A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

dolly darling · 18-05-2020 10:06am

Was late for work waiting to catch Simon Armitage on Sky News this morning. He sent me off in good form when he said “through the imagination we can end up coming through this.” For newbies like me, he recommended “Here To Eternity: An Anthology Of Poetry” as a good book to begin with.

Lockdown (Simon Armitage)

And I couldn’t escape the waking dream of infected fleas
in the warp and weft of soggy cloth by the tailor’s hearth
in ye olde Eyam. Then couldn’t un-see
the Boundary Stone,
that cock-eyed dice with its six dark holes,
thimbles brimming with vinegar wine purging the plagued coins.
Which brought to mind the sorry story of Emmott Syddall and Rowland Torre,
star-crossed lovers on either side of the quarantine line
whose wordless courtship spanned the river
till she came no longer.
But slept again,
and dreamt this time
of the exiled yaksha sending word to his lost wife on a passing cloud,
a cloud that followed an earthly map of camel trails and cattle tracks,
streams like necklaces,
fan-tailed peacocks, painted elephants,
embroidered bedspreads of meadows and hedges,
bamboo forests and snow-hatted peaks, waterfalls, creeks,
the hieroglyphs of wide-winged cranes and the glistening lotus flower after rain,
the air
hypnotically see-through, rare,
the journey a ponderous one at times, long and slow but necessarily so.

Deja Boo · 19-05-2020 1:35am

Empathy by George Eliot

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible
Comfort of feeling safe with a person,
Having neither to weight thoughts,
Nor measure words–but pouring them
All right out–just as they are
Chaff and grain together,
Certain that a faithful hand will
Take and sift them,
Keep what is worth keeping,
And with the breath of kindness
Blow the rest away.

dolly darling · 19-05-2020 8:27am

^^^
Thanks Deja Boo for this poem

I have a card to write to a dear friend today.
I'm not great with words ... this poem will say it all for me.

two wheels good · 22-05-2020 5:42pm

Not so much keeping the melancholy away, but embracing the horror.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Reading project by Univ of Plymouth.
Daily segments were released, read by various artists, actors, musicians ..
Link

I think I'd have been happy for Iggy Pop to read the lot.

Ekerot · 25-05-2020 3:16pm

Here's one I made a few weeks back for a Poetry contest on another website, I think the beginning is a bit bad but I hope you all enjoy it anyway

Existential Love Sonnet
by Ekerot

These were the Truths we rutted out below
Morality from Mortality
Finality from Fatality
The Brutality of Formality
And the Banality of Immortality
Then the Lies we discerned from above
Life from death, hands from stone, skin from leather
Lives that we dissected, analyzed and scrutinized together
With me as the Hades that lurked among the heather
And you as the Persephone that was lost to the nether
I cried, I screamed, I stood beneath the boulder and I hurled
I crashed, I sprawled, it was the death knell of our existentialism
A return to crushing nihilism
And to the tender indifference of the world

honeybear · 25-05-2020 11:38pm

Do not ask your children to strive by William Martin

Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.

Rabbit Redux · 27-05-2020 4:21pm

Notes On The Art Of Poetry

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

Dylan Thomas

donegal_man · 29-06-2020 1:42pm

Said Hanrahan

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan in accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began one frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought as it had done for years.
"It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke; "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke has seasons been so bad."

"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil, with which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel and chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran, "It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."
"The crops are done; ye'll have your work to save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke they're singin' out for rain.

"They're singin' out for rain," he said, "And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head, and gazed around the sky.
"There won't be grass, in any case, enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place as I came down to Mass."
"If rain don't come this month," said Dan, and cleared his throat to speak -
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If rain don't come this week."

A heavy silence seemed to steal on all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel, and chewed a piece of bark.
"We want an inch of rain, we do, "O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two, to put the danger past.
"If we don't get three inches, man, or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."

In God's good time down came the rain; and all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane it drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still, and lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill kept talking to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long, a-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song way out to Back-o'-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran, and dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If this rain doesn't stop."
And stop it did, in God's good time; and spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet, with harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat nid-nodding o'er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face, as happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel, and chewed his piece of bark.
"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man, there will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."

John O'Brien

Was reminded of this listening to a couple of local weather philosophers over the weekend

wreade1872 · 30-06-2020 9:32pm

There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Rabbit Redux · 04-07-2020 8:45pm

Inniskeen Road: July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes -
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.

I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom. I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

Patrick Kavanagh

18-07-2020 6:24am

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,

Deja Boo · 19-07-2020 9:23am

Lyrics of Lowly Life
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
"THE LESSON"

My cot was down by a cypress grove,
And I sat by my window the whole night long,
And heard well up from the deep dark wood
A mocking–bird’s passionate song.

And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
And my life’s cold winter that knew no spring;
Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
Of my heart too sad to sing.

But e’en as I listened the mock–bird’s song,
A thought stole into my saddened heart,
And I said, “I can cheer some other soul
By a carol’s simple art.”

For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
Come songs that brim with joy and light,
As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
The mocking–bird sings at night.

So I sang a lay for a brother’s ear
In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
Though mine was a feeble art.

But at his smile I smiled in turn,
And into my soul there came a ray:
In trying to soothe another’s woes
Mine own had passed away.

Rabbit Redux · 11-08-2020 11:49pm

As Bad as a Mile

Watching the shied core
Striking the basket, skidding across the floor,
Shows less and less of luck, and more and more

Of failure spreading back up the arm
Earlier and earlier, the unraised hand calm,
The apple unbitten in the palm.

Philip Larkin

Deja Boo · 16-08-2020 8:03pm

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Lavinia · 17-09-2020 2:38pm

Mad Girls Love Song-Sylvia Plath

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

donegal_man · 27-09-2020 5:30pm

On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy's haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight

To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.

As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.

And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.

The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.

I'll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.

Maybe Mary might call round...
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.

Patrick Kavanagh

Lavinia · 27-09-2020 8:23pm

echo beach · 01-10-2020 10:55pm

I GO DOWN TO THE SHORE

I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
what shall —
what should I do? And the sea says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.

by Mary Oliver

Lavinia · 06-11-2020 11:06pm

This Morning I Pray for My Enemies
Joy Harjo - 1951-

And whom do I call my enemy?
An enemy must be worthy of engagement.
I turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking.
It’s the heart that asks the question, not my furious mind.
The heart is the smaller cousin of the sun.
It sees and knows everything.
It hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing.
The door to the mind should only open from the heart.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.

donegal_man · 14-11-2020 11:09pm

A Song Of The Sandbags

No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh
(The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss).
And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche,
I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us.
I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me;
And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight;
And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree,
We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.

A-standin' up to the sandbags
It's funny the thoughts wot come;
Starin' into the darkness,
'Earin' the bullets 'um;
(Zing! Zip! Ping! Rip!
'ark 'ow the bullets 'um!)
A-leanin' against the sandbags
Wiv me rifle under me ear,
Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go
Than I used to 'ave in a year.

I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me
Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for?
'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree,
If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war.
If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud;
If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell;
If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood:
By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell.

Shiverin' up to the sandbags,
With a hicicle 'stead of a spine,
Don't it seem funny the things you think
'Ere in the firin' line:
(Whee! Whut! Ziz! Zut!
Lord! 'ow the bullets whine!)
Hunkerin' down when a star-shell
Cracks in a sputter of light,
You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags
Most any old time o' night.

They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade,
Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed;
But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made,
Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned!
There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight:
That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name;
And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night.
But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same.

Starin' over the sandbags,
Sick of the 'ole damn thing;
Firin' to keep meself awake,
'Earin' the bullets sing.
(Hiss! Twang! Tsing! Pang!
Saucy the bullets sing.)
Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags
Of a day when war will cease,
When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me
Will clink our mugs in fraternity,
And the Brotherhood of Labour will be
The Brotherhood of Peace.

Robert Service

Rabbit Redux · 03-12-2020 5:46pm

A Question

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

Robert Frost

bolgbui41 · 04-12-2020 10:48am

Advent

We have tested and tasted too much, lover –
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.

And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.

O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning –
We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we'll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won't we be rich, my love and I, and please
God we shall not ask for reason's payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God's breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour –
And Christ comes with a January flower.

- Patrick Kavanagh

Rabbit Redux · 24-01-2021 5:08pm

Mutability

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly - yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:

 Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

 We rest. A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise. One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

 It is the same. For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability.

Percy Shelley

donegal_man · 26-01-2021 12:02am

For the night that's in it.

To A Mountain Daisy
On Turning One Down with the Plough in April, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet
Wi' spreck'd breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amidst the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield
High shelt'ring woods an' wa's maun shield:
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry's brink;
Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He ruin'd sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom.

Robert Burns

Rabbit Redux · 05-02-2021 6:49pm

As The Poems Go

as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.

Charles Bukowski

Rabbit Redux · 10-02-2021 7:51pm

And The Days Are Not Full Enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

Ezra Pound

Rabbit Redux · 22-02-2021 4:33am

Chapter Heading

For we have thought the larger thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devil's tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.

Ernest Hemingway

donegal_man · 20-03-2021 10:56am

For the day that's in it

Vernal Equinox

Spring is the season of new beginnings
Surrounded with beauty that energizes you
Green meadows, cool breezes and the purple moors
Lush blooms that take away the winter glooms
Enticing you in an array of colours

Narcissus, hyacinths, lilacs, Irises and Freesia,
present a string of floral amnesia
Like a pollywog when you are scampering through,
Oh! dear spring you are a welcome view

Wear your galoshes
Head to where the valleys and the skies meet
Robins and swallows tweeting
The bright rays of the sun spread the warmth
And rainbows present a colourful greeting

Bid goodbye to winter's blues
Welcome the vernal equinox hues

Mrunalini D Nimbalkar

Rabbit Redux · 29-03-2021 7:26pm

When First We Faced, And Touching Showed

When first we faced, and touching showed
How well we knew the early moves,
Behind the moonlight and the frost,
The excitement and the gratitude,
There stood how much our meeting owed
To other meetings, other loves.

The decades of a different life
That opened past your inch-close eyes
Belonged to others, lavished, lost;
Nor could I hold you hard enough
To call my years of hunger-strife
Back for your mouth to colonise.

Admitted: and the pain is real.
But when did love not try to change
The world back to itself - no cost,
No past, no people else at all-
Only what meeting made us feel,
So new, and gentle-sharp, and strange?

Philip Larkin

Rabbit Redux · 25-04-2021 7:21am

Late Fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Raymond Carver

Rabbit Redux · 15-05-2021 8:58pm

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-sM-t1KI_Y

Rabbit Redux · 24-05-2021 7:12pm

Bob Dylan's Dream

While riding on a train goin' west
I fell asleep for to take my rest
I dreamed a dream that made me sad
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had

With half-damp eyes I stared to the room
Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon
Where we together weathered many a storm
Laughin' and singin' till the early hours of the morn

By the old wooden stove our hats was hung
Our words was told, our songs was sung
Where we longed for nothin' and were satisfied
Jokin' and talkin' about the world outside

With hungry hearts through the heat and cold
We never much thought we could get very old
We thought we could sit forever in fun
And our chances really was a million to one

As easy it was to tell black from white
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right
And our choices there was few
So the thought never hit
That the one road we travelled would ever shatter or split

How many a year has passed and gone?
Many a gamble has been lost and won
And many a road taken by many a first friend
And each one I've never seen again

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain
That we could sit simply in that room again
Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat
I'd give it all gladly if our lives could be like that

Bob Dylan

Lavinia · 29-05-2021 10:45am

“Here's the thing about people with good hearts:
They give you excuses when you don't explain yourself.
They accept the apologies you don't give.
They see the best in you.
They always lift you up, even if that means putting their own priorities aside.
They will never be too "busy" for you.
They make time, even when you don't.
And you wonder why they're the most sensitive people, the most caring people, why they are willing to give so much of themselves with no expectation in return.
You wonder why their existence is not so essential to your well-being. It's because they don't make you work hard for the attention they give you. They accept the love they think they deserve
- and you accepted the love you think you're entitled to.
Don't take them for granted.
Fear the day when a good heart gives up on you.
Our skies don't become grey out of nowhere, our sunshine does not allow the darkness to take over for no reason.
A heart does not turn cold unless it's been treated with coldness for a while”

Najwa Zebian

Rabbit Redux · 21-06-2021 7:15pm

Hymn to Time

Time says "Let there be"
every moment and instantly
there is space and the radiance
of each bright galaxy.

And eyes beholding radiance.
And the gnats’ flickering dance.
And the seas’ expanse.
And death, and chance.

Time makes room
for going and coming home
and in time’s womb
begins all ending.

Time is being and being
time, it is all one thing,
the shining, the seeing,
the dark abounding.

Ursula K. Le Guin

Rabbit Redux · 26-06-2021 12:44pm

It Is Here

What sound was that?
I turn away, into the shaking room.

What was that sound that came in on the dark? 
What is this maze of light it leaves us in? 
What is this stance we take, 
To turn away and then turn back?
 What did we hear?

It was the breath we took when we first met.
Listen. It is here.

Harold Pinter

Deja Boo · 25-12-2021 9:48pm

I know this poem has been posted often, but for the day it is... (posted via imagery due to Vanillas messed up formatting)

SuperBowserWorld · 09-01-2022 5:40pm

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Day Lewin · 15-01-2022 11:52pm

Bonfire Opera

In those days, there was a woman in our circle

who was known, not only for her beauty,

but for taking off all her clothes and singing opera.

And sure enough, as the night wore on and the stars

emerged to stare at their reflections on the sea,

and everyone had drunk a little wine,

she began to disrobe, loose her great bosom,

and the tender belly, pale in the moonlight,

the Viking hips, and to let her torn raiment

fall to the sand as we looked up from the flames.

And then a voice lifted into the dark, high and clear

as a flock of blackbirds. And everything was very still,

the way the congregation quiets when the priest

prays over the incense, and the smoke wafts

up into the rafters. I wanted to be that free

inside the body, the doors of pleasure

opening, one after the next, an arpeggio

climbing the ladder of sky. And all the while

she was singing and wading into the water

until it rose up to her waist and then lapped

at the underside of her breasts, and the aria

drifted over us, her soprano spare and sharp

in the night air. And even though I was young,

somehow, in that moment, I heard it,

the song inside the song, and I knew then

that this was not the hymn of promise

but the body’s bright wailing against its limits.

A bird caught in a cathedral—the way it tries

to escape by throwing itself, again and again,

against the stained glass.

by Danusha Laméris

Deja Boo · 02-02-2022 3:30am

by Fernando Pessoa

Lavinia · 21-02-2022 10:32pm

"Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die."

Mary Elizabeth Frye

Deja Boo · 10-04-2022 2:58am

Alone by Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov'd—I lov'd alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev'ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that 'round me roll'd

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass'd me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view—

EmmetSpiceland · 01-09-2022 11:54am

..

Lavinia · 05-09-2022 9:11pm

...

Lavinia · 19-09-2022 8:22pm

....

Hermy · 19-09-2022 11:13pm

Death The Leveller by James Shirley

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill:

But their strong nerves at last must yield;

They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath

When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

Lavinia · 27-09-2022 8:12pm

Do not love half lovers

Do not entertain half friends

Do not live half a life

and do not die a half death

If you choose silence, then be silent

When you speak, do so until you are finished

Do not silence yourself to say something

And do not speak to be silent

If you accept, then express it bluntly

Do not mask it

If you refuse then be clear about it

for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance

Do not accept half a solution

Do not believe half truths

Do not dream half a dream

Do not fantasize about half hopes

Half the way will get you no where

Half an idea will bear you no results

Half a life is a life you didn't live,

A word you have not said

A smile you postponed

A love you have not had

A friendship you did not know

The half is a mere moment of inability

but you are able for you are not half a being

You are a whole that exists to live a life

not half a life.

~ Khalil Gibran

wreade1872 · 06-10-2022 2:19pm

Uncharted

There is a land those hereabout

Ignore... Its gates are barred

By Titan twins, named Fear and Doubt.

These mercifully guard

That land we seek -the land so faif!-

And all the fields thereof,

Where daffodils flaunt everywhere

And ouzels chant of love, -

Lest we attain the Middle-Land,

Whence clouded well-springs rise,

And vipers from a slimy strand

Lift glittering cold eyes.

NOW, THE PARABLE ALL MAY UNDERSTAND,

AND SURELY YOU KNOW THE NAME OF THE LAND!

AH, NEVER A GUIDE OR EVER A CHART

MAY SAFELY LEAD YOU ABOUT THIS LAND,-

THE LAND OF THE HUMAN HEART!

by James Branch Cabell (From the Hidden Way)

wreade1872 · 13-10-2022 12:24am

It Is Later Than You Think by ROBERT W. SERVICE (1953)

Lone amid the café’s cheer,

Sad of heart am I to-night;

Dolefully I drink my beer,

But no single line I write.

There’s the wretched rent to pay,

Yet I glower at pen and ink:

Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,

It is later than you think!

Hello! there’s a pregnant phrase.

Bravo! let me write it down;

Hold it with a hopeful gaze,

Gauge it with a fretful frown;

Tune it to my lyric lyre ...

Ah! upon starvation’s brink,

How the words are dark and dire:

It is later than you think.

Weigh them well .... Behold yon band,

Students drinking by the door,

Madly merry, bock in hand,

Saucers stacked to mark their score.

Get you gone, you jolly scamps;

Let your parting glasses clink;

Seek your long neglected lamps:

It is later than you think.

Look again: yon dainty blonde,

All allure and golden grace,

Oh so willing to respond

Should you turn a smiling face.

Play your part, poor pretty doll;

Feast and frolic, pose and prink;

There’s the Morgue to end it all,

And it’s later than you think.

Yon’s a playwright — mark his face,

Puffed and purple, tense and tired;

Pasha-like he holds his place,

Hated, envied and admired.

How you gobble life, my friend;

Wine, and woman soft and pink!

Well, each tether has its end:

Sir, it’s later than you think.

See yon living scarecrow pass

With a wild and wolfish stare

At each empty absinthe glass,

As if he saw Heaven there.

Poor damned wretch, to end your pain

There is still the Greater Drink.

Yonder waits the sanguine Seine ...

It is later than you think.

Lastly, you who read; aye, you

Who this very line may scan:

Think of all you planned to do ...

Have you done the best you can?

See! the tavern lights are low;

Black’s the night, and how you shrink!

God! and is it time to go?

Ah! the clock is always slow;

It is later than you think;

Sadly later than you think;

Far, far later than you think.

New Home · 02-01-2023 11:24pm

"Be humble because you're made of earth. Be noble, for you are made of stars."

--Serbian proverb

Deja Boo · 19-01-2023 12:23am

“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year’s bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go,—so with his memory they brim.

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, “There is no memory of him here!”

And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

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