needysboy
Sophomore
@needysboy
Posts: 347
Likes: 129
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Post by needysboy on Feb 16, 2019 0:01:17 GMT
(A Dada poem)
XVI
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
Who still considers himself very likeable
Tristan Tzara
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 19, 2019 1:53:22 GMT
âLove Note to a Playwrightâ by Phyllis McGinley
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Post by Nalkarj on Jan 8, 2020 16:11:06 GMT
A longtime favorite of mine.
âAn Old Manâs Winter Nightâ by Robert Frost
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Post by nutsberryfarm đ on Jan 9, 2020 2:05:50 GMT
Afton Water Robert Burns
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, Iâll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Maryâs asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds throâ the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far markâd with the courses of clear winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Maryâs sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft, as mild evâning leaps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy chrystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides, How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Maryâs asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
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Post by Morgana on Jan 9, 2020 9:01:25 GMT
John Donne
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friendâs
Or of thine own were:
Any manâs death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
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Post by koskiewicz on Jan 11, 2020 21:05:43 GMT
He held at court a rank so high That other noblemen asked why. "Because" 'twas answered, "others lack His skill to scratch the royal back." -Aramis Jukes
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Post by Morgana on Jan 14, 2020 10:05:27 GMT
Some scholars think it might date back to Medieval times. This is the original form:
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Post by Carl LaFong on Jan 20, 2020 16:09:20 GMT
Harlem Shadows by Claude McKay I hear the halting footsteps of a lass In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass To bend and barter at desireâs call. Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street! Through the long night until the silver break Of day the little gray feet know no rest; Through the lone night until the last snow-flake Has dropped from heaven upon the earthâs white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay, The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street. www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2020/jan/20/poem-of-the-week-harlem-shadows-by-claude-mckay
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Post by Nalkarj on Jan 28, 2020 20:47:23 GMT
I quite liked this one, by Barbara Loots:
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Post by Morgana on Jan 29, 2020 8:19:30 GMT
I quite liked this one, by Barbara Loots: Great description of a cat!
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mmexis
Sophomore
@mmexis
Posts: 860
Likes: 732
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Post by mmexis on Feb 1, 2020 3:45:19 GMT
Sonnet 55: Not marble nor the gilded monuments
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Not marble nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor warâs quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.
âGainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the Judgement that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in loversâ eyes.
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Post by nutsberryfarm đ on Feb 14, 2020 3:06:09 GMT
[as freedom is a breakfastfood] BY E. E. CUMMINGS
as freedom is a breakfastfood or truth can live with right and wrong or molehills are from mountains made âlong enough and just so long will being pay the rent of seem and genius please the talentgang and water most encourage flame
as hatracks into peachtrees grow or hopes dance best on bald menâs hair and every finger is a toe and any courage is a fear âlong enough and just so long will the impure think all things pure and hornets wail by children stung
or as the seeing are the blind and robins never welcome spring nor flatfolk prove their world is round nor dingsters die at break of dong and commonâs rare and millstones float âlong enough and just so long tomorrow will not be too late
worms are the words but joyâs the voice down shall go which and up come who breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs deeds cannot dream what dreams can do âtime is a tree(this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough
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Post by Carl LaFong on Feb 24, 2020 13:14:32 GMT
Daft Patter by Barry MacSweeney Daft Patter If anyone knows about sullen loneliness, you do Yet thereâs a grin in the wind, heartless and cold Thereâs dark in the darkness, beauty of streams I low my beams to you, from tunnel to tunnel as if the frozen air had a distinct personality Standing at the lonnen head, holding leeks, you sawed my glance in half with yours. What keen eyes! Such strange, out-dated clothes. Whatâs inside counts. Leaning into the tall grass grandness of your alert stance towards the west and the brilliant beauties of Ireland. I know now why you took the sickle hook backing the beasts into their shutdown shed You chopped the gate for want of sound but you had sound, all sound, my purr mistress my fantastic slaver merchant, when we peeled the sky together we had water and silence and fire and togetherness the lights of all you didnât say knots my life and all dreams. Explanation: www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2020/feb/24/poem-of-the-week-daft-patter-by-barry-macsweeney
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Post by Nalkarj on Feb 24, 2020 14:13:31 GMT
âThe Emperor of Ice-Creamâ by Wallace Stevens
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Post by Nalkarj on Feb 26, 2020 16:30:01 GMT
âWaterâ by Robert Lowell
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Post by Nalkarj on Feb 26, 2020 19:08:07 GMT
âThe Purpose of Time Is to Prevent Everything from Happening at Onceâ by X.J. Kennedy
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Post by Carl LaFong on Mar 9, 2020 13:28:11 GMT
Poem of the week: The Idler by Alice Dunbar Nelson www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2020/mar/09/poem-of-the-week-the-idler-by-alice-dunbar-nelsonAn idle lingerer on the waysideâs road, He gathers up his work and yawns away; A little longer, ere the tiresome load Shall be reduced to ashes or to clay. No matter if the world has marched along, And scorned his slowness as it quickly passed; No matter, if amid the busy throng, He greets some face, infantile at the last. His mission? Well, there is but one, And if it is a mission he knows it, nay, To be a happy idler, to lounge and sun, And dreaming, pass his long-drawn days away. So dreams he on, his happy life to pass Content, without ambitions painful sighs, Until the sands run down into the glass; He smiles â content â unmoved and dies. And yet, with all the pity that you feel For this poor mothling of that flame, the world; Are you the better for your desperate deal, When you, like him, into infinitude are hurled?
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Post by Carl LaFong on Mar 23, 2020 14:17:25 GMT
Poem of the week: Antidotes to Fear of Death by Rebecca Elson Sometimes as an antidote To fear of death, I eat the stars. Those nights, lying on my back, I suck them from the quenching dark Til they are all, all inside me, Pepper hot and sharp. Sometimes, instead, I stir myself Into a universe still young, Still warm as blood: No outer space, just space, The light of all the not yet stars Drifting like a bright mist, And all of us, and everything Already there But unconstrained by form. And sometime itâs enough To lie down here on earth Beside our long ancestral bones: To walk across the cobble fields Of our discarded skulls, Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis, Thinking: whatever left these husks Flew off on bright wings. www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2020/mar/23/poem-of-the-week-antidotes-to-fear-of-death-by-rebecca-elson
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Post by Nalkarj on Mar 25, 2020 13:18:38 GMT
âThe Listenersâ by Walter de la Mare
âIs there anybody there?â said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forestâs ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Travellerâs head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; âIs there anybody there?â he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Travellerâs call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, âNeath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:â âTell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,â he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
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Post by Carl LaFong on Mar 25, 2020 13:23:57 GMT
âThe Listenersâ by Walter de la Mare
One of my faves.
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