Not Your Own Works

Post your poems here. If you post a poem by another author, which is fine, please give the author's name if you know it.
JBRaven
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Post by JBRaven »

This is my favorite poet. She is grand, but everyone belives that anyone who likes her is feminest......I don't know. Read Enjoy!





Daddy
Sylvia Plath


You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
Marie*
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Location: Wisconsin

Post by Marie* »

I moved this from it's own topic to here for the mere fact that it is someone else's work!! Thanks SilverFox!!

Marie


SilverFox wrote:

This is from Shakespeare. We're doing them in my Drama class and I really love it!!! Just thought I'd post for all to see.....

"All the World's a Stage"

All the worlds a stage
and all the men and women are merely players.
they have their exits and their entrances
and one mand in his time plays many parts.
his act being seven ages.

At first the infant
mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
then the whining schoolboy with his sachel
and shining morning face creeping like snail
unwillingly to school.

And then the lover
sighing like furnace with a woeful ballad
made to his mistress' eyebrow.

Then a soldier
full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard
jealous in honour sudden and quick in quarrel
seeking the bubble reputation
even in the cannon's mouth.

And then the justice
in fair round belly and good capon lined
with eyes severe and beard of formal cut
full of wise saws and modern instances;
and so he plays his part.

The sixth age shifts
into lean and slippered pantaloon
with spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
his youthful hose well saved a world too wide
for his shrunk shank and his big manly voice
turning again toward childish trble pipes
and whistles in his sound.

Last scene of all
that ends this starnge eventful history
is second childishness and mere oblivion
sans teeth sans eyes sans taste sans everything
darkestlight*

Alone-Edgar Allen Poe

Post by darkestlight* »

I just read this in Englich calss for the first time, and i love it!

Alone by Edgar Allan Poe

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—
Dancing_Moon_Child
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The Invitation

Post by Dancing_Moon_Child »

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithlessand therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day,and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.


copyright © 1999 by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.
from the book The Invitation
published by HarperONE, San Francisco,
1999 All rights reserved
If you want to feel rich, just count all the things you have that money can't buy.
Anon

"A wee child toddling in a wonder world, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into
the natural gardens where the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of
birds, the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers. If this is
Paganism, then at present, at least, I am a Pagan."
Zitkala-Sa (Sioux)
GloryFades

Post by GloryFades »

I love this poem so much, it's by G.K.Chesterton and is called The Great Minimum, I read it in a very good book a little while ago.




It is something to have wept as we have wept,
It is something to have done as we have done,
It is something to have watched when all men slept,
And seen the stars which never see the sun.

It is something to have smelt the mystic rose,
Although it break and leave the thorny rods,
It is something to have hungered once as those
Must hunger who have ate the bread of gods.

To have seen you and your unforgotten face,
Brave as a blast of trumpets for the fray,
Pure as white lilies in a watery space,
It were something, though you went from me today.

To have known the things that from the weak are furled,
Perilous ancient passions, strange and high;
It is something to be wiser than the world,
It is something to be older than the sky.

In a time of sceptic moths and cynic rusts,
And fatted lives that of their sweetness tire,
In a world of flying loves and fading lusts,
It is something to be sure of a desire.

Lo, blessed are our ears for they have heard;
Yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen:
Let thunder break on man and beast and bird
And the lightning. It is something to have been


Hope you like it as much as I do :wink:
Marie*
Posts: 135
Joined: Fri Jan 09, 2004 3:18 pm
Gender: Female
Location: Wisconsin

Post by Marie* »

That was a very beautiful poem. I really liked it!!

Marie
JBRaven
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Her name was Edna St. Vincent Millat

Post by JBRaven »

Edna St. Vincent Millay - Sonnets 04: Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,--farewell!--the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The colour and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.



Edna St. Vincent Millay - Witch-Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.




Edna St. Vincent Millay - Lament

Listen, children:
Your father is dead.
From his old coats
I'll make you little jackets;
I'll make you little trousers
From his old pants.
There'll be in his pockets
Things he used to put there,
Keys and pennies
Covered with tobacco;
Dan shall have the pennies
To save in his bank;
Anne shall have the keys
To make a pretty noise with.
Life must go on,
And the dead be forgotten;
Life must go on,
Though good men die;
Anne, eat your breakfast;
Dan, take your medicine;
Life must go on;
I forget just why.
adair

Post by adair »

Shallow skin,i get back with pain
I run trails on my arms with her distain.
Everything is the same,I love,You hate,
God I wish I didnt care anymore.
So,I fix my problem with the blade.
As my eyes turn from blue to grey,
the worst thing happened to me today,
God I wish I didnt care anymore.
You are all f*cked and over-rated,
I think Im gonna be sick and its your fault.
This is the end of every-thing!
You are the end of everything!
I havnt slept since I woke up and found my whole life is a lie.
[/i][/b]
Kristofski
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Post by Kristofski »

This is a poem I memorised as a kid from a book of my parents.

“Council to Piglings” by Robert Hedgepig

Snuffle ye truffles while ye can
Old Time is still a flying,
And somewhere surely hangs the Pan
That bits of ye will fry in.

That Frying Pan of Heaven the Sun
Will wink while ye are hissing,
So trot along and have some fun
While none of ye is missing.

In case you didn't realise this is a parody of the famous poem "gather ye rosebuds while ye may". It was from a book which was different famous poems changed to make them about pigs. That's the kind of thing I like.
amunptah777

on a clear day

Post by amunptah777 »

How each of us decides
I've never been sure
The part we play
The way we are
How each of us denies any other way in the world
Why each of us must choose
I've never understood
One special friend
One true love
Why each of us must lose everyone else in the world

However unsure
However unwise
Day after day play out our lives
However confused
Pretending to know to the end

But this isn't truth this isn't right
This isn't love this isn't life this isn't real
This is a lie

How each of us believes
I've never really known
In heaven unseen and hell unknown
How each of us dreams to understand anything at all
Why each of us decides
I've never been sure
The part we take
The way we are
Why each of us denies every other way in the world

However unsure
However unwise
Day after day play out our lives
However confused
Pretending to know to the end

But this isn't truth this isn't right
This isn't love this isn't life this isn't real
This is a lie
This isn't truth this isn't right
This isn't love this isn't life this isn't real
This is a lie

The Cure
Zero_TheBenevolent
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Post by Zero_TheBenevolent »

To look at any thing,
If you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at this green and say,
"I have seen spring in these
Woods," will not do--you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
The leaves,
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.
- John Moffitt, "To Look At Any Thing"


Standing by the fence,
You smile your wonderful smile.
Looking at you in silence I am amazed
I just heard you singing.
The words of your song
Belong to eternity.
With all my heart I bow to you in respect.
- Thich Nhat Hanh as related by Quach Thoai, "To A Dahlia"


What is love? 'Tis not hereafter,
Present mirth hath present laughter.
What's to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no penalty,
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
- William Shakespeare, from "Twelfth Night: Feste's Song"



Just a few I picked up recently. Ever since playing Crisis Core and listening to Genesis quote "LOVELESS" throughout the whole game, I've been more and more interested in memorizing poems.
Suppose;
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Location: Kentucky, USA

Post by Suppose; »

Daddy by Plath has got to be one of the most moving poems I have EVER read.
Zero_TheBenevolent
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Post by Zero_TheBenevolent »

another one i recently read. screamed out "beauty" to me.


Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

- Mary Oliver, The Swan
Mikhael
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Gender: Female
Location: Minnesota

Post by Mikhael »

It has a lot of hidden meaning if you break it down.

I(a by E. E. Cummings


l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness

Explanation
Let me take you down cuz I'm going to.. strawberry fields.. nothing is real..

When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace-- Jimi Hendrix
Mikhael
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Location: Minnesota

Post by Mikhael »

Splash by Charles Bukowski

the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
poem.
this is a beggar's knife.
this is a tulip.
this is a soldier marching
through Madrid.
this is you on your
death bed.
this is Li Po laughing
underground.
this is not a god-damned
poem.
this is a horse asleep.
a butterfly in
your brain.
this is the devil's
circus.
you are not reading this
on a page.
the page is reading
you.
feel it?
it's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room.

this is not a poem. poems are dull,
they make you sleep.

these words force you
to a new
madness.

you have been blessed, you have been pushed into a
blinding area of
light.

the elephant dreams
with you
now.
the curve of space
bends and
laughs.

you can die now.
you can die now as
people were meant to
die:
great,
victorious,
hearing the music,
being the music,
roaring,
roaring,
roaring.
Let me take you down cuz I'm going to.. strawberry fields.. nothing is real..

When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace-- Jimi Hendrix
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