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  • Don't know if this was ever posted before...either way it's a great poem!

    William Butler Yeats - Aedh Wishes For The Cloth Of Heaven

    Had 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.

  • ^ I have it on my profile but no,

    there was two other of his poems posted so far.

    "Or shall I perhaps know, That I was happy oft and oft before, Or must I be content with discontent..." - Edward Thomas, The Glory
    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 16. Sep. 2011, 0:11
    Eall is earfoðlic
    eorþan rice,
    onwendeð wyrda gesceaft
    weoruld under heofonum.
    Her bið feoh læne,
    her bið freond læne,
    her bið mon læne,
    her bið mæg læne,
    eal þis eorþan gesteal
    idel weorþeð!

    All is troublesome
    in this earthly kingdom,
    the turn of events changes
    the world under the heavens.
    Here money is fleeting,
    here friend is fleeting,
    here man is fleeting,
    here kinsman is fleeting,
    all the foundation of this world
    turns to waste!

    - Original and translated extract from the Old English poem, The Wanderer.

  • I thought the Wanderer was Germanic

    "Or shall I perhaps know, That I was happy oft and oft before, Or must I be content with discontent..." - Edward Thomas, The Glory
  • Easter, 1916


    I have met them at close of day
    Coming with vivid faces
    From counter or desk among grey
    Eighteenth-century houses.
    I have passed with a nod of the head
    Or polite meaningless words,
    Or have lingered awhile and said
    Polite meaningless words,
    And thought before I had done
    Of a mocking tale or a gibe
    To please a companion
    Around the fire at the club,
    Being certain that they and I
    But lived where motley is worn:
    All changed, changed utterly:
    A terrible beauty is born.

    That woman's days were spent
    In ignorant good-will,
    Her nights in argument
    Until her voice grew shrill.
    What voice more sweet than hers
    When, young and beautiful,
    She rode to harriers?
    This man had kept a school
    And rode our winged horse;
    This other his helper and friend
    Was coming into his force;
    He might have won fame in the end,
    So sensitive his nature seemed,
    So daring and sweet his thought.
    This other man I had dreamed
    A drunken, vainglorious lout.
    He had done most bitter wrong
    To some who are near my heart,
    Yet I number him in the song;
    He, too, has resigned his part
    In the casual comedy;
    He, too, has been changed in his turn,
    Transformed utterly:
    A terrible beauty is born.

    Hearts with one purpose alone
    Through summer and winter seem
    Enchanted to a stone
    To trouble the living stream.
    The horse that comes from the road.
    The rider, the birds that range
    From cloud to tumbling cloud,
    Minute by minute they change;
    A shadow of cloud on the stream
    Changes minute by minute;
    A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
    And a horse plashes within it;
    The long-legged moor-hens dive,
    And hens to moor-cocks call;
    Minute by minute they live:
    The stone's in the midst of all.

    Too long a sacrifice
    Can make a stone of the heart.

    O when may it suffice?
    That is Heaven's part, our part
    To murmur name upon name,
    As a mother names her child
    When sleep at last has come
    On limbs that had run wild.
    What is it but nightfall?
    No, no, not night but death;
    Was it needless death after all?
    For England may keep faith
    For all that is done and said.
    We know their dream; enough
    To know they dreamed and are dead;
    And what if excess of love
    Bewildered them till they died?
    I write it out in a verse -
    MacDonagh and MacBride
    And Connolly and Pearse
    Now and in time to be,
    Wherever green is worn,
    Are changed, changed utterly:
    A terrible beauty is born.


    William Butler Yeats


    "Or shall I perhaps know, That I was happy oft and oft before, Or must I be content with discontent..." - Edward Thomas, The Glory
  • Alone with Everybody

    the flesh covers the bone
    and they put a mind
    in there and
    sometimes a soul,
    and the women break
    vases against the walls
    and the men drink too
    much
    and nobody finds the
    one
    but keep
    looking
    crawling in and out
    of beds.
    flesh covers
    the bone and the
    flesh searches
    for more than
    flesh.

    there's no chance
    at all:
    we are all trapped
    by a singular
    fate.

    nobody ever finds
    the one.

    the city dumps fill
    the junkyards fill
    the madhouses fill
    the hospitals fill
    the graveyards fill

    nothing else
    fills.
    - Charles Bukowski

    • messo schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 23. Sep. 2011, 17:13

    • [Gelöschter Benutzer] schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 5. Okt. 2011, 17:02
    when he gave you roses, you learned that roses always die. despite the amount of water and sunlight, the amount of compassion and love, they will still wilt. they will leave you with memories and browning petals all over the floor.

    when he gave you roses, you learned that roses always have thorns. whether or not you cut them off, those thorns will still have been there. they jutted out and pricked you like a pin cushion, and taught you that everything beautiful can still be ugly.

    when he gave you roses, you learned that roses always hurt. physically, sure. but when you're looking at a bouquet of red roses and thinking back to those blissful spring days, you never want to look at a rose again.

    they say that a red rose cannot grow over a grave; it is time to lay to rest.

    http://procrastinations.deviantart.com/gallery for more.

  • Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeonings of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years
    Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll.
    I am the master of my fate:
    I am the captain of my soul.


    - William Ernest Henley




    "Or shall I perhaps know, That I was happy oft and oft before, Or must I be content with discontent..." - Edward Thomas, The Glory
    • isaacashe schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 5. Okt. 2011, 22:04
    They locked up a man
    Who wanted to rule the world
    The fools
    They locked up the wrong man

    Leonard Cohen.

    • messo schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 8. Okt. 2011, 17:03
    Pheromone Queen

    I shall fashion her myself
    The starry shards will be her eyes
    Human-sized Dragon memories for sympathy
    Half my heart for a safe beat and verve
    Teenage tears shall irrigate, watch her flourish

    The serenity of cacophony will form her voice
    A vicarious gene for her lenient spirit
    Cliché velvet hands for a caress to my cheek
    This is the composition of an aberrant goddess
    Behold my dissonant beauty…

    My lips will descend upon her eyelid
    Submerging into the frames of a kitchen door
    I will raise this handcrafted figurine
    Her thighs will enrapture and conquer me
    Yours forever, levitating in the horizon...


    - by yours truly

    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 15. Okt. 2011, 22:35

    • [Gelöschter Benutzer] schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 15. Okt. 2011, 22:43
    You can't shut off the risk and pain
    Without losin' the love that remains
    We're all riders on this train

    Bruce Springsteen

    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 22. Dez. 2011, 16:13
    A Nocturnal Upon S. Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day - John Donne

    'TIS the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
    Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
    The sun is spent, and now his flasks
    Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
    The world's whole sap is sunk;
    The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
    Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
    Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
    Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

    Study me then, you who shall lovers be
    At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
    For I am every dead thing,
    In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
    For his art did express
    A quintessence even from nothingness,
    From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
    He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
    Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.

    All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
    Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
    I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
    Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
    Have we two wept, and so
    Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow,
    To be two chaoses, when we did show
    Care to aught else; and often absences
    Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

    But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
    Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
    Were I a man, that I were one
    I needs must know; I should prefer,
    If I were any beast,
    Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
    And love; all, all some properties invest.
    If I an ordinary nothing were,
    As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

    But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
    You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
    At this time to the Goat is run
    To fetch new lust, and give it you,
    Enjoy your summer all,
    Since she enjoys her long night's festival.
    Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
    This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
    Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.

    • [Gelöschter Benutzer] schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 22. Dez. 2011, 16:33
    Gmail in new clothes
    Makes thoughts harder to compose
    Mountain View be damned!

    - me, writing haikus out of frustration a couple of weeks ago. :P

    • meco2by4 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 22. Dez. 2011, 21:39
    chinese, japanese, dirty knees, look at these

    • un-dharma schrieb...
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    • 23. Dez. 2011, 1:48
    sgath92 said:



    i fell asleep the other night wishing i could remember what this video was called

  • Sheep in Fog

    The hills step off into whiteness.
    People or stars
    Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

    The train leaves a line of breath.
    O slow
    Horse the colour of rust,

    Hooves, dolorous bells --
    All morning the
    Morning has been blackening,

    A flower left out.
    My bones hold a stillness, the far
    Fields melt my heart.

    They threaten
    To let me through to a heaven
    Starless and fatherless, a dark water.

    Sylvia Plath

    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 4. Feb. 2012, 14:29
    I Am - John Clare

    I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
    My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
    I am the self-consumer of my woes,
    They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
    Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
    And yet I am! and live like shadows tossed

    Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
    Into the living sea of waking dreams,
    Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
    But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
    And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
    Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

    I long for scenes where man has never trod;
    A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
    There to abide with my creator, God,
    And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
    Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
    The grass below--above the vaulted sky.

  • Interesting thread. :) Seems like something of a hidden gem, given the low number of posts.

    I'm not much of a poetry buff, sadly. Aside from things that relate to my very narrow range of interests, literature tends to leave me cold. However, there are a few notable exceptions.

    One example would be the poetry of John Betjeman, if that doesn't make me sound too lowbrow and/or provincial. ;P I love the way that his verse captures the character of rural Britain, often in a very haunting, evocative way:

    Upper Lambourn

    Up the ash tree climbs the ivy,
    Up the ivy climbs the sun,
    With a twenty-thousand pattering,
    Has a valley breeze begun,
    Feathery ash, neglected elder,
    Shift the shade and make it run -

    Shift the shade toward the nettles,
    And the nettles set it free,
    To streak the stained Carrara headstone,
    Where, in nineteen-twenty-three,
    He who trained a hundred winners,
    Paid the Final Entrance Fee.

    Leathery limbs of Upper Lambourne,
    Leathery skin from sun and wind,
    Leathery breeches, spreading stables,
    Shining saddles left behind -
    To the down the string of horses
    Moving out of sight and mind.

    Feathery ash in leathery Lambourne
    Waves above the sarsen stone,
    And Edwardian plantations
    So coniferously moan
    As to make the swelling downland,
    Far surrounding, seem their own.

    'An old man stands naked in front of a mirror, eating soup. He is a fool.'
    - Jacques-'Jacques' Liverot
  • Reasons For Attendance by Philip Larkin

    The trumpet's voice, loud and authoritative,
    Draws me a moment to the lighted glass
    To watch the dancers - all under twenty-five -
    Solemnly on the beat of happiness.

    - Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat,
    The wonderful feel of girls. Why be out there ?
    But then, why be in there? Sex, yes, but what
    Is sex ? Surely to think the lion's share
    Of happiness is found by couples - sheer

    Inaccuracy, as far as I'm concerned.
    What calls me is that lifted, rough-tongued bell
    (Art, if you like) whose individual sound
    Insists I too am individual.
    It speaks; I hear; others may hear as well,

    But not for me, nor I for them; and so
    With happiness. Therefor I stay outside,
    Believing this, and they maul to and fro,
    Believing that; and both are satisfied,
    If no one has misjudged himself. Or lied.

    • J-Doan schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 27. Feb. 2012, 20:10
    “That’s What I Heard You Say” by Leonard Cohen

    Don’t matter if the road is long
    Don’t matter if it’s steep
    Don’t matter if the moon is gone
    And the darkness is complete
    Don’t matter if we lose our way
    It’s written that we’ll meet
    At least, that’s what I heard you say
    A thousand kisses deep

    I loved you when you opened
    Like a lily to the heat
    You see, I’m just another snowman
    Standing in the rain and sleet
    Who loved you with his frozen love
    His second hand physique
    With all he is and all he was
    A thousand kisses deep

    I know you had to lie to me
    I know you had to cheat
    You learned it on your father’s knee
    And at your mother’s feet
    But did you have to fight your way
    Across the burning street
    When all our vital interests lay
    A thousand kisses deep

    I’m turning tricks
    I’m getting fixed
    I’m back on boogie street
    I’d like to quit the business
    But I’m in it, so to speak
    The thought of you is peaceful
    And the file on you complete
    Except what I forgot to do
    A thousand kisses deep

    Don’t matter if you’re rich and strong
    Don’t matter if you’re weak
    Don’t matter if you write a song
    The nightingales repeat
    Don’t matter if it’s nine to five
    Or timeless and unique
    You ditch your life to stay alive
    A thousand kisses deep

    The ponies run
    The girls are young
    The odds are there to beat
    You win a while, and then it’s done
    Your little winning streak
    And summon now to deal with your invincible defeat
    You live your life as if it’s real
    A thousand kisses deep

    I hear their voices in the wine
    That sometimes did me seek
    The band is playing Auld Lang Syne
    But the heart will not retreat
    There’s no forsaking what you love
    No existential leap
    As witnessed here in time and blood
    A thousand kisses deep

    • Madelines schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 28. Feb. 2012, 0:45
    "Time Long Past" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

    Like the ghost of a dear friend dead
    Is Time long past.
    A tone which is now forever fled
    A hope which is now forever past
    A love so sweet it could not last,
    Was Time long past.

    There were sweet dreams in the night
    Of Time long past.
    And, was it sadness or delight
    Each day a shadow onward cast
    Which made us wish it yet might last..
    That Time long past.

    There is regret, almost remorse,
    For Time long past.
    'Tis like a child's belovèd corse
    A father watches, till at last
    Beauty is like remembrance, cast
    From Time long past.

    Has our Autumn died...Help me find you again
  • The Killer Crap by Gina Grain

    Sitting calmly on the loo
    Miss Grain prepares to have a poo...
    A misty darkness starts to loom
    As toxic vapours fill the room...

    The punishment's been clearly dealt
    As toilet roll begins to melt
    And paint starts peeling off the walls
    The gunk inside the toilet crawls..!!

    The carpet, now a charred remain,
    Is floating by the window pane
    The door is warped; the light bulb burst
    Our little Gina fears the worst

    She tries escape - alas in vain
    She couldn't find the toilet chain
    Young Gina realised too late
    That chicken curry was her fate

    I hope, my friends, you will awaken
    Before another life is taken -
    Heed my warning: NEVER POO
    WHEN YOU'VE BEEN EATING VINDALOO...!!!

    |̨̧͔̳̪͙͔͍̱̦̞̭͈͊̔̍̃̅́͞|͆̐̓ͤ̂ͣ͗ͭͭ͂̅̋ͤ̄͡҉̨̦͚͇̭̺͔̪̫̤͓̟͖̹̠̙͙ͅͅ|̊ͯ̉ͩͨ̏̈́̌͏̸͙̤̲̪̝͓̖̮̠͔̫̹̳͍̫̠̝͇͈|̝͉͇̟̗͉̭̦͉̰̹̖̳̽ͭ̑̏̔͋ͬ̾͂̓̀͟͝ͅ|̛͈̹͓͙͔̹̲̼̺̳̺̗̞̗͔̮͑̂̓̈́ͦ̑ͮ̅̽͛̿̓ͨͬ̿ͯ͌ͬ̚͟ͅ|̢̛̛̺̖̖̮͓͍̙̋̔̄ͯ̀̏͗̎͐̐̓ͤ́̾̃̑̌͡ͅ|̶̸͚̗̰̝̬͖̞̙͓͙̖̃̑͂ͤ̂̾̀̈́̓̕̕͠|̡͐ͨ͛ͫ̈́ͦ͋̽͘҉̴͕͖͉͎̗͚̤̳͓̘͍͕͙̼͎͜|̷̌͌͊ͣ̿̏̍͗ͯ͊̇͑̋̆̕͏̛̭̬̝̺̞͉͉̲̪͕̝̩̗͕͓̰͓͇͉͝|̷̷̡͓̰͔̙̯̉ͮ̓̋ͦ͒͒̓̌̉͂͜|̧̢̭̰͈͚͈̮͕̙̲̙̎͆̋ͭ̋̑͛̉ͫͦͥ͒ͥ̚|̋̔ͤ͗͏͟͏͇̰̪̠̤̝|̴̢̫͓̖̠̰̗̥̘͉͕̰̩̠̼ͦ̂ͨͫ̃̎̒̉̀͋ͩ̓ͫ̽ͧ̽̊̐̚|̸̶͐̑̀̂ͬ̅̌̓̓́͏͉̩̤̟͈̙͎̀ͅ|̨̡̻̬̦͚͉̠̰̯̟̻̝͖̜̊ͫͤ͊̑͢|̶̸̸͈͙̜ͪ̉͆ͥ̐͌̎̈̀̔̚͝|̶͉̝͕̖̜̪͓͉͎̗̪̮͇͙̥̮̅ͤ͒̐́͞|̍͂͂͋ͯ̀̽̊͐͗̾̐̐̂̚͏͏̢̠̗̮̻̱̱͓̻̱̺͚̱̯̩͙̙̦̘́|̨̣̜̬̳̞̲̳̙̣͔̥͈͙͙̗̪̋ͮ̍̿̑̅̾̇̏̍̀͛̅͑̑͞͝ͅ|̷͋̑̑ͤͮ̀̚̚͘͏̩̥̦̗̲̳͖̜|̱͓̣̏̂͑̐̈́̑͆̕͜͠|̶̘̙̻̝ͬ͗̐̀ͪ́͠|̷̵͓̳͚͎͇̲̼̟̣̼̹͙̗̫̩̮́ͪͭ̍͊̚͜ͅ|̬̤̗̞͋̌͒̾̒͗̐͟͝|̸̛̭͔̥͈̮̠͙̭̰̲̻͚̽͂́̃ͫ̄̿̈́̎̎͑̌̉̔̊̀ͅ|̵̨̓̈ͦ͑͛͂̓̃͌͆͑̀̓͏̯̝̝͙͔̮̥͇̥̠̥͇͖̜͉̠̭|̢̛̩͉͙͎̮̠̗͗ͩͪ̒ͥ͊̃͒̒ͬͧͤ̏̐̓͋ͥ̚͠|̸̃̆ͭͯ̔̿͛ͤ́͊͒̿̅̒̏͂̇́̚͏͇̝̱͖̬̯̟̭͖̙̯̪̹͇͎̩̬̕|̨͙̭̙̮͙̜̹̮̭͓̤̜̲̮͗͌ͫ͊̆̅̓̅ͯͮ͋̚̕͜͞ͅ|̢̧̫̜̭̖̪͈̟̬̜̞̅̄ͤ̍̽ͪ̒͌̾̃̑ͭ̄̋ͅ|̷̷̙̳͙̫̦̭̜͓̤̩̟̦̫͆̽͗̌ͦͧͭ͌͌ͤ̊͗̈͗̾͊ͅͅ|̢̜̦̘̦̼͚ͬ̋̐͛́̐̃̊̕|̛̯̫̺̣̠͗̿̂̈́ͭ͑̂̾̎̓͌ͩ͂ͣ̊̒ͥ|̷̢̢̠͙͉̠̹̫̞͚͈͉̮̭͚̑ͪ̄̔̈́̏̎̊͛̑̊̿ͯ̓̚ͅ|̨̒ͨ̓̈́ͮ͆̈̌͆̚͡͏̮͔̳͍͔̻̬̳̥͖͟͝|̧̨̜̞̘̺̠̳̬̳͕̭̰̙͛̒̐͜͞
  • If You Forget Me (Pablo Neruda read by Madonna)

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