Poem of the day

Spring Morning After Berry

 by Dan Grubbs

As morning fog billows on the pasture hillside
at the intersection of dawn and full light,
the great boiling ball creates glistening diamond dew
crowning brome, curly dock, red clover, and alfalfa.
Accompanying is the caw of red-wing blackbird
underneath the melody of western meadowlark.
Chicks that have left their brooder,
scratch their way to what is good and healthful.
I am arrested in the moment
standing in still air, toes soaked,
arms akimbo with fists at my hips.
Sounds are pure and clear as I squint at the rising orb
when even the wing feather of passing dove is heard.
I suppress the reel of the city
winding me in to itself.
Pausing here, in this bucolic moment,
I breathe easy and even,
my shoulders and neck decompress
and I feel creation’s power as God’s gift of love,
this our intended home
where worship feels natural and right.

all four are wonderful Dan!  I knew that you were a writer....so should have expected poetry.  Reminds me of Wendell Berry....such lovely descriptions of the natural world and sentiment towards it....

You squeezed a lot of seasons and weather in to those four. Sometimes it's fun with poems or other writing to imagine it done in the voice of someone well-known for voice work. Perhaps Christopher Plummer or David Attenborough.

James Earl Jones, Morgan Freeman, and Don LaFontain would also be fun to hear something that is more dramatic.

Folly of the Plymouth hen

By Dan Grubbs

In her best imitation of a cock
the Plymouth hen took roost
upon a ledge of masonry rock.
Squawks and cackles alerted
to her claim of the special spot.

Nestling now, fluffing her down,
Plymouth hen sits to lay her egg.
Precariously perched now
evidence of her past attempts
lay splattered below on the ground.

This one has sparked debate before with those who are dedicated to what they believe is the scientific method.

The sin of reduction

By Dan Grubbs

The divorce of things from things
is a science that leads to false understanding.
When the whole is parsed and broken
in the hubris that we can know it by its parts
we profane what we consider and examine.

Once reassembled, the new false thing
is not considered in the mind
of the observer who can now not unthink
the whole reduced to so many pieces.
In this profanity our sin is discovered as we move
and plan under assumptions in error.

My latest poem. It was an experiment to force myself to work within some kind of structure. I vary rarely work with a rhyming scheme or a meter, so I wanted a different kind of structure. Love to know what you all think.

The Opera of the Bonfire

By Dan Grubbs
For Danielle Barger

Overture

Shattered branches splinter,
giving way forming tinder.
Logs stand leaning dependently together
soon teased from below
and lighted as ignition jumps from twig.
Dry wood yields to fire
converted to ephemeral heat
that is felt but not touched.
The ball of orange, though low,
is born and now in its form.

Act One

Snaps and pops punctuate
the song of the fire.
The lyrics of crackles
call to me as listener.
The score is perfect to accompany
the flashes of color and flame.
Tongues flick yellow, red, and orange
against the black canvas of night.
Sparks fly as wind-born dancers
flitting and swirling at the maestro’s hand.

Act Two

Once restless, now motionless and silent
we watch flames reach and scorch wood.
Heat changing matter from matter
as gasses erupt or whistle.
Some sentinels fall and pile below,
throbbing a pulse of the fire’s heart.
Red spears are thrown into the night air
and the roar is heard at a distance.
The fire consumes all it is fed
and ravenous in climax, it wants more.

Act Three

Eyes weigh heavy so the pit is starved
of the fuel the flame craves for life.
Darts of color now scramble lower, quieter
as the dragon seeks the last morsels.
Ash grows deeper and adorns coals
that try to shine orange through new grey cloak.
As it dies and its dome of heat recedes,
the show unknots to reveal the truth.
The curtain of day lowers without call
leaving only a memory of a performance.

Why I Wake Early
by Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety-
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light-
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

Here's one that applies mostly to so many city folk - not myself though, I hasten to add!

A gloriously colourful sunset seems often to escape being savoured by pedestrians, preoccupied with going about their day.  
I have yet to see someone look up in appreciation!  So unaware!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies

Just discovered this thread.
I love poetry, and English was my first love (before Spanish), and English poetry has had a special place in my heart for a long time already.

Here is a piece I like very much:

Pied Beauty
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

Glory be to God for dappled things –
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
     For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
  Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
     And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
     With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                               Praise him.


And yet another favourite of him:

Spring & Fall: to a young child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

To add the lyrics of one of my favourite songs, here is Richard Thompson's Bee's wing.

I have only known the song recently, thanks to my daughter who installed Spotify on my cell phone, and its algorithm found this one for me, based on some ballads I love:
John Riley (Joan Baez), The snow it melts the soonest (Dick Gaughn) and others.
A real shame I have not heard it before. It is so beautiful it can make you cry. If you listen, make sure to choose Richard Thompson's own version.

BEESWING SONGTEXT
I was 18 when I came to town
They called it the summer of love
Burning babies, burning flags
The hawks against the doves

I took a job at the steaming way
Down on Caltrim St
Fell in love with a laundry girl
That was workin' next to me

Brown hair zig zagged across her face
And a look of half surprise
Like a fox caught in the headlights
There was animal in her eyes

She said to me
"Can't you see I'm not the factory kind?
If you don't take me out of here
I'll surely lose my mind"


She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine, a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, she was runnin' wild
(She said)
"So long as there's no price on love, I'll stay
You wouldn't want me any other way"

We busked around the market towns
Fruit pickin' down in Kent
We could tinker pots and pans
Or knives, wherever we went

We were campin' down the Gower one time
The work was mighty good
She wouldn't wait for the harvest
I thought we should

I said to her we'll settle down
Get a few acres dug
A fire burning in the hearth
And babies on the rug

She said, "Oh man, you foolish man
That surely sounds like hell
You might be lord of half the world
You'll not own me as well"


She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine, a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, she was runnin' wild
(She said)
"So long as there's no price on love, I'll stay
You wouldn't want me any other way"

We were drinking more in those days
Our tempers reached a pitch
Like a fool I let her run away
When she took the rambling itch

Last I heard she was living rough
Back on the Derby beat
A bottle of White Horse in her pocket
A Wolfhound at her feet

They say that she got married once
To a man called Romany Brown
Even a gypsy caravan
Was too much like settlin' down

They say her rose has faded
Rough weather and hard booze
Maybe that's the price you pay
For the chains that you refuse

She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
I miss her more than ever, words can say
If I could just taste all of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
I wouldn't want her any other way

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—

E.A.P.

"Closed on Account of Rabies" is a really cool set of short stories and poems from Poe read by famous people.  (Christopher Walken reads the "Raven"), (Iggy Pop reads "The Tell-Tale Heart").  
Oh my goodness, Iggy Pop's reading is haunting.  Good stuff.

Wow this is definitely an awesome thread! I wanted to share a poem, which is one of my favorite ever!
I have been studying italian and italian literature for so long, I would like to share a part of an italian poem, with a translation under

hope you will enjoy

GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO, La pioggia nel pineto (Alcyone, 1902-03)
Ascolta, ascolta. L'accordo
delle aeree cicale
a poco a poco
più sordo
si fa sotto il pianto
che cresce;
ma un canto vi si mesce
più roco
che di laggiù sale,
dall'umida ombra remota.

Più sordo e più fioco
s'allenta, si spegne.
Sola una nota
ancor trema, si spegne,
risorge, trema, si spegne.
Non s'ode voce del mare.
Or s'ode su tutta la fronda
crosciare
l'argentea pioggia
che monda,
il croscio che varia
secondo la fronda
più folta, men folta.

Ascolta.
La figlia dell'aria
è muta; ma la figlia
del limo lontana,
la rana,
canta nell'ombra più fonda,
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su le tue ciglia,
Ermione.

Piove su le tue ciglia nere
sìche par tu pianga
ma di piacere; non bianca
ma quasi fatta virente,
par da scorza tu esca.
E tutta la vita è in noi fresca
aulente,
il cuor nel petto è come pesca
intatta,
tra le pàlpebre gli occhi
son come polle tra l'erbe,
i denti negli alvèoli
con come mandorle acerbe.


translation:

Listen. With their singing, the cicadas
are answering this weeping,
this southern wind weeping
that does not frighten them,
and nor does the grey sky.
And the pine tree
has a sound, the myrtle
another one, the juniper
yet another, different
instruments
under countless fingers.
And we are immersed
in the sylvan spirit,
living the same
sylvan life;
and your inebriated face
is soft from the rain,
like a leaf,
and your hair is
is fragrant like the light
ginestra flowers,
oh terrestrial creature
called Hermione.

Listen, listen. The song
of the flying cicadas
becomes fainter
and fainter
as the weeping
grows stronger;
but a rougher song
rises from afar,
and flows in
from the humid remote shadow.
Softer and softer
gets weaker, fades away.
One lonely note
still trembles, fades away.
No one can hear the voice of the sea.
Now you can hear the silver rain
pouring in
on the foliage,
rain that purifies,
its roar that varies
according to the thicker,
less thick foliage.
Listen.
The child of the air
is silent; but the child
of the miry swamp, the frog,
far away,
sings in the deepest of shadows
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on your lashes,
Hermione.

It rains on your black lashes
as if you were weeping,
weeping from joy; not white
but almost green,
you seem to come out of the bark.
And life is in us fresh
and fragrant,
the heart in our chests is like a peach
untouched
under the eyelids our eyes
are like springs in the grass
and the teeth in our mouths
green almonds.

i really recommend to listen to it in original language on the internet, it is pure poetry for my ears.

I've just penned a topical free verse poem!  It just came to me...practically wrote it itself!

Lockdown/Locked In

'We're in this together'
indoors together
- apart

Staring out to
empty streets
devoid of people
of traffic
of life

Indoors now,
will we
strengthen our bonds, or
become too much!
A chance to grow,
to adapt
(perhaps)

Was it so good?
And
when dark clouds are gone,
what then will we find?......

I wrote this to my wife in 2014 before she went in for amputation of her left leg.  She is paraplegic and has had severe bone infection issues since her auto accident in 2000, the doctors gave her until 2006 as an expected life span and so with each passing year and more and more serious infection issues I became a little more worried that I would lose my best friend.  I wanted her to have an idea of what I felt and what she means to me before she went into surgery just in case.  This came to me one day driving home from the nursing home a couple weeks before her surgery...

The Twisted Trees.......

We have grown together as two trees
bound at the base by marriage and union.

Over time what was once you, has become
me, and what was me has become you.

Intertwined and interleaved, two individuals
become as one.

We could have grown apart at the base, and
remained individual to one another, instead we
chose to intertwine sharing in our weakness
and our strength, to become ever stronger.

Trunks that grow apart and remain individual
fail in the storm and fall, we are woven together
and have stood strong against all storms.

The time is drawing ever nearer, that one half
of this union will cease to thrive.

I will then stand alone, gently supporting your
frame in a timeless grasp of love, interwoven
and intertwined among my foliage.

In the breeze, I will feel your light caress that wends
it's way gently through my canopy and thoughts.

Here I will stand alone, a tree too strong to fall,
forever reminded of the memory of that within my
grasp, of the greatness that I have been a part of.

To my beautiful wife Misty
Love "your" special Ed....

Roy that is so beautiful!  So eloquent and poignantly expressed.  Your wife must be very pleased with it and I hope she is still with you.

I know what you mean when you say that the poem came to you....you were visited by the muse, as they say.  It's a good sign, boding well in helping to create our best works.

Amy Francis wrote:Roy that is so beautiful!  So eloquent and poignantly expressed.  Your wife must be very pleased with it and I hope she is still with you.

I know what you mean when you say that the poem came to you....you were visited by the muse, as they say.  It's a good sign, boding well in helping to create our best works.

She is still here, she made it through that surgery and the infection.  She had another major infection of the pelvic bone 3 years ago and we were unable to find a surgeon that would do surgery on her, they said it wasn't possible for her to heal up from that and a surgery would not work.  They stated that they would manage the infection as best they could and that was it.  She did two 6 week tours on swing bed in the hospital getting IV vanco and gentamicin.  They released her to home after the sepsis was gone and then we scheduled for the wound care clinic.  At home we actually had a piece of the pelvis fall out of the wound so we took that to the wound care appointment with us.  the doctor was in tears and was convinced we could get someone to do a surgery, but after 6 months it became clear there was just no way.  We put Misty on bed rest at home and she just got up once a month for her wound care appointments.

Now three years later she has healed almost completely, she has a small 3/4 inch surface wound left and a good portion of that has skin tissue on it with a bridge of tissue across the center of the wound.  The wound care doctor is blown away that Misty has been able to heal this.  Misty's old primary doctor left the area at about that time and contacted the wound care doctor and told her that it was irresponsible of her to even treat Misty as it was simply a waste of resources and money.  The wound car doc specifically asked Misty permission to call Dr Worth (Worthless as my wife calls him) and rub it in that Misty was nearly healed.  The doctors told us we would have 6 years at the most to 2006 with her injuries and here it is 2020 and she is still kicking.  She has gotten to see four of our children grow to adulthood, just two left to get there.  We have been blessed beyond belief.

The time will come when we cannot heal her, but until then we will continue to enjoy life to the fullest extent that we can.  After 28 years I can't hardly imagine life without her, but we have wonderful children and we will all get by it together when the time does eventually come.  In some ways I think the idea that we had limited time has been a blessing as we have lived as though we didn't have another year for the past 15 years, we see life and our family in a bit of a different light I because of that.  Instead of putting things off we have made sure to experience them as though it wouldn't last.  The last twenty years has been tough, but also quite amazing...

Thanks for your update Roy and good to know Misty is still with you, persevering through such horrendous ordeals.  I have no doubt that your love for her goes quite some way in her recovery and that of your family.  The power of love is not to be underestimated!

I fully understand how the uncertainty of a future concentrates the mind wonderfully and creates a sharper perspective that better highlights what can be appreciated (maybe that was once barely acknowledged);it enables more quality experiences, I find.  

I am now 70 and still reap these benefits i.e. the repercussions of having 3 close encounters with death (all accidents) in my 20's!!  I have never stopped appreciating being alive i.e. on a daily basis and am continually grateful.  

For those prone to becoming embittered by life, I would say that fostering gratitude/counting our blessings is key to offsetting this and enabling life to be tinged with sweetness again.  It is possible...there, waiting to be discovered - just requires an open mind and, perhaps, a leap of faith!  (Gets off soapbox, ha!)

Discovered?....  If you mean for writing poetry that is honestly the "only" poem I have ever written.  I know absolutely nothing about writing poetry and while that was kind of cool to write and I am proud of what i turned out honestly the only meaning it has to me is what it means to my wife.  I share it with others now and then as I know they will likely enjoy it and it seemed unusually well suited for this site with the tree theme.

I enjoy poetry but I have no desire to "write" poetry.  Some day the wife and I should try to get down our life stories as they are quite unusual stories.  We both came extremely abusive childhoods then being wards of the state and then in my case adoption.  We met when we young just after my return from the Gulf War and went through some of the most extreme losses one can which eventually led to divorce.  The events of ours lives have been so far beyond that of the "normal" scope of life that it seems to me "not" to record it for everyone else would be irresponsible.

When we get these kids all grown up and out in the world I will then work toward getting that written, again it will be a "one" time thing as I am no more a writer than I am a poet.  Thank you for the kind words, it is clear to see that you have as much of a passion for the meaning of life as you have for the meaning of words.

Sorry Joe - my last paragraph (in previous post) with the word 'discovered' was not directed at yourself or poetry!  Just to those who may be embittered (following on from the paragraph before that).  I feel we should leave it here since, after all, this is a poetry thread but thanks for the compliment.

Honey Locust - Mary Oliver

Who can tell how lovely in June is the

   honey locust tree, or why

a tree should be so sweet and live

   in this world? Each white blossom

on a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed -

   a new life. Also each blossom on a dangle of flower

        holds a flask

of fragrance called Heaven, which is never sealed.

   The bees circle the tree and dive into it. They are crazy

with gratitude. They are working like farmers. They are as

   happy as saints. After awhile the flowers begin to

wilt and drop down into the grass. Welcome

shines in the grass.



                                        Every year I gather

handfuls of blossoms and eat of their mealiness; the honey

    melts in my mouth, the seeds make me strong,

both when they are crisps and ripe, and even at the end

when their petals have turned dully yellow.

                                                                               So it is
if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is

   not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams
all the way to the grave.

....just noticed my last post here....I guess it's clear who I've been reading lately

Things!
Burn them, burn them!
Make a beautiful fire!
More room in your heart for love,
for the trees!
For the birds who own nothing -
the reason they can fly.

~ Mary Oliver

Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.
                                                                             -Henry Reed

Nature conquers all.

I get the impression this is how a lot of people feel going into permaculture...

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.


And I feel this is an important side often overlooked...


The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd

BY SIR WALTER RALEGH

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Thanks, Judith, for the poem by Mary Oliver. Would you believe it, I did not know her!

And Jordan, I love me some classical English poems!
Another one comes to my mind:

A Musical Instrument
(by Elizabeth Barret Browning)

I.
WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
   Down in the reeds by the river ?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
   With the dragon-fly on the river.

II.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
   From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
   Ere he brought it out of the river.

III.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
   While turbidly flowed the river ;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
   To prove it fresh from the river.

IV.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
   (How tall it stood in the river !)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
   In holes, as he sate by the river.

V.
This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,
   Laughed while he sate by the river,)
The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
   He blew in power by the river.

VI.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
   Piercing sweet by the river !
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
   Came back to dream on the river.

VII.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
   To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —
For the reed which grows nevermore again
   As a reed with the reeds in the river.

(do you know Debussy's Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune? Very nice to listen to in that mood)

And here I just found a poem that moved me, and was looking for a place to share it. Serendipity.


"The Peace of Wild Things"
by 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.

This is the poetry I've heard, even if it wasn't intended. POW origins I think, but it applies to our current situation as well.

Dark and cold we may be, but this
Is no winter now. The frozen misery Of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move;
The thunder is the thunder of the floes,
The thaw, the flood, the upstart Spring
Thank God our time is now when wrong
Comes up to face us everywhere, Never to leave us till we take
The longest stride of soul men ever took.  
 -Christopher Fry

(do you know Debussy's Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune? Very nice to listen to in that mood)

Most of her poems are a bit dry for my taste, but this one is pretty good. If you are a juxtaposing the Prelude with the poem, I read the poem as being much more raucous and upbeat. Are you a non-native english speaker? I've always wondered how differently poetry would sound and feel to someone not native to the language. I would imagine the Prelude more along the lines of this:


The Lotos-eaters
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more";
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

CHORIC SONG
I
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep."

II
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

III
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

IV
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

V
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

VI
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change:
For surely now our household hearths are cold,
Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile:
'Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labour unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

VII
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill—
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine—
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

VIII
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
The Lotos blows by every winding creek:
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.


Her husband, Robert, I would certainly place among the greatest of poets. At times he demonstrated a true command of the english language. Like in "Porphyria's Lover:"

"The rain set early in to-night,
      The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
      And did its worst to vex the lake:"

Wow! Perfect rhyme, perfect meter, personification, foreshadowing, nature, all in the first sentence...and that plot twist! LOL! "The Apothecary: L'ancient Regime" is one of my favorite poems ever. I've always had a fascination with poisonous plants and animals. "Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures/ what a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!" It is a shame people no longer use language like they did back then. I must admit I am not fond of much of the poetry posted here; I can admire that someone felt it enough to write it, or that someone feels something enough to read it and enjoy it, but where is the action? The romance? The ups? The downs? Byron said it best:

"4
 I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!
    Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
 I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
    Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.
5
 Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
    Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
 Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
    What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?"

Jordan Holland wrote:
Most of her poems are a bit dry for my taste, but this one is pretty good. If you are a juxtaposing the Prelude with the poem, I read the poem as being much more raucous and upbeat. Are you a non-native english speaker? I've always wondered how differently poetry would sound and feel to someone not native to the language. I would imagine the Prelude more along the lines of this:

Ooh, I have to admit that I have got a problem with long epic poems. I have to be in the mood and concentrate. So I leave the Lotos Eaters for another day.

Yes, I am a non-native english speaker. It is a topic that intrigues me - how we process language, our own mother tongue and our second or third languages.

Probably I process a poem in English much more by the impression of single words and the musicality.
Like in EBBs Pan poem, when the rhythm changes and draws you in:
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
  Piercing sweet by the river !

I guess I appreciate sections like these like an exquisite phrase in a symphony.

Likewise I wonder if any non-native speaker can really appreciate Rilke (one of my favourite German poets). I often approach his poems as impressions of various words without really analyzing them, like taking in a picture as a whole and not consciously looking for details like painting technique, composition, colour schemes etc.

Poetry was once VERY important to me and I started reading English poetry quite early (in my teens) and there are English poems that have accompanied me almost my whole life. But not all English poems are equally accessible to me.
However, this is true for native speakers as well, same as with music and similar. We will never know how other persons feel when reading the same lines. And same as with music, some people don't care for poetry.

Also depends on my mood. Sometimes I read the classics, then more modern stuff, or certain writers like Walt Whitman, and sometimes I just want to re-read certain lines (yes, I am heretic like that, I will also listen to just one movement of a symphony if I feel like that).

To end that long post I quote from a poet that I got to know when I looked for something in my father's agenda - he had typed that English poem and took it with him everywhere (my father is still alive but probably not able anymore to select poems):

I see from my house
by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears-
Both parts of an infinite plan;-
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

(Sam Walter Foss)

William Ernest Henley's "Invictus" is always a good one for uncertain times:

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.

Quite possibly the most beautiful poem ever written. I can only dream of such a woman...

To Augusta

George Gordon, Lord Byron


THOUGH the day of my destiny’s over,
 And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
 The faults which so many could find.
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,        5
 It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
 It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling,
 The last smile which answers to mine,        10
I do not believe it beguiling,
 Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
 As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,        15
 It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
 To pain—it shall not be its slave.        20
There is many a pang to pursue me:
 They may crush, but they shall not contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue me;
 ’Tis of thee that I think—not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,        25
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
 Though slander’d, thou never couldst shake;
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
 Though parted, it was not to fly,        30
Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,
 Nor, mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
 Nor the war of the many with one;
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,        35
 ’Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
 And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
 It could not deprive me of thee.        40

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish’d,
 Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish’d
 Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,        45
 In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

How have I just now discovered this?



The Highwayman

Alfred Noyes

Part I

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,
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 dark 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.

Part II

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 her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
  She heard the doomed 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 her 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.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, 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, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, 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 gray 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 the 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;
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.

Paul's super power post made me rember this one.


The Lie

BY SIR WALTER RALEGH

Go, soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good.
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust.
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how it falters.
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention.
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay.
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity;
Tell virtue least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing—
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing—
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.

I remember this one from a book of childhood poems. It was great for learning vocabulary and pronunciation.

A Nonsense Rhyme
by James Whitcomb Riley

Ringlety jing!
And what will we sing?
Some little crinkety-crankety thing,
That rhymes and chimes,
And skips sometimes,
As though wound up with a kink in the spring.

Grunkety-krung!
And chunkety-plung!
Sing the song that the bullfrog sung.
A song of the soul
Of a mad tadpole
That met his fate in a leaky bowl!
And it's O for the first false wiggle he made,
In a sea of pale pink lemonade!
And it's O for the thirst
Within him pent,
And the hopes that burst
As his reason went,
When his strong arm failed and his strength was spent!

Sing, O sing
Of the things that cling,
And the claws that clutch and the fangs that sting,
Till the tadpole's tongue
And his tail upflung
Quavered and failed with a song unsung!
O the dank despair in the rank morass,
Where the crawfish crouch in the cringing grass,
And the long limp rune of the loon wails on
For the mad, sad soul
Of a bad tadpole
Forever lost and gone!

Jinglety-jee!
And now we'll see
What the last of the lay shall be,
As the dismal tip of the tune, O friends,
Swoons away and the long tale ends.
And it's O and alack!
For the tangled legs
And the spangled back
Of the green grig's eggs,
And the unstrung strain
Of the strange refrain
That the winds wind up like a strand of rain!

And it's O, also,
For the ears wreathed low,
Like a laurel-wreath on the lifted brow
Of the frog that chants of the why and how,
And the wherefore too, and the thus and so
Of the wail he weaves in a woof of woe!
Twangle, then, with your wrangling strings,
The tinkling links of a thousand things!
And clang the pang of a maddening moan
Till the echo, hid in a land unknown,
Shall leap as he hears, and hoot and hoo
Like the wretched wraith of a Whoopty-Doo!

Good to see this thread alive and growing...

Here are two shorter poems. I have known the first for a long time already.

Monotone
Poem by Carl Sandburg

The monotone of the rain is beautiful,
And the sudden rise and slow relapse
Of the long multitudinous rain.

The sun on the hills is beautiful,
Or a captured sunset sea-flung,
Bannered with fire and gold.

A face I know is beautiful--
With fire and gold of sky and sea,
And the peace of long warm rain.

_____________________________
The second is more recent (for me) and thought-provoking
:
Yehuda Amichai: "The Place Where We Are Right"

From the place where we are right
flowers will never grow
in the spring.

The place where we are right
is hard and trampled
like a yard.

But doubts and loves
dig up the world
like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
where the ruined
house once stood.

My wife saw a peregrine falcon outside this morning, which for no adequately defined reason reminded me of a poem from the Larry Niven/Jerry Pournelle "Lucifer's Hammer" novel:

I went out to take a friggin' walk by the friggin' reservoir,
a-wishin' for a friggin' quid to pay my friggin' score,
my head it was a-achin' and my throat was parched and dry,
and so I sent a little prayer a-wingin' to the sky.

And there came a friggin' falcon and he walked upon the waves,
and I said, "A friggin' miracle!" and sang a couple staves,
of a friggin' churchy ballad that I learned when I was young,
the friggin' bird took to the air, and spattered me with dung.

I fell upon my friggin' knees and bowed my friggin' head,
and said three friggin' Aves for all my friggin' dead,
and then I got upon my feet and said another ten,
the friggin' bird burst into flame and spattered me again.

The burnin' bird hung in the sky just like a friggin' sun,
it seared my friggin' eyelids shut, and when the job was done,
the friggin' bird flashed cross the sky just like a shootin' star,
I ran to tell the friggin' priest -- he bummed my last cigar.

I told him of the miracle, he told me of the Rose,
I showed him bird crap in my hair, the bastard held his nose,
I went to see the bishop, but the friggin' bishop said,
"Go home and sleep it off, you sod -- and wash your friggin' head!"

Then I came upon a friggin' wake for a friggin' rotten swine,
by the name of Jock O'Leary and I touched his head with mine,
and old Jock sat up in his box and raised his friggin' head,
his wife took out a forty-four and shot the bastard dead.

Again I touched his head with mine and brought him back to life,
his smiling face rolled on the floor, this time she used a knife.
And then she fell upon her knees and started in to pray,
"It's forty years, O Lord," she said, "I've waited for this day."

So I walked the friggin' city 'mongst the friggin' halt and lame,
and every time I raised them up, they got knocked down again.
'Cause the love of God comes down to man in a friggin' curious way,
but when a man is marked for love, that love is here to stay.

And this I know because I've got a friggin' curious sign,
for every time I wash my head, the water turns to wine.
And I gives it free to workin' blokes to brighten up their lives,
so they don't kick no dogs around, nor beat up on their wives.

'Cause there ain't no use to miracles like walkin' on the sea,
they crucified the Son of God, but they don't muck with me.
'Cause I leave the friggin' blind alone, the dyin' and the dead,
but every day at four-o'clock, I wash my friggin' head.

I love sufi poetry and Coleman Barks translations.....

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-Jelaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks

and for leonard cohen fans,
look for his song inspired by this rumi, called 'the guests'
...just beautiful.

Anita Martin wrote:

Just discovered this thread.
I love poetry, and English was my first love (before Spanish), and English poetry has had a special place in my heart for a long time already.

Here is a piece I like very much:

Pied Beauty
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

Glory be to God for dappled things –
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
     For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
  Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
     And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
     With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                               Praise him.

One of my favorites too.  It's been one of my model poems for a long time.  Not for form or topic, but for the rising hymn feel of it.  

Judith Browning wrote:

and for leonard cohen fans,
look for his song inspired by this rumi, called 'the guests'
...just beautiful.

Love Cohen.  Just listened to it on yt.  
Thanks.