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Republican Party - westslope - Feb 28, 2021 - 3:29pm
 
Stuff I've Said Out Loud - Antigone - Feb 28, 2021 - 12:39pm
 
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Jazz - Ohmsen - Feb 26, 2021 - 1:43pm
 
Live Music - miamizsun - Feb 26, 2021 - 12:50pm
 
Braking News - miamizsun - Feb 26, 2021 - 12:39pm
 
Acoustic Guitar - rhahl - Feb 26, 2021 - 9:14am
 
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Favorite Scriptures...Leave Pontificating at the Door - ScottFromWyoming - Feb 25, 2021 - 6:57pm
 
Back to the 70's - rhahl - Feb 25, 2021 - 12:59pm
 
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Skip not working on Volumio - Grarea - Feb 25, 2021 - 9:55am
 
What Did You See Today? - GeneP59 - Feb 25, 2021 - 8:58am
 
Index » Entertainment » Books » Poetry Forum Page: 1, 2, 3 ... 203, 204, 205  Next
Post to this Topic
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Feb 7, 2021 - 5:16am

Weekends are fleeting,
Like life. You turn around and
It’s Monday. Or death.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Feb 2, 2021 - 2:49pm

ONE ART
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jan 20, 2021 - 7:56pm

Also from earlier today.  Biden often cites lines from this poem. (perhaps previously posted in this forum)

The Cure of Troy
 
by Seamus Heaney
 

“Human beings suffer,
They torture one another,
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured.

The innocent in gaols
Beat on their bars together.
A hunger-striker’s father
Stands in the graveyard dumb.
The police widow in veils
Faints at the funeral home.

History says, don’t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.”


Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Jan 20, 2021 - 2:58pm



 haresfur wrote:
 

She was AMAZING.
haresfur

haresfur Avatar

Location: The Golden Triangle
Gender: Male


Posted: Jan 20, 2021 - 1:48pm

'Not Broken But Simply Unfinished'


Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 26, 2020 - 11:14am

 Lazy8 wrote:

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us—listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome, Yule!

 
 
 
Lazy8

Lazy8 Avatar

Location: The Gallatin Valley of Montana
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 26, 2020 - 10:33am

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us—listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome, Yule!

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 24, 2020 - 11:55am

 ScottN wrote:

In your next letter,
by Carrie Shipers

                                           please describe
the weather in great detail. If possible,
enclose a fist of snow or mud,

everything you know about the soil,
how tomato leaves rub green against
your skin and make you itch, how slow

the corn is growing on the hill.
Thank you for the photographs
of where the chicken coop once stood,

clouds that did not become tornadoes.
When I try to explain where I’m from,
people imagine corn bread, cast-iron,

cows drifting across grass. I interrupt
with barbed wire, wind, harvest air
that reeks of wheat and diesel.

I hope your sleep comes easy now
that you’ve surrendered the upstairs,
hope the sun still lets you drink

one bitter cup before its rise. I don’t miss
flannel shirts, radios with only
AM stations, but there’s a certain kind

of star I can’t see from where I am—
bright, clear, unconcerned. I need
your recipes for gravy, pie crust,

canned green beans. I’m sending you
the buttons I can’t sew back on.
Please put them in the jar beside your bed.

In your next letter, please send seeds
and feathers, a piece of bone or china
you plowed up last spring. Please
promise I’m missing the right things.

 
Lovely.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 24, 2020 - 11:54am

CHRISTMAS SPARROW
by Billy Collins
 
The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent—
 
wings against glass as it turned out
downstairs when I saw the small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of glass into the spacious light.
 
Then a noise in the throat of the cat
who was hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap of a basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.
 
On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a shirt and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.
 
But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
it burst into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.
 
For the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms as I wondered about
the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.
.
"Christmas Sparrow" by Billy Collins, from Aimless Love. © Random House 2013.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 23, 2020 - 6:09am

In your next letter,
by Carrie Shipers

                                           please describe
the weather in great detail. If possible,
enclose a fist of snow or mud,

everything you know about the soil,
how tomato leaves rub green against
your skin and make you itch, how slow

the corn is growing on the hill.
Thank you for the photographs
of where the chicken coop once stood,

clouds that did not become tornadoes.
When I try to explain where I’m from,
people imagine corn bread, cast-iron,

cows drifting across grass. I interrupt
with barbed wire, wind, harvest air
that reeks of wheat and diesel.

I hope your sleep comes easy now
that you’ve surrendered the upstairs,
hope the sun still lets you drink

one bitter cup before its rise. I don’t miss
flannel shirts, radios with only
AM stations, but there’s a certain kind

of star I can’t see from where I am—
bright, clear, unconcerned. I need
your recipes for gravy, pie crust,

canned green beans. I’m sending you
the buttons I can’t sew back on.
Please put them in the jar beside your bed.

In your next letter, please send seeds
and feathers, a piece of bone or china
you plowed up last spring. Please
promise I’m missing the right things.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 22, 2020 - 8:09am

Nonsense Song

W.H. AUDEN

My love is like a red red rose
Or concerts for the blind,
She's like a mutton-chop before
And a rifle-range behind.

Her hair is like a looking-glass,
Her brow is like a bog,
Her eyes are like a flock of sheep
Seen through a London fog.

Her nose is like an Irish jig,
Her mouth is like a 'bus,
Her chin is like a bowl of soup
Shared between all of us.

Her form divine is like a map
Of the United States,
Her foot is like a motor-car
Without its number-plates.

No steeple-jack shall part us now
Nor fireman in a frock;
True love could sink a Channel boat
Or knit a baby's sock.


ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 20, 2020 - 3:52am

A Winter Twilight

 Angelina Weld Grimké

 

A silence slipping around like death,
Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;
One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,
Inking their cress 'gainst a sky green-gold;
One path that knows where the corn flowers were;
Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;
And over it softly leaning down,
One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.

 

Ohmsen

Ohmsen Avatar

Location: Old World
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 19, 2020 - 6:01am



 Manbird wrote:


 Lazy8 wrote:
Bruises In Amber

...
Habeas ulceris if you will.


...
 

That's a good one, broanaheimconventioncenter. I couldn't translate the Latin phrase but I think I get it. 

Habemus papam
translated wrongly, back then, so 
Don't be an ulcer! 




 


Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: Oroville, Ca
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 18, 2020 - 5:57pm



 Lazy8 wrote:
Bruises In Amber

Science tells us that
we bruise easier as we get older.
Skin is thin in all the wrong places
and usually too thick in between.

But my bruises hide deep inside
and it's the odd comment
that brings them to the surface.
Habeas ulceris if you will.

To remind me of
Something I did
Something I should have done
Something I thought about doing
Something I should have said.
But didn't.

Maybe we carry these bruises with us
for a reason.

Helping us be a little gentler.
Helping us be a little wiser.
Helping us to not bruise
those we love.

Steven Mott
 

That's a good one, broanaheimconventioncenter. I couldn't translate the Latin phrase but I think I get it. 
Lazy8

Lazy8 Avatar

Location: The Gallatin Valley of Montana
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 18, 2020 - 9:41am

Bruises In Amber

Science tells us that
we bruise easier as we get older.
Skin is thin in all the wrong places
and usually too thick in between.

But my bruises hide deep inside
and it's the odd comment
that brings them to the surface.
Habeas ulceris if you will.

To remind me of
Something I did
Something I should have done
Something I thought about doing
Something I should have said.
But didn't.

Maybe we carry these bruises with us
for a reason.

Helping us be a little gentler.
Helping us be a little wiser.
Helping us to not bruise
those we love.

Steven Mott
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 17, 2020 - 5:18am

I sleep in a co-
Coon. Flannel, wool, down. When I
Wake, what will I be?
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 16, 2020 - 3:55pm

 ScottN wrote:

Out on the Flats

Out on the flats, a heron still
as a hieroglyph carved
on the soft gray face of morning.

You asked, when I seemed far away,
what it meant but were gone
when I turned to you with an answer.

Nothing mysterious—hunger,
a taste for salt tides,
distance, and a gift of flight.

LEONARD NATHAN

 
{#Clap}
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 16, 2020 - 2:56pm

Out on the Flats

Out on the flats, a heron still
as a hieroglyph carved
on the soft gray face of morning.

You asked, when I seemed far away,
what it meant but were gone
when I turned to you with an answer.

Nothing mysterious—hunger,
a taste for salt tides,
distance, and a gift of flight.

LEONARD NATHAN

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 7, 2020 - 8:07pm

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

Seamus Heaney

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 6, 2020 - 12:51pm

Bright, yellow scrambles
Match the sunshiney day. They
Are both delicious.
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