No smilies, no avatars, no flashing gifs. Just discuss the issues of the day, from last night's telly via football to science or philosophy.
Started by Tethys on May 21, 2013 10:46:39 PM
Dead Poets Society

A thread to share poetry that you love, nothing pretentious here please ;p

Previous
|
Next
|
Top
|
Bottom
Jenny28 - 21 May 2013 22:56:18 (#1 of 240)

Afterwards

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,

And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,

Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,

'He was a man who used to notice such things'?



If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,

The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight

Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,

'To him this must have been a familiar sight.'



If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,

When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,

One may say, 'He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,

But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.'



If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,

Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees

Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,

'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries'?



And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom

And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,

Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,

'He hears it not now, but used to notice such things'?



Thomas Hardy

Tethys - 21 May 2013 22:56:50 (#2 of 240)

Ted Hughes, The Horses

I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark.

Evil air, a frost-making stillness,





Not a leaf, not a bird

Aworld cast in frost. I came out above the wood





Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light.

But the valleys were draining the darkness





Till the moorline - blackening dregs of the brightening grey

Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses:





Huge in the dense grey - ten together

Megalith-still. They breathed, making no move,





with draped manes and tilted hind-hooves,

Making no sound.





I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head.

Grey silent fragments





Of a grey silent world.





I listened in emptiness on the moor-ridge.

The curlew's tear turned its edge on the silence.





Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun

Orange, red, red erupted





Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud,

Shook the gulf open, showed blue,





And the big planets hanging

I turned





Stumbling in the fever of a dream, down towards

The dark woods, from the kindling tops,





And came to the horses.

There, still they stood,

But now steaming and glistening under the flow of light,





Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind-hooves

Stirring under a thaw while all around them





The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound.

Not one snorted or stamped,





Their hung heads patient as the horizons,

High over valleys in the red levelling rays -





In din of crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,

May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place





Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing the curlews,

Hearing the horizons endure.

lusmeri1 - 23 May 2013 23:24:45 (#3 of 240)

My Orcha'd in Linden Lea

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,

By the woak tree's mossy moot,

The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,

Now do quiver under voot ;

An' birds do whissle over head,

An' water's bubblen in its bed,

An' there vor me the apple tree

Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leately wer a-springen

Now do feade 'ithin the copse,

An' painted birds do hush their zingen

Up upon the timber's tops;

An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,

In cloudless zunsheen, over head,

Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree

Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meake money vaster

In the air o' dark-room'd towns,

I don't dread a peevish measter;

Though noo man do heed my frowns,

I be free to goo abrode,

Or teake agean my hwomeward road

To where, vor me, the apple tree

Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

William Barnes

Tethys - 23 May 2013 23:26:59 (#4 of 240)

Yay Lus! :)

lusmeri1 - 23 May 2013 23:28:10 (#5 of 240)

I'm not sure about formatting, Teth.

Tethys - 23 May 2013 23:35:43 (#6 of 240)

I Remember You As You Were

I remember you as you were in the last autumn.

You were the grey beret and the still heart.

In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.

And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.



Clasping my arms like a climbing plant

the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.

Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.

Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.



I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:

Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house

Towards which my deep longings migrated

And my kisses fell, happy as embers.



Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:

Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!

Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.

Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.



Pablo Neruda

Tethys - 23 May 2013 23:40:48 (#7 of 240)

Jen coached me! You have to put ' } ' then one space at the start of the lines :)

lusmeri1 - 23 May 2013 23:41:58 (#8 of 240)

Thanks, Teth.

Tethys - 23 May 2013 23:42:34 (#9 of 240)

'twas Jen really - she is a mine of information!

lusmeri1 - 23 May 2013 23:50:04 (#10 of 240)

As I walked out one evening,

Walking down Bristol Street,

The crowds upon the pavement

Were fields of harvest wheat.



And down by the brimming river

I heard a lover sing

Under an arch of the railway:

'Love has no ending.



'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you

Till China and Africa meet,

And the river jumps over the mountain

And the salmon sing in the street,



'I'll love you till the ocean

Is folded and hung up to dry

And the seven stars go squawking

Like geese about the sky.



'The years shall run like rabbits,

For in my arms I hold

The Flower of the Ages,

And the first love of the world.'



But all the clocks in the city

Began to whirr and chime:

'O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.



'In the burrows of the Nightmare

Where Justice naked is,

Time watches from the shadow

And coughs when you would kiss.



'In headaches and in worry

Vaguely life leaks away,

And Time will have his fancy

To-morrow or to-day.



'Into many a green valley

Drifts the appalling snow;

Time breaks the threaded dances

And the diver's brilliant bow.



'O plunge your hands in water,

Plunge them in up to the wrist;

Stare, stare in the basin

And wonder what you've missed.



'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

The desert sighs in the bed,

And the crack in the tea-cup opens

A lane to the land of the dead.



'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes

And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,

And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,

And Jill goes down on her back.



'O look, look in the mirror,

O look in your distress:

Life remains a blessing

Although you cannot bless.



'O stand, stand at the window

As the tears scald and start;

You shall love your crooked neighbour

With your crooked heart.'



It was late, late in the evening,

The lovers they were gone;

The clocks had ceased their chiming,

And the deep river ran on.



W H Auden

Tethys - 23 May 2013 23:52:03 (#11 of 240)

Lovely Lus :) and night all x

lusmeri1 - 23 May 2013 23:52:42 (#12 of 240)

Night, Teth. xx

Tethys - 24 May 2013 18:59:14 (#13 of 240)

Fern Hill

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,

The night above the dingle starry,

Time let me hail and climb

Golden in the heydays of his eyes,

And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns

And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves

Trail with daisies and barley

Down the rivers of the windfall light.



And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,

In the sun that is young once only,

Time let me play and be

Golden in the mercy of his means,

And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves

Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and

cold,

And the sabbath rang slowly

In the pebbles of the holy streams.



All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay

Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was

air

And playing, lovely and watery

And fire green as grass.

And nightly under the simple stars

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,

All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the

nightjars

Flying with the ricks, and the horses

Flashing into the dark.



And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden,

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking

warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On to the fields of praise.



And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,

In the sun born over and over,

I ran my heedless ways,

My wishes raced through the house high hay

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows

In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs

Before the children green and golden

Follow him out of grace.



Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would

take me

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,

In the moon that is always rising,

Nor that riding to sleep

I should hear him fly with the high fields

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea.



Dylan Thomas

lusmeri1 - 24 May 2013 19:14:13 (#14 of 240)



All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks

Are life eternal: and in silence they

Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;

There's nothing mortal in them; their decay

Is the green life of change; to pass away

And come again in blooms revivified.

Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay,

And with the sun and moon shall still abide

Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.



John Clare

Tethys - 26 May 2013 16:30:51 (#15 of 240)

I absolutely love this. All writers of poetry should keep it in their heart.

So You Want To Be A Writer - by Charles Bukowski



if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.



if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.



don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.



when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.



there is no other way.



and there never was.

Post deleted by user
Tethys - 26 May 2013 17:43:40 (#17 of 240)

I like that! Who wrote it convict?

lusmeri1 - 26 May 2013 18:27:18 (#18 of 240)

It's by Henry Reed, Teth. It's a favourite of mine, too.

BuddhaPest - 26 May 2013 18:54:13 (#19 of 240)

Gray’s Pier

I lay on Gray's pier, a boy

And I caught a score of sillocks one morning

I laboured there, all one summer

And we built the Swan

A June day I brought to my door

Jessie-Ann, she in white

I sang the Barleycorn ballad

Between a Hogmanay star and New year snow

The Swan haddock-heavy form the west –

Women, cats, gulls!

I saw from the sea window

The March fires on Orphir

I followed, me in black

Jessie-Ann to the kirkyard

I smoke my pipe on Gray's pier now

And listen to the Atlantic

George Mackay Brown

FleurDuMal - 26 May 2013 19:29:59 (#20 of 240)

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.



In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

W.B. Yeats

Previous
|
Next
|
Top
|
Bottom
Check Subscriptions
|
Home » Arts