Share Your Favorite Poem!
86- Chad A Taylor
- 34 posts
- Joined: 5 weeks ago
- Hubs: 15
- Fans: 144
Ok, let's dig those old poems that once made us swoon, cry or just laugh out of the mental closet and post them here! I will start this stroll down memory lane...
A Door Just Opened
by Emily Dickinson
A door just opened on a street--
I, lost, was passing by--
An instant's width of warmth disclosed
And wealth, and company.
The door as sudden shut, and I,
I, lost, was passing by,--
Lost doubly, but by contrast most,
Enlightening misery.
78- sneakorocksolid
- 2497 posts
- Joined: 6 months ago
- Hubs: 17
- Fans: 100
Ichy bitchy little girl,
Loved the crabs hated squirrels,
Teased the boys and kissed the girls,
Ichy bitchy little girl!
Written by His Greatness, Baron Von Sneako.- 86
- Chad A Taylor
- 34 posts
- Joined: 5 weeks ago
- Hubs: 15
- Fans: 144
Any more out there to share there fav poems?
I've mentioned it b4 when someone posted a thread about favourite lines of poetry, but I'll post the whole thing this time. Its 'The Second Coming' by William Butler Yeats:
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
93- lyricsingray
- 3137 posts
- Joined: 5 months ago
- Hubs: 69
- Fans: 283
No One Should Feel or Be Alone
I pray to find the perfect words so my truth will show
A glimpse into what I so desperately want you to know.
We all share many forms of of misplaced or untrue shame
Yet none of us will ever know another’s depth of pain.
Articulate aloud, a violent rape that offers no coping aid
Or the loss of your only child, and the hole that will never fade.
Question which mistakes drove our actions, which ones were in just
How many secrets we hide for fear of risking trust.
Understand the lifelong battle in the mind of an addict
All is gone, at rock bottom, still feeding their diseased habit.
Convince someone mental illness is a disease, that can’t be wished away
That electric shock therapy was critical, not barbaric as betrayed.
Be open that suicide may not be a selfish behavior
Rather a means of coping to rid deep pain, believing in no savior.
Describe how we amend mistakes to our loved ones thereof
When no ones left, or willing to trust you again, nor able to give love.
So today, let’s take a moment, breathe and do the best we can for ourselves
Then, step back and let others think for themselves.
Today, let’s remember not just our own pain, or inner curse
Rather keep aware whom we meet may suffer too, or much worse.
-Kimberly Gray
92- Ken R. Abell
- 60 posts
- Joined: 3 months ago
- Hubs: 56
- Fans: 163
The Cremation Of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
85- caranoelle
- 23 posts
- Joined: 6 weeks ago
- Hubs: 6
- Fans: 3
Haiku:
A bunny's nose goes sniff.
Bunny jumps off a cliff.
Down, down, dead.
Written by a 4th grader.- 93
- lyricsingray
- 3137 posts
- Joined: 5 months ago
- Hubs: 69
- Fans: 283
caranoelle wrote:
Haiku:
A bunny's nose goes sniff.
Bunny jumps off a cliff.
Down, down, dead.
Written by a 4th grader.Love this one
88- Rayalternately
- 177 posts
- Joined: 4 weeks ago
- Hubs: 8
- Fans: 14
not necessarily my favourite, but still a very good one, and short enough for a forum post is this:
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
63- Windsweptplains
- 2 posts
- Joined: 9 days ago
- Hubs: 1
- Fans: 4
I first heard Shakespeare's "sonnet 116" in the 1995 film Sense and Sensibility. It was so beautiful that I fell in love with it and it became my favorite poem.
Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.Not to type it all, but "Not a Day on Any Calender" by Rumi.
89- Poppa Blues
- 1574 posts
- Joined: 14 months ago
- Hubs: 64
- Fans: 85
Dreams!
Her lips were softer than the petals of a rose
Her skin smoother than Egyptian silk
And with her kiss came a curl in my toes
A warm red glow in skin white as milk
Lips caressed like wind around tall erect peaks
The Earth moved below me in a gentle quake
Blood like a river flowed to my cheeks
If this was a dream I wished never to wake!My Dream !!!
I still dream of you, the dream which I never told anyone, the dream which lies in the depth of my heart, the dream which is pure, the dream is innocent; the dream is just a dream.
The dream comes out of my heart through my eyes, but the problem is the dream goes back inside of my heart, I want to wash this dream of you, knowing that it might not come true, but it’s what they call hope remains.
They say what’s written will be done and whatever happens you cannot change it, but only if I had a chance to change to change the written I will not change anything, I will just add this dream of you.
I don’t know why you are so important to me, I don’t know, but that’s a fact that I really don’t wana know.
Sometimes I feel so vulnerable, so much helpless, I can’t explain it to you….. life has brought me to a do or die situation. A situation where I don’t know why but I have the fear of losing you, the fear that lies inside me, I can’t explain you I which manner you will affect me.
My thoughts are deep, my words portray my feelings for you, but I can’t show it to you, because I am afraid that you might take them in negative scene.
I LOVE YOU
http://hubpages.com/hub/isdoy
8- beckylstuart
- 1 posts
- Joined: 8 days ago
- Hubs: 0
- Fans: 0
I'm sorry, I do not know the author...
Johnny was a chemist but Johnny is no more,
What he thought was H2O was H2SO4!
73- pioneer_writer5
- 76 posts
- Joined: 5 weeks ago
- Hubs: 11
- Fans: 8
My parents studied the Bible with me when I was young.
The Apostle Paul's definition of Love
(1 Corinthians 13:4-8) Love is long-suffering and kind. Love is not jealous, it does not brag, does not get puffed up, does not behave indecently, does not look for its own interests, does not become provoked. It does not keep account of the injury. It does not rejoice over unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
I loved the words, their rhythm and, the sentiment.
86- Revive@OwnRisk
- 74 posts
- Joined: 4 weeks ago
- Hubs: 4
- Fans: 19
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her tuffet
Collecting her shell-shocked wits
When fell from a glider
An H-bomb beside her
Which frightened Miss Muffet to bits.
~Author unknown
I read this in high school over thirty years ago and never forgot it. It made me laugh for days. I have no idea who the original author is.Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don’t make sense
Refrigerator- 63
- Windsweptplains
- 2 posts
- Joined: 9 days ago
- Hubs: 1
- Fans: 4
beckylstuart wrote:
I'm sorry, I do not know the author...
Johnny was a chemist but Johnny is no more,
What he thought was H2O was H2SO4!I really like that one!
89- prettydarkhorse
- 1989 posts
- Joined: 2 months ago
- Hubs: 83
- Fans: 170
If you forget me
by Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
87- Maggie Butler
- 1 posts
- Joined: 3 weeks ago
- Hubs: 7
- Fans: 24
Totally long....(I know..but I love it!!)
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding- riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
Trot-trot; trot-trot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Trot-trot, trot-trot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding, riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
Trot-trot, in the frosty silence! Trot-trot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed,
With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding- riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Copyright 2009 The Highwayman Motion Picture, LLC
