Poets' Corner
Post Reply
 
Thread Rating:
  • 2 Votes - 4.5 Average
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
18-09-2015, 02:10 PM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
Here I wait.

A minute in an eternity.

Ever so patiently for a hope.

A sign that may never come.

Renewal stalks in the shadows.

A strange bedfellow to pain.

Which holds truth?

Which is a lie?

Do you hold me dear?

Or only for a moment.

A smoldering torment.

Smoke rising from the ashes.

"Indescision"

Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense. You're just not keeping up.

"Let me give you some advice, bastard: never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you." - Tyrion Lannister
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 3 users Like itsnotmeitsyou's post
20-09-2015, 02:01 PM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
"The Conqueror Worm", by Edgar Allan Poe. My personal favorite poem of all time.

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible woe!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

"Owl," said Rabbit shortly, "you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest - and when I say thinking I mean thinking - you and I must do it."
- A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 4 users Like Unbeliever's post
20-09-2015, 02:14 PM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
Share on facebook

Share on twitter

Share on email

Share on print

Share on gmail

Share on pinterest_share

Share on favorites

Share on reddit

Share on tumblr

Share on google



Aleksandr Pushkin -
is, by common agreement -- at least among his own compatriots -- the greatest of all Russian writers. The major part of his lyrical poetry was written between 1820 and 1830, but some of his poetical masterpieces were composed in the last seven years of his life, when he was turning his attention to prose. A development can be traced from the sparkling ebullience of his early verse -- the crowning achievement of which is the first chapter of Evgeny Onegin, written in 1823 -- to the concetrated expressiveness and restrained power of his later poetry. By effecting a new synthesis between the three main ingredients of the Russian literary idiom -- the Church Slovanic, the Western European borrowings, and the spoken vernacular -- Pushkin created the language of modern Russian poetry. His personal life was made difficult by his conflicts with the authorities who disapproved of his liberal views. He was killed in a duel.




"The Land of Moscow..."

From "The Reminiscences at Tsarskoe Selo"The land of Moscow -- the land that is my native,
Where in the dawn of my best years,
I spared the hours of carelessness, attractive,
Free of unhappiness and fears.
And you had seen the foes of my great nation,
And you were burned and covered with blood!
And I did not give up my life in immolation,
My wrathful spirit just was wild!...

Where is the Moscow of hundred golden domes,
The dear beauty of the native land?
Where yore was the real peer to Rome,
The ruins, miserable, lied.
Oh, how, Moscow, for us, your sight, is awful!
The buildings of landlords and kings are fully swept,
All perished in a flame. The towers are mournful,
The villas of the rich are felled.

And where the luxury was thriving,
In shady parks and gardens, in the past,
Where myrtle was fragrant, limes were shining,
There now are just coals, ash, and dust.
At charming summer nights, when silent darkness roves,
The noisy gaiety would not appear there,
The lights are vanished over lakes and groves,
All dead and silent. All unfair.

Be calm, o, Russia's banner's holder,
Look at the stranger's quickly coming end,
On their proud necks and void of labor shoulders,
The Lord's vindictive arm is laid.
Behold: they promptly run, without look at road,
In Russian snows their blood like river's flood,
They run in dark of night, felled by famine and cold,
And swords of Russians, from behind.

English is my second language.
I AM DEPLORABLE AND IRREDEEMABLE
SHE PERSISTED WE RESISTED
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 1 user Likes Alla's post
20-09-2015, 02:16 PM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
A.Pushkin

FRIENDSHIP

What's friendship? The hangover's faction,
The gratis talk of outrage,
Exchange by vanity, inaction,
Or bitter shame of patronage.

English is my second language.
I AM DEPLORABLE AND IRREDEEMABLE
SHE PERSISTED WE RESISTED
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 3 users Like Alla's post
20-09-2015, 04:50 PM (This post was last modified: 20-09-2015 07:16 PM by Unbeliever.)
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
"Warsaw", by Dessa.

This one is actually a rap song, but rap has always, at its core, been poetry put to music. Dessa understands that better than most, and I would highly encourage everyone to check out the rest of her music as well. There is some gorgeous poetry there, delivered perfectly.

A wick with no candle
A wheel with no axle
I ride with no saddle, no lift
Then I'm dragging the kite

A blade with no handle
A brick for your window
I'm fine but I'm single
A dime and I'm the same on both sides

You're a stone-cold killer, you say
But you're looking like a part-time criminal
Waive the charade
Man, you lay it on thick
It's a dive bar, save the game
You drink and you sit

Easy to please
But hard to impress
I'm in a mood, new shoes and a bulletproof dress

Sugar on the rim and a shot of mescal
Man, it's murder in the morning
But it's good for morale

Can you mortar more
Looks like you're bricking with both hands
Get the spirit level
Or the skeleton won't stand
Fuck the plan, man
I'm tryna call an audible
Probable lost cause
But I got a thing for long shots

Yes, yes, naysayers got the wrong job
Best bet when you think they got the wrong odds
And I've done some living in a glass house
High note blew the motherfuckin' walls off

And I sleep
With both eyes open
Standing up
Alone and holding
Off the rust

And I'm still living by my maiden name
The name I came with
The name I made
And I'm bare-faced at your masquerade
Filled a flask up before I came
Because night falls
We all wanna hear that fight song
Car running like a nylon
Brights on
Time's right but the clock's wrong
Never set it, never settle in a time zone
Take what I need with me
Pray for rain but brace for whiskey
Something in the tank, money in the bank
Callin' it a win we
Give a little thanks, give a little back
Busy with the grand plan

Take one last look
Left the bandwagon
For a banned book
To break out you gotta give up the chase
To make love you gotta take off the brace

And we all leave it feeling half done
Best you can do is just put a hand up
Hope grace and good works in the end add up
Find out when the pendulum hangs plumb

"Owl," said Rabbit shortly, "you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest - and when I say thinking I mean thinking - you and I must do it."
- A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 1 user Likes Unbeliever's post
23-09-2015, 09:02 PM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
"Mother's Love"

I pick myself up
You try and tear me down

Backhanded compliments
Your specialty

There is no good enough
First define good
Better...
Best.

I'll never be like you
You'll never understand me

You're supposed to love me for me
Why is that so difficult?

Let the rain pour down
Clear the dust

Push me
I'll run harder
Faster...
Farther.

You say you've lost your son and your daughter
Not yet

Inhale deep
Hold it

Fucking choke on it.

-by me...just now.

"If there's a single thing that life teaches us, it's that wishing doesn't make it so." - Lev Grossman
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 5 users Like Nurse's post
24-09-2015, 08:30 AM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
It's probably been posted here before, but hey, it's one of the all-time great works of poetry.

"Kubla Khan", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome on air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Fun fact: the above poem was written while in the midst of an opium dream, and was intended to be much longer - but Coleridge was interrupted while writing, and was never able to get that high again.

"Owl," said Rabbit shortly, "you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest - and when I say thinking I mean thinking - you and I must do it."
- A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 2 users Like Unbeliever's post
24-09-2015, 09:07 AM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
The world swam, shimmering like
the moon on a smoggy city night
as we invested trifles with deep import.
We shared the ride to oblivion and back
laughing and crying
lending support
for each of our maddening dreams
as the night grew stale and dawn’s light beckoned.
We never reckoned the cost of our foolish dreams,
moonlit shadows which still haunt my thoughts --
we didn’t count the colors in the spectrum that night.
We swam in an ocean of our own creation.

**********

They’re all so cold,
and distant,
utterly unconcerned,
emotions unreturned.
They sleepwalk their way through the day with
nothing really real to say.
You can try to lay circuitry, but there’s no electricity --
why wire your emotions when there’s no telegraph?
Empty words, empty stare,
between me and them there’s only empty air,
molecules stilled by fears gone a-flutter,
a window made useless by the use of a shutter,
for their eyes might be open,
but their hearts seem closed
and any attempt at reaching inside seems predisposed
to failure.
Why even try?

Every so often, the façade cracks open.
Every so often, the dam is broken.
Every so often, I catch myself hoping that
our smiles are more than just empty tokens.
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 4 users Like Thumpalumpacus's post
25-09-2015, 04:23 PM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
Longer than the usual fare in this thread, but well worth the read. A classic by one of the all-time great poets, and generally recognized as an important commentary on the state of women in British culture at the time of its writing.

"The Lady of Shalott", by Lord Tennyson.

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”


Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.


Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.


Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse,
Like some bold seër in a trance
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And 'round the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”

If you prefer, you can hear it sung by the wonderful Celtic musician Loreena McKennitt, who has also done adaptations of other incredible works of poetry, such as Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman":

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 in 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,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.


He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’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 muzzle 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 muzzle 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 horsehoofs 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 blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey 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 in 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 a 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.

Both are excellent poems, as well as excellent songs.

"Owl," said Rabbit shortly, "you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest - and when I say thinking I mean thinking - you and I must do it."
- A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 4 users Like Unbeliever's post
01-10-2015, 10:50 PM
RE: Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
"Magic", by Shel Silverstein. A tragically underappreciated poet whose works don't receive nearly enough attention due to being targeted at younger readers. This one is my personal favorite.

Sandra’s seen a leprechaun,
Eddie touched a troll,
Laurie danced with witches once,
Charlie found some goblin gold.
Donald heard a mermaid sing,
Susy spied an elf,
But all the magic I have known
I’ve had to make myself.

"Owl," said Rabbit shortly, "you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest - and when I say thinking I mean thinking - you and I must do it."
- A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 3 users Like Unbeliever's post
Post Reply
Forum Jump: