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Post by AmericanCharm on Feb 27, 2018 10:50:19 GMT
What is your favorite poem or poems? I am not a massive poetry guy. But I do appreciate the craft. The same way I appreciate good lyrics in a song that connect with me personally and/or I feel have a deep message. I have a few favorite poems at the moment, here is one.
The Truth About Monsters
The truth is this, every monster you have met or will ever meet was once a human being with a soul that was as soft and light as silk
Someone stole that silk from their soul and turned them into this
So when you see a monster next always remember do not fear the thing before you fear the thing that created it instead.
-Nikita Gill
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Post by Elizabeth on Feb 27, 2018 11:15:40 GMT
Aw. Sad poem My new favorite poem is this. I just read a really sad poem posted by AmericanCharm, And it makes me sad because a monster can cause much harm. Maybe the monster was never shown love or been given a single Διαμονδ even, Or maybe just wanted to shine like Polaris and be called the Great Steven. But the poor little monster named Steven wasn't appreaciated much at all, Even might have been rejected or hated until his fall. Luckily, unknown was so kind and gave up his 3 genie wishes to him. And misterdeath finally left his side and the monster's life just changed on a whim.
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Post by AmericanCharm on Feb 27, 2018 11:20:13 GMT
Aw. poem My new favorite poem is this. I just read a really poem posted by AmericanCharm , And it makes me because a monster can cause much harm. Maybe the monster was never shown love or been given a single Διαμονδ even, Or maybe just wanted to shine like Polaris and be called the Great Steven. But the poor little monster named Steven wasn't appreaciated much at all, Even might have been rejected or hated until his fall. Luckily, unknown was so kind and gave up his 3 genie wishes to him. And misterdeath finally left his side and the monster's life just changed on a whim. Bravo.
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Post by Elizabeth on Feb 27, 2018 11:22:21 GMT
Aw. poem My new favorite poem is this. I just read a really poem posted by AmericanCharm , And it makes me because a monster can cause much harm. Maybe the monster was never shown love or been given a single Διαμονδ even, Or maybe just wanted to shine like Polaris and be called the Great Steven. But the poor little monster named Steven wasn't appreaciated much at all, Even might have been rejected or hated until his fall. Luckily, unknown was so kind and gave up his 3 genie wishes to him. And misterdeath finally left his side and the monster's life just changed on a whim. Bravo. That's actually like a C grade for me. I'm half asleep so could've been better. :/
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Post by AmericanCharm on Feb 27, 2018 11:23:40 GMT
That's actually like a C grade for me. I'm half asleep so could've been better. :/ I don’t wanna hear your excuses.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Feb 27, 2018 18:14:42 GMT
The Book
The place was dark and dusty and half-lost In tangles of old alleys near the quays, Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas, And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed. Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost, Just shewed the books, in piles like twisted trees, Rotting from floor to roof—congeries Of crumbling elder lore at little cost.
I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heap Took up the nearest tome and thumbed it through, Trembling at curious words that seemed to keep Some secret, monstrous if one only knew. Then, looking for some seller old in craft, I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.
H. P. Lovecraft
p.s. In 2015 I knew by heart all his 36 sonnets.. I don't understand what's wrong with my memory. I didn't remember almost anything of it now...
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xero_art
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Post by xero_art on Mar 8, 2018 3:28:02 GMT
My favorite poems are me own. shameless plugbut seriously, my two favorite are: Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of HeavenHad I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
and HarlemWhat happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Mar 30, 2018 16:54:45 GMT
I have some. The first one:
The Envoy of Mr. Cogito - Zbigniew Herbert
Go where those others went to the dark boundary for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize
go upright among those who are on their knees among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust
you were saved not in order to live you have little time you must give testimony
be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous in the final account only this is important
and let your helpless Anger be like the sea whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten
let your sister Scorn not leave you for the informers executioners cowards—they will win they will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lump of earth the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography
and do not forgive truly it is not in your power to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn
beware however of unnecessary pride keep looking at your clown’s face in the mirror repeat: I was called—weren’t there better ones than I
beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
light on a wall the splendour of the sky they don’t need your warm breath they are there to say: no one will console you
be vigilant—when the light on the mountains gives the sign—arise and go as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star
repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain repeat great words repeat them stubbornly like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand
and they will reward you with what they have at hand with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap
go because only in this way will you be admitted to the company of cold skulls to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes
Be faithful Go
The Akkerman Steppes - Adam Mickiewicz
I sail the expanse of the dry ocean,
My cart wades through greenness, like a boat flounders,
Midst waves of soughing meadows, floods of flowers,
I pass the coral isles of thistledown.
Night falls, no sight of a road or kurgan;
I view the sky, search for stars that guide sailors;
That distant shining cloud? Morning star which stirs?
That’s shining Dniester, the lamp of Akkerman.
Let’s halt! How still! I hear the flying cranes,
Which to no avail the falcon’s eye follows;
I hear the butterfly sway on grass canes,
The snake’s slippery breast brushes plants as it crawls.
So still I could hear, when my eager ear strains,
A voice from Lithuania. – Onward, no one calls.
These two come to my mind at this moment.
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arthur
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Post by arthur on Sept 28, 2018 6:15:07 GMT
Far away from birds and herds and village girls, I was drinking, kneeling down in some heather Surrounded by soft hazel copses, In an afternoon mist, warm and green.
What can I have been drinking in that young Oise, Voiceless elms, flowerless turf, overcast sky. What did I draw from the gourd of the wine? Some golden liquor, pale, which causes sweating
Such as I was, I should have made a poor inn-sign. Then the storm changed the sky, until the evening. It was black countries, lakes, poles, Colonnades under the blue night, railway stations.
The water from the woods trickled away into virgin sands The wind, from the sky, threw sheets of ice across the ponds... But! like a fisher for gold or shellfish, To think that I did not bother to drink!
Arthur Rimbaud, translated by Oliver Bernard
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Post by Elizabeth on Sept 28, 2018 6:23:29 GMT
Far away from birds and herds and village girls, I was drinking, kneeling down in some heather Surrounded by soft hazel copses, In an afternoon mist, warm and green.
What can I have been drinking in that young Oise, Voiceless elms, flowerless turf, overcast sky. What did I draw from the gourd of the wine? Some golden liquor, pale, which causes sweating
Such as I was, I should have made a poor inn-sign. Then the storm changed the sky, until the evening. It was black countries, lakes, poles, Colonnades under the blue night, railway stations.
The water from the woods trickled away into virgin sands The wind, from the sky, threw sheets of ice across the ponds... But! like a fisher for gold or shellfish, To think that I did not bother to drink!Arthur Rimbaud, translated by Oliver BernardDoesn't he usually write poetry about real life like the nature and life's sorrows?
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samir
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Post by samir on Sept 28, 2018 6:24:47 GMT
Taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets.
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
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arthur
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Post by arthur on Sept 28, 2018 6:45:07 GMT
Far away from birds and herds and village girls, I was drinking, kneeling down in some heather Surrounded by soft hazel copses, In an afternoon mist, warm and green.
What can I have been drinking in that young Oise, Voiceless elms, flowerless turf, overcast sky. What did I draw from the gourd of the wine? Some golden liquor, pale, which causes sweating
Such as I was, I should have made a poor inn-sign. Then the storm changed the sky, until the evening. It was black countries, lakes, poles, Colonnades under the blue night, railway stations.
The water from the woods trickled away into virgin sands The wind, from the sky, threw sheets of ice across the ponds... But! like a fisher for gold or shellfish, To think that I did not bother to drink!Arthur Rimbaud, translated by Oliver BernardDoesn't he usually write poetry about real life like the nature and life's sorrows? He wrote about life in a vivid enough way to make his writings not so far from grotesque, innovative for a time where poetry was a feminine, sort of fluttery genre of writing. In the poem I posted obviously you cannot see this, but in Rimbaud's magnum opus A Season in Hell it is visible.
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Post by Polaris on Oct 16, 2018 17:15:57 GMT
The Road Not Taken BY 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.
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Post by Elizabeth on Oct 16, 2018 17:31:12 GMT
The Road Not Taken BY 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. Very famous poem. I probably studied this poem in 3rd or 4th grade.
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Post by Polaris on Oct 16, 2018 17:32:50 GMT
you need to read it again. it has too deep philosophical point of view to be grasped by kids!!!
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