Saressa
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How can this really be me...?
Posts: 212
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Poetry
Nov 3, 2009 23:33:01 GMT -8
Post by Saressa on Nov 3, 2009 23:33:01 GMT -8
Okay, well I was thinking (not to mention couldn’t find one) about a thread of poetry. We have one for music, quotes, etc. So either one of your own or just a favorite, place it here for others to enjoy and discuss if you want.
I’ll start off with mine, and then another from someone.
Legend of the Cursed
Many legends, what is the truth? Thirty days of human life. As a full moon is shown in the dark of night, Bones strain to the shape. Fangs, fur, and a tail. Death and dismemberment with a murderous rage. Animal instincts, a savage beast; stuck in wolf form. A terrifying secret unable to be let out, The flash of silver, a bullet, a shout, Howls of tormented pain, of pained fury. The unlucky are my prey, The roots of my curse unknown. An animal body, a human mind. I am a lycan, a wolf of design. A myth or a legend, can you define?
And
I Will Put Chaos into Fourteen Lines by Edna St Vincent Millay
I will put Chaos into fourteen lines And keep him there; and let him thence escape If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs Will strain to nothing in the strict confines Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape, I hold his essence and amorphous shape, Till he with Order mingles and combines. Past are the hours, the years of our duress, His arrogance, our awful servitude: I have him. He is nothing more nor less Than something simple not yet understood; I shall not even force him to confess; Or answer. I will only make him good.
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Beezil
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IC: Beezil | OOC: Emma
Posts: 123
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Poetry
Nov 4, 2009 2:31:11 GMT -8
Post by Beezil on Nov 4, 2009 2:31:11 GMT -8
Something I wrote.. yes, I know it's depressing. Sorry if I offend anyone.
-Death-
My exterior may look tough, But I am dead inside. If you look close enough, You can see the dark in my eyes.
I have no soul. I can only pretend. No emotion, no control. I am no one's friend.
Busy mind, empty heart. I was always alone. Right from the start. Forever on my own...
Some so-called friends May come and go. Some that I love May never know.
I cause such pain and hate. I never wanted to be... This thing that stares at its fate. Inevitable, unchangeable, eternally.
I wait for the end with open arms. I beg for release. I look to God to erase my scars Free me from this disease.
No comfort here. Not one sweet breath of relief. No sympathy, only fear. I pray my life is brief. [a href="http://[del:beezil]"]http://[del:beezil][/a]
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SinisterGrin:
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I find that roughly sixty-five percent of the time I have absolutely no clue what I'm talking about.
Posts: 423
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Poetry
Nov 4, 2009 5:31:24 GMT -8
Post by SinisterGrin: on Nov 4, 2009 5:31:24 GMT -8
captain carpenter Captain Carpenter rose up in his prime Put on his pistols and went riding out But had got wellnigh nowhere at that time Till he fell in with ladies in a rout.
It was a pretty lady and all her train That played with him so sweetly but before An hour she'd taken a sword with all her main And twined him of his nose for evermore.
Captain Carpenter mounted up one day And rode straightway into a stranger rogue That looked unchristian but be that as may The Captain did not wait upon prologue.
But drew upon him out of his great heart The other swung against him with a club And cracked his two legs at the shinny part And let him roll and stick like any tub.
Captain Carpenter rode many a time From male and female took he sundry harms He met the wife of Satan crying "I'm The she-wolf bids you shall bear no more arms.
Their strokes and counters whistled in the wind I wish he had delivered half his blows But where she should have made off like a hind The bitch bit off his arms at the elbows.
And Captain Carpenter parted with his ears To a black devil that used him in this wise O Jesus ere his threescore and ten years Another had plucked out his sweet blue eyes.
Captain Carpenter got up on his roan And sallied from the gate in hell's despite I heard him asking in the grimmest tone If any enemy yet there was to fight?
"To any adversary it is fame If he risk to be wounded by my tongue Or burnt in two beneath my red heart's flame Such are the perils he is cast among.
"But if he can he has a pretty choice From an anatomy with little to lose Whether he cut my tongue and take my voice Or whether it be my round red heart he choose. "
It was the neatest knave that ever was seen Stepping in perfume from his lady's bower Who at this word put in his merry mien And fell on Captain Carpenter like a tower.
I would not knock old fellows in the dust But there lay Captain Carpenter on his back His weapons were the old heart in his bust And a blade shook between rotten teeth alack.
The rogue in scarlet and grey soon knew his mind. He wished to get his trophy and depart With gentle apology and touch refined He pierced him and produced the Captain's heart.
God's mercy rest on Captain Carpenter now, I thought him Sirs an honest gentleman Citizen husband soldier and scholar enow Let jangling kites eat of him if they can.
But God's deep curses follow after those That shore him of his goodly nose and ears His legs and strong arms at the two elbows And eyes that had not watered seventy years.
The curse of hell upon the sleek upstart That got the Captain finally on his back And took the red red vitals of his heart And made the kites to whet their beaks clack clack. john crowe ransom
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Poetry
Nov 4, 2009 9:45:58 GMT -8
Post by cinnamon on Nov 4, 2009 9:45:58 GMT -8
There was one of these on VNN aaages ago and I quite liked reading the poetry out there. I'm more of a prose person, though, all my poetry is a bit "out there" (as you'd probably expect if you know me) and probably not even poetry in a lot of people's eyes so I'll keep it to myself
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Emmett
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"She's a riddle, she's a child! She's a headache, she's an angel, she's a girl!" -The Sound Of Music
Posts: 74
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Poetry
Nov 4, 2009 18:24:56 GMT -8
Post by Emmett on Nov 4, 2009 18:24:56 GMT -8
Ohmygod! I read the most amazing poem one time, and I saved it on my computer because I'm a loser like that.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other peoples' gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickles for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
I love it. A lot. I don't know who it's by, though.
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Nyatta Leigh Kigarra-Morte
New Member
"Not speaking is the flower." -Japanese proverb. Looks like the Japanese knew their stuff.
Posts: 33
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 10:58:10 GMT -8
Post by Nyatta Leigh Kigarra-Morte on Nov 5, 2009 10:58:10 GMT -8
This idea just popped into my head. I wrote as I went along, so I hope it's not too bad/cheesy. And if it is, really sorry. The AdmirerWhile walking the streets in silence, I feel eyes upon me. With a quick turn of my head, And bounce of my hair, I look behind me. Nothing. I continue on, Feeling paranoid. With the feeling not gone, And slight fear in my heart, I stop and turn once more. Nothing still. I break into a dash, Worried and scared. I stop in my tracks, With wide eyes, As someone taps me on the shoulder. A charming young man. I feel my heart beat fast, My cheeks burning up. As I stand there in silence, Trying to form words as I face him, He smiles and softly says: "Excuse me for hiding earlier, But you caught my eye, And I could not help admire your beauty, and got nervous."I never knew I was beautiful. "Thank you,"Are my shy words. He closes his eyes, And I lean in, As our lips meet.
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Idony
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IGN: Idony | OOC: Cora
Posts: 1,581
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 11:09:00 GMT -8
Post by Idony on Nov 5, 2009 11:09:00 GMT -8
Chaos in 14 lines was pretty awesome, I have to say. But goodness, Captain Carpenter is more like an epic xD That's so long, I didn't even read it all.
An'way, here are some of my good favourites; most of them are pretty short. And yes, I named my YIM after the first one; shadap >.>
All one by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
Be still, my beating heart, be still, There is no hope for thee tonight. The fading of the wintry light Has made a blackness of the hill.
Be still, be still, my beating heart, For thee to-night there is no fear. The moon has risen white and clear, And we shall neither meet nor part.
The Heart Asks Pleasure First by Emily Dickinson
The heart asks pleasure first And then, excuse from pain- And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.
Sonnet 130 Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dung; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
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Elektra
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Obsession. Compulsion. Perfection.[C01:Grey]
Posts: 950
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 11:12:12 GMT -8
Post by Elektra on Nov 5, 2009 11:12:12 GMT -8
I love poetry and I keep several by different authors. I won't share those by English/American authors but there's a Russian one I have on my CS in RBRP. It's by Pushkin, a Russian poet who was killed in a duel.
It's beautiful in its original language but for the sake of everyone, I'll just put up the English translation. If you'd like to see it, though, tell me, and I'll post it as well.
I remember a wonderful moment As before my eyes you appeared, Like a vision, fleeting, momentary, Like a spirit of the purest beauty.
In the torture of hopeless melancholy, In the bustle of the world's noisy hours, That voice rang out so tenderly, I dreamed of that lovely face of yours.
The years flew quickly. The storm's blast Scattered the dreams of former times, And I forgot your tender voice, And the features of your heavenly face.
In remoteness, in gloomy isolation, My days dragged quietly, nothing was new, No godlike face, no inspiration, No tears, no life, no love, no you.
Then to my soul an awakening came, And there again your face appeared, Like a vision, fleeting, momentary, Like a spirit of the purest beauty.
And my heart beat with a rapture new, And for its sake arose again A godlike face, an inspiration, And life, and tears, and love, and you.
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Idony
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IGN: Idony | OOC: Cora
Posts: 1,581
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 11:15:16 GMT -8
Post by Idony on Nov 5, 2009 11:15:16 GMT -8
Ooooh I've heard of Pushkin, but never read him. That was beautiful; particularly the refrain <3
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 11:36:43 GMT -8
Post by coolhandluke on Nov 5, 2009 11:36:43 GMT -8
Singing siren songs The boulders are not her fault Killed by her own heart
****
Rising from concrete In their subtle mockery Flowers bloom and die
(mine, copyrighted in the old school postcard method)
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 11:59:39 GMT -8
Post by Uriah Solus on Nov 5, 2009 11:59:39 GMT -8
When he asks, "Why?" I say, "Because." When I really want to say, "Me."
When he asks, "Who?" I say, "Them." When I really want to say, "Me."
One day I hope to hear him say, "You." And I wouldn't have to say a word. Because he'd finally see that it's always been me.
But all I can ask myself now is "When?"
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Beezil
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IC: Beezil | OOC: Emma
Posts: 123
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 13:10:21 GMT -8
Post by Beezil on Nov 5, 2009 13:10:21 GMT -8
(I know it's old and everyone knows it, but I've always adored it so ) Where The Sidewalk Ends - By Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends. (And one of my favorites by Poe) Israfel by: Edgar Allen Poe In Heaven a spirit doth dwell "Whose heart-strings are a lute"; None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamored moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfel's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings- The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty- Where Love's a grown-up God- Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star.
Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfel, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit- Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute- Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely- flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.
Edited: Because I have bad eyes. >.>;
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Nyatta Leigh Kigarra-Morte
New Member
"Not speaking is the flower." -Japanese proverb. Looks like the Japanese knew their stuff.
Posts: 33
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 15:43:37 GMT -8
Post by Nyatta Leigh Kigarra-Morte on Nov 5, 2009 15:43:37 GMT -8
I've always loved Shel Silverstein! I was actually thinking of leafing through my books of his and choosing a poem. Where the Sidewalk Ends is one of my favorites. And now, here's another favorite! Homework Machine - Shel Silverstien The Homework Machine, oh the Homework Machine, Most perfect contraption that's ever been seen. Just put in your homework, then drop in a dime, Snap on the switch, and in seconds' time, Your homework comes out, quick and clean as can be, Here it is-"nine plus four?" and the answer is "three." Three? Oh me... I guess it's not as perfect As I thought it would be.
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Saressa
New Member
How can this really be me...?
Posts: 212
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 16:08:04 GMT -8
Post by Saressa on Nov 5, 2009 16:08:04 GMT -8
The Road Less Taken - Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
I personally love Frost, Poe, and several others. I can't remember one... *still searching for it*
To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe I saw thee once-- once only -- years ago: I must not say how many -- but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe -- Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death -- Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn'd- alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight- Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!- oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused- I looked- And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All- all expired save thee- save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes- Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them- they were the world to me! I saw but them- saw only them for hours, Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition; yet how deep- How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained; They would not go- they never yet have gone; Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since; They follow me- they lead me through the years. They are my ministers -- yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle -- My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in Heaven -- the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still -- two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
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Poetry
Nov 5, 2009 16:39:49 GMT -8
Post by coolhandluke on Nov 5, 2009 16:39:49 GMT -8
I guess I'm the only one who likes haikus. I just like the concept of fitting an entire idea into such a simple pattern. Making something unpretentious and still profound.
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