieve it does and will to many others suffering from loss or grief.    Good choice to put this thread in the Relationship area, Pilgram   This speaks to me of the deep pain I have endured since my friend Barry became ill and died earlier this years. Howerver it also speaks of the Joy and the Holyness of  friendship and love, and for that I am grateful to have had with Barry.   Along with all the other relationships I have had that death has touched.     We might have fear, but we can get past it to live in joy and gratitude for what once was.

'Tis a Fearful Thing

'Tis a fearful thing

to love what death can touch.

A fearful thing

to love, hope, dream:

to be--

to be,

And! to lose.

A thing for fools, this,

and

a holy thing,

a holy thing

to love.

For your life has lived in me,

your laugh once lifted me,

your word was gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

'Tis a human thing, love,

a holy thing,

to love

what death has touched. 



Anonymous

This was a favourite for my husband and I. It speaks to me often with its good advice about life.

Max Ehrmann

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) is probably my favorite poet in any language. He was a Latin poet during the reign of Augustus and wrote poems on a number of themes in a number of different forms. The two odes below are quite similar in theme and I've had the pleasure of studying both in the original language. The theme in both is contrasting the beauty of spring with the dark reality that we only get to enjoy the pleasures of life for a short time. The Odes frequently talk about the brevity of life and of living for today and the famous phrase "carpe diem" (seize the day) had its origins in another poem from the first book of odes. Translations below are by A. S. Kline from this website.

EDIT: Kong is a happy ape. Kline has made his translations freely available in epub format. I can now have the complete works of Horace on my Kobo without dropping a cent.

Mendalla

And, for me at least, no thread on poetry would be complete without Mary Oliver. Her poetry is steeped in nature and spiritual images. This one is in the readings section of our UU hymn book and I have used it in services, usually as Opening Words (= Call to Worship). It is, perhaps, my favorite work by a living poet. Definitely speaks to me as do many of her works.

Morning Poem

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn

that is heavier than lead ---

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging ---

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver

© Mary Oliver

More Oliver available here.

Mendalla

To speak to the original topic for a moment, it's hard for me to pick one poem that most speaks to me, because different poems speak to me in different ways at different times. There are some that speak to me at a specific time and then kind of pass on their way. The three I've posted are ones that I've come back to time and time again, esp. the Horace which i first encountered almost 30 years ago.

I'll add one more that speaks me as much for its emotional connections as for its specific words. The poet is Rev. Dr. Harold Vaughan and the emotional connection is that I've read it from the pulpit twice - at his funeral and at my mother's.

Being or Non-being

Ah death, art thou a thief

Come to rob us of life's treasure,

Or perchance to bring relief

From pain we cannot measure

Whether thou comest soon or late

We scarce can wish thee here

Unless, thou are more than fate

And bringest ne'er a fear.

Ah what, if anything, may lie

Beyond this grave austere

Which justifies the need to die

And leave our loved ones here?

This much is sure; we cannot know

In what non-being might consist.

But declares it will not go

And in Love's faith, we will persist.

Mendalla

Oh there are so many.......

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

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. You're playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightening about shrinking, so that other

people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.

It is not just in some of us, it is in everyone.

And as we let our light shine,

we unconsciously give other

people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear

our presence automatically liberates others.

by Marianne Williamson

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

Removed

Waterfall,

I saw the video you're referring to - extremely confronting and disturbing.

I 've chosen not to post it though, because it may unfairly incite anti-Moslem feeling.

I believe, as evidenced in this PBS article, that the majority of Moslems don't condone such behaviour.

 Criminal offenses are just one part of Sharia, a code for living. If followed, Muslims claim there will be no poverty or crime in their societies. While most Muslims attempt to adhere to Sharia as a way of living, the harshest punishments for certain criminal offenses are carried out in relatively few Muslim societies, such as Saudi Arabia and Iran. In other countries such as Pakistan with Sharia law, it is applied selectively. In predominantly Muslim countries that have secular governments, it has largely been abandoned as a legal system.

I'm having a relaxing Monday morning drinking my coffee and reading through your poems, thank you, and keep them coming........

And now for something completely different..........

When I was a little kid my maternal grandfather would often recite old bush poems. In his schooldays,  pupils all had to memorise and recite poetry.

This particular poem was my favourite - and I would beg him to recite it again and again.

"But why?" he'd say, "It just makes you cry"

"I know - but I just love it".

It's sooooo sad!

Lost

`He ought to be home,' said the old man, `without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this.
He WOULD ride the Reckless filly, he WOULD have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say?

`He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?'

The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
`What has become of my Willie? -- why isn't he home to-night?'

Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.

And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.

And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
`Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!

Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.

But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.

`I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead,
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last.

For sadness and loss, there is this translation of Callimachus:

William (Johnson) Cory 1823-1892

Heraclitus

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,

They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

I wept as I remember’d how often you and I

Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

—

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,

A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest

Still thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;

For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

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

I studied it in Ancient Greek

I just noticed a comment on the site where I got the original Greek and the modern translation.  the commenter says the above version is "mawkish and sentimental."  Oh well.

Callimachus XXXIV G-P (A.P. 7.80):

 

Εἰπέ τις, Ἡράκλειτε, τεὸν μόρον ἐς δέ με δάκρυ
    ἤγαγεν ἐμνήσθην δ᾿ ὁσσάκις ἀμφότεροι
ἠέλιον λέσχῃ κατεδύσαμεν. ἀλλὰ σὺ μέν που,
    ξεῖν᾿ Ἁλικαρνησεῦ, τετράπαλαι σποδιή,
αἱ δὲ τεαὶ ζώουσιν ἀηδόνες, ᾗσιν ὁ πάντων
    ἁρπακτὴς Ἀίδης οὐκ ἐπὶ χεῖρα βαλεῖ.

 

 

Modern translation

Someone told me of your death, Heraclitus, and it moved me to tears, when I remembered how often the sun set on our talking. And you, my Halicarnassian friend, lie somewhere, gone long long ago to dust; but they live, your Nightingales, on which Hades who siezes all shall not lay his hand.

(translated by W. R. Paton, with archaic forms updated)

 

 

 

Another special one from my life. We used this as a reading at our wedding (the BIble reading was 1 Cor 13). Both readings were done in both Mandarin and English to honour my wife's homeland and culture.

Married Love

You and I
Have so much love,
That it
Burns like a fire,
In which we bake a lump of clay
Molded into a figure of you
And a figure of me.
Then we take both of them
And break them into pieces,
And mix the pieces with water,
And mold again a figure of you,
And a figure of me.
In life we share a single quilt.
In death we will share one coffin.
 

-- Kuan Tao-Shing (1282-1319).

Mendalla

While my undergrad is in classics, I rather neglected Greek since I came into the program with 3 years of high school Latin already under my belt. Took a two term introduction to Classical Greek and left it at that. One consequence is that, aside from Homer, I don't really number very many Greek poets among my favorites whereas I number Ovid, Horace, Virgil, and Catullus all among my favorites (with Horace as my favorite of the lot).

Mendalla

My all-time favourite:

THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE

Let the bird of loudest lay,

On the sole Arabian tree,

Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou, shrieking harbinger,

Foul pre-currer of the fiend,

Augur of the fever's end,

To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict

Every foul of tyrant wing,

Save the eagle, feather'd king:

Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,

That defunctive music can,

Be the death-dvining swan,

Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow,

That thy sable gender mak'st

With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,

'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:

Love and constancy is dead;

Phoenix and the turtle fled

In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in twain

Had the essence but in one;

Two distincts, division none:

Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;

Distance, and no space was seen

'Twixt the turtle and his queen;

But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,

That the turtle saw his right

Flaming in the phoenix's sight:

Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appall'd,

That the self was not the same;

Single nature's double name

Neither two nor one was call'd.

Reason, in itself confounded,

Saw division grow together;

To themselves yet either/neither,

Simple were so well compounded

That it cried how true a twain

Seemeth this concordant one!

Love hath reason, reason none

If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne

To the phoenix and the dove,

Co-supremes and stars of love;

As chorus to their tragic scene.

                  THRENOS

Beauty, truth, and rarity.

Grace in all simplicity,

Here enclosed in cinders lie.

Death is now the phoenix's nest;

And the turtle's loyal breast

To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:—

'Twas not their infirmity,

It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be:

Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;

Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair

That are either true or fair;

For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

-William Skaespeare

(The "turtle" in the above poem is a "turtle dove.")

My favourite self-composed poem is Getting IT. I have quoted it so many times here on the cafe that I hardly dare quote it again. Well, like it or not, here is it is:

Getting IT

IT is we; we are IT.

We can't comprehend IT without experiencing IT,

But we can experience IT without comprehending IT—

For we are IT!

IT reveals everything;

IT explains nothing.

The interpretations

Of ITs revelations

Are our creations.

-Arminius

My favourite of the poems posted so far is Inanna's.

waterfall's poem by Marianne Williamson also speaks to me and for me.

Keep them coming!

Mendalla

I just studied it on my own, from a book, or rather, several books.  But I really worked at it.  There farther back you go, the harder it is to read.  The New Testament, not too hard.  Homer, quite hard.  Many archaic features in the language.

But the book I was using had all sorts of examples of Greek poets and I just loved that one.  It was a wonderful experience.  I mean, why do crossword puzzles when you could be studying a foreign language?   

I did take Latin in high school but that was over 40 years ago and I can't remember much.  Maybe when I retire....   The Horace poems you posted are beautiful.

My father like Omar Khayyam and collected copies of his work.  No, I do not know Persian!  That would be hard, the language is written right to left and looks nothing like the Latin alphabet (which shares much with the Greek alphabet).   Excerpts from the famous Edward Fitzgerald translation.  It sounds like Omar was kind fond of drinking.

   1

 Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night

 Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:

 And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught

 The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

   2

 Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky

 I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,

 "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup

 "Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

   3

 And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before

 The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!

 "You know how little while we have to stay,

 "And, once departed, may return no more."

   4

 Now the New Year reviving old Desires,

 The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,

 Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough

 Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

   *****

   5

 Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,

 And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;

 But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,

 And still a Garden by the Water blows.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, 

A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse---and Thou

 Beside me singing in the Wilderness---

 And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

 "How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"---think some:

 Others---"How blest the Paradise to come!"

 Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;

 Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

The worldly hope men set their hearts upon

 Turns Ashes---or it prospers; and anon,

 Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face

 Lighting a little Hour or two---is gone.

   15

 And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,

 And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,

 Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd

 As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

   16

 Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai

 Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,

 How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp

 Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

   17

 They say the Lion and the Lizard keep

 The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep;

 And Bahram, that great Hunter---the Wild Ass

 Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.

   18

 I sometimes think that never so red

 The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;

 That every Hyacinth the Garden wears

 Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

   45

 But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me

 The Quarrel of the Universe let be:

 And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,

 Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

   46

 For in and out, above, about, below,

 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,

 Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,

 Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

   47

 And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,

 End in the Nothing all Things end in ---Yes---

 Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what

 Thou shalt be---Nothing---Thou shalt not be less.

   48

 While the Rose blows along the River Brink,

 With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink:

 And when the Angel with his darker Draught

 Draws up to Thee---take that, and do not shrink.

   *****

   49

 'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days

 Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:

 Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,

 And one by one back in the Closet lays.

   50

 The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,

 But Right or Left, as strikes the Player goes;

 And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,

 *He* knows about it all---He knows---HE knows!

   51

 The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

 Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

 Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

 Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

   52

 And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,

 Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,

 Lift not thy hands to *It* for help---for It

 Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

   *****

   53

 With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead,

 And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:

 Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote

 What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

Also dealing with loss....

LYCIDAS by John Milton

In this Monody the Author bewails a
learned Friend, unfortunatly drown'd in his Passage
from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by
occasion fortels the ruine of our corrupted
Clergy then in their height.

I removed the request for the poem, but I have to say, it was her obvious passion and the fact this young woman dared to speak out so eloquently that spoke to me. I admired her bravery and how she rebelled against being silenced. I think she wrote this because she wanted someone (maybe the world) to hear her.

Waterfall, agreed -it was very disturbing.

I'm not intimating that the video shouldn't be seen -  I found it from your description -and you had every right to bring it to our attention. I didn't expect you to withdraw it.

Just, for the reasons I gave, I preferred not to embed it...........

On a more positive note for the Islamic world, there are many Persian poets.  Omar Khayyam (my father's very favorite poem, excerpt above) is only the best-known, probably because of the excellent translation by Edward Fitzgerald.   Omar lived 1048-1131, according to Wikipedia.

But there are a lot of other ones from the classical age, according to various memoirs by Iranians I have read. Just as many as ancient Greece and Rome.

It's the anniversary of my husband's death in a few weeks - so this morning finds me in a reflective mood.......

During the marriage service we had this poem/verse recited from "The Prophet"

Marriage

Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"

And he answered saying:

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.

Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

At the funeral service I chose our favourite blessing hymn -

May the feet of God walk with you

and his hand hold you tight.

May the eye of God rest on you

and his ear hear you cry.

May the smile of God be for you

and his breath give you life.

May the child of God grow in you

and his love bring you home.

I love poetry. One look at my bookshelves proves it. There is no way I could pick only one, one author- let alone one poem. I write tons of it rather badly.

For today, my choice is -

The Ducks on the Millpond - Rod McKuen

Moments ago the ducks played on the millpond
the sparrows chatted freely
and the chickens poked and pecked about the yard
then with the first shadow of evening
they were all gone
last to go were the killdeer birds
off beyond the eucalyptus trees.

Standing at the window
I often wonder why the killdeer birds
are always last to leave
they must have the need
to walk the day a little longer
just like us.

Listen...
I do not apologize for being hard to know
I am what I am
sulking will not change that
but apple pies and warm hands help
and I have never known a cat
that couldn’t calm me down
just by walking slowly past my chair.

So I’ll smile for you in winter
if you’ll go easy
and fill your rooms with roses when I can
if you’ll stop beating me with words
and if in bed... you never turn away.

-from Listen to the Warm, 1968

PilgrimsProgress,

Thoughts with you...

What though the radiance which was once so bright,

Be now forever taken from my sight

Though nothing can bring back the hour

of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find

strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

which having been must ever be

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

William Wordsworth

Lovely thread -- love poetry.

Here's one of my all-time favourites.

Wild Geese

“You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 
You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves. 
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 
Meanwhile the world goes on. 
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 
are moving across the landscapes, 
over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers. 
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 
are heading home again. 
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – 
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things.” 
― Mary Oliver

I see that American poets are in favour here.......

Here is a particular favourite of mine -as it speaks to me of the constant tussle between security and extending one's comfort zone.........

Thanks, SG.

(In many ways I've reached a new plateau of acceptance and peace - as suggested in Waterfall's Wordsworth poem. There's just occasional blips - particularly when it comes to this time of year.)

Wow! There's a lot here! I can't soak it all in right now. Exciting to see so much enthusiasm for poetry!

The first poems I ever loved were lyrics. This one made me want to write poetry of my own:

~Secret Oktober by Simon LeBon~

Wise on a birthday party, in a world
Full of surprising fireworks and sudden silence
(Shh)
Lies on a stranger's bed the new day breaks, like a speeding train
Or an old friend ever expected, but never knocking

Holding your own in a battered car
All night parties cocktail bars
And smile when the butterfly escapes the killing jar

Sure eyes awake before the dancing is over
Wise or naked in secret Oktober
 

Freefall on a windy morning shore
Nothing but a fading track of footsteps
Could prove that you'd ever been there
Spoken on a cotton cloud like the sound of gunshot
Taken by the wind, and lost in distant thunder

Racing on a shining plane
Tomorrow you'll be content to watch as the lightning plays
Along the wires, and you'll wonder

Sure eyes awake before the dancing is over
Wise or naked in secret Oktober

It was like magic... what the hell it was about I didn't yet have a clue, but it sounded so beautiful and wise, elaborate and decorated. I wanted to express myself in that way.

Then came Poe. whoa! What eloquence! His poems were so perfect and so beautifully sad and melancholy. They expressed my feelings, and I wanted to be like that, dripping with ancient lace, my sorrow made beautiful and misty like night fog.

~A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe~

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?

I also loved Shakespeare, especially R&J, and Hamlet. So I was influenced by those in my own poetry.

SONG OF THE ANSWERER

The words of true poems give you more than poems,

They give you to form for yourself poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, daily life, and everything else,

They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes,

They do not seek beauty, they are sought,

Forever touching them or close upon them follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick.

They prepare for death, yet they are not the finish, but rather the outset,

They bring none to his or her terminus or to be content and full,

Whom they take they take into space to behold the birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings,

To launch off with absolute faith, to sweep through the ceaseless rings and never be quiet again.

-Walt Whitman

My beloved spoke, and said unto me,

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds is come, and the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land;

The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell.

Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

Song of Solomon, 2:10-13

The entire Song of Solomon is one exquisite love poem, the most beautiful poem in the Bible.

"DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOODNIGHT

RAGE RAGE AT THE DYING OF THE LIGHT"

Dylan Thomas

I used to enjoy reciting this poem during my punk phase.  It's still  sly, silly, blunt, important.

To Nobodaddy 

Why art thou silent & invisible
Father of jealousy
Why dost thou hide thyself in clouds
From every searching Eye

Why darkness & obscurity
In all thy words & laws
That none dare eat the fruit but from
The wily serpents jaws
Or is it because Secresy
gains females loud applause

William Blake

Pablo Neruda is a fav (but I prefer them in Spanish)

Cat's Dreams

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
 

This is the only one I recall from heart of Dame Mary Gilmore

I have grown past hate and bitterness,
I see the world as one;
But though I can no longer hate,
My son is still my son.

All men at God's round table sit,
and all men must be fed;
But this loaf in my hand,
This loaf is my son's bread.

I have not yet found a book of poems by Muriel Spark to buy.  I have only been able to read others' collections.  Does anyone have a favourite Muriel Spark poem?

InnanaWhimsey

I have always suspected that physics was purely poetry, but alas, I am one of those indecent intellects who is math illiterate and must use my knowledge of psychology, sociology and evolution of grammar to code anything and everything . . . it has left me far behind or outside of current linguistics in that I can't speak math, but I did get caught up in the passion of poetry and then I had hormones to deal with.  Acid and pot didn't help, of course, only left me longing for more information and having less ability to truely grasp my seemingly subconsicous ability to eff with language and philosophy. 

Hell is math illiteracy.

repetez

Here is a little poem that has meant a lot to me through the years....

.....

I grow a white rose for a friend....

Niether nettles nor thistles do I grow...

For a friend ..... I grow a white rose....

.....

It's an old Toaist poem.....

That says a lot to me ......

Gentle Hugs

Rita

When the temple bell stops ringing,

The flowers continue the sound.

-Basho

I have a favourite book and a favourite poem............

"The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie" was a wonderful read. (It was also a good movie -Maggie Smith was very much in her prime as Jean Brodie).

Last week I called the Salvation Army to donate six bags of books. (I have "discovered" Amazon books - and they're becoming an addiction!)

It brought to mind this poem of Muriel Spark's.........

SG, Here's a bit of trivia........

Dame Mary Gilmore taught in the same little bush school as my Dad. In Dad's time is was a two-teacher school - the original one-room school that Mary had taught in had been retained as a sewing room.

My mother taught sewing (badly). She never could quite understand why I, a left hander, wanted to hem a skirt "the wrong way"................

Thank you Arminius .... I shall treasure that poem.

Very profound ........

Hugs

Rita

Waterfall, Thanks for the Wordsworth. The movie meant a lot to me.

SG, Let's see one of yours!  Cool cat poem too, I like that.

Ninj, I liked the Wild Geese one. That's nice.

Arminius, Thanks for the Answer, the Walt. I like that.

Here's one of my favorites of my own, written in 1995, the year before I met my husband.

(poem reclaimed, the moment passed. She giveth with one hand, and with the other she taketh away...)

Elanor,

Thanks for confirming something I've often thought  -  what happens to us begins in our imagination............

(and sometimes that's revealed in a poem).

Did you write that Alex? There is a lot of pain in it. And yes, I think they can see it in our eyes. Time patches these hurts up though, one day those eyes will be harder to see.

Thanks Pilgrim. I read that to a guy when I wrote it. He said I was a dreamer and laughed and walked away. He was not the man for me. But I wrote a poem about him too, two actually. I didn't show him those!