04-21-2003, 07:26 PM | #141 |
Elven Warrior
Join Date: Mar 2003
Location: Here. For the time being.
Posts: 336
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Ach, I promise!
Bleh, I'm too self-concious about my work to share it with strangers in person! If y'know what I mean.
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XIAN- for hating Wiccans. MURDERER- for hating vegetarians. PREP- for hating Goths. These are a few of my favourite things, the hypocritical stylings of the most "liberal" groups. |
04-22-2003, 04:31 PM | #142 |
'Bohemian princess of Covent Garden
Join Date: Nov 2002
Location: The Mill
Posts: 544
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Hey no pressure but the offer's there- you don't even have to tell people you're name if you don't want to- its a poet's paradise. Mx
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There's only us, there's only this, forget regret or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way, no day but today. |
05-02-2003, 07:20 PM | #143 |
Enting
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Rivendell :-)
Posts: 68
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Miranda, that was beautiful!
That was a beautiful poem! It made me cry! I loved it! I have actually gotten 4 poems published, but you are MUCH better than me!
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As I look into the sky and sit and watch the stars I think of you. I wonder if you remember me the way I was or the way I am now. I know I will always keep a place for you in my heart. Even though the shadows fall and the darkness enters you will always be with me. I remember one thing about you. Your eyes. I used to look in them like pools of blue water. I could stare at them forever like the dark blue sky on a cloudy night. As I sit here still watching the stars I think of you, but the one thing I remember is your eyes. |
05-03-2003, 06:36 PM | #144 | |
'Bohemian princess of Covent Garden
Join Date: Nov 2002
Location: The Mill
Posts: 544
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Re: Miranda, that was beautiful!
Quote:
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There's only us, there's only this, forget regret or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way, no day but today. |
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05-06-2003, 05:14 PM | #145 |
Enting
Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Rivendell :-)
Posts: 68
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I wrote some REALLY REALLY good poems...I write much better than I used to! One of my friends cried at a poem I wrote!
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As I look into the sky and sit and watch the stars I think of you. I wonder if you remember me the way I was or the way I am now. I know I will always keep a place for you in my heart. Even though the shadows fall and the darkness enters you will always be with me. I remember one thing about you. Your eyes. I used to look in them like pools of blue water. I could stare at them forever like the dark blue sky on a cloudy night. As I sit here still watching the stars I think of you, but the one thing I remember is your eyes. |
06-06-2003, 03:53 PM | #146 |
The Lovely Hobbit-Lass
Join Date: Jun 2003
Location: Bounded in a nut-shell
Posts: 1,593
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Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I love Tennyson's Idylls of the King, as well as his poems The Lady Of Shalott, The Two Voices, and Charge Of The Light Brigade.
I love poetry!! I like writing it (though lately I've not been able to do it). If I can find a couple of my poems, I might copy them here for you guys- people, sorry!
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It's New Years Day, just like the day before; Same old skies of grey, same empty bottles on the floor. Another year's gone by, and I was thinking once again, How can I take this losing hand and somehow win? Just give me One Good Year To get my feet back on the ground. I've been chasing grace; Grace ain't so easily found One bad hand can devil a man, chase him and carry him down. I've got to get out of here, just give me One Good Year! |
08-04-2003, 12:34 AM | #147 |
Elf Lord
Join Date: Aug 2002
Posts: 516
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any Charles Bukowksi fans out there? here's a favorite:
The Blackbirds are Rough Today lonely as a dry and used orchard spread over the earth for use and surrender. shot down like an ex-pug selling dailies on the corner. taken by tears like an aging chorus girl who has gotten her last check. a hanky is in order your lord your worship. the blackbirds are rough today like ingrown toenails in an overnight jail--- wine wine whine, the blackbirds run around and fly around harping about Spanish melodies and bones. and everywhere is nowhere--- the dream is as bad as flapjacks and flat tires: why do we go on with our minds and pockets full of dust like a bad boy just out of school--- you tell me, you who were a hero in some revolution you who teach children you who drink with calmness you who own large homes and walk in gardens you who have killed a man and own a beautiful wife you tell me why I am on fire like old dry garbage. we might surely have some interesting correspondence. it will keep the mailman busy. and the butterflies and ants and bridges and cemeteries the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics will still go on a while until we run out of stamps and/or ideas. don't be ashamed of anything; I guess God meant it all like locks on doors.
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Patriotism is your conviction that this country is superior to all other countries because you were born in it. George Bernard Shaw (1856 - 1950) Last edited by Hasty Ent : 08-05-2003 at 01:31 AM. |
08-04-2003, 10:49 PM | #148 |
Sapling
Join Date: Aug 2003
Posts: 1
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Wow, your poems are really good all! Here's one of mine, it's untitled so far, so if anyone has any ideas, I'll be glad to hear them.
Before doubt could tap my shoulder I would have already died 10 thousand deaths without gentle mercy so pain could never touch your heart or your porclien skin so clear. I would be her slave, running for hours so every happiness she could ever want would be at her soft feet. No solid wall or evil creature could keep me from her, No snake with lethal poison, No thick forest or wide canyon, She gives me life, laughter and joy. I got my inspiration from my friend, I love her so dearly and would do exactly what the poem says for her. Any ideas on how to make it better, or a title? I'm open to any critisism. |
08-05-2003, 10:36 PM | #149 |
Long lost mooter
Join Date: Apr 2002
Location: Florida
Posts: 3,342
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I don't know much about poetry, but is a shift in voice like that "acceptable?" I know it's frowned on in prose (in the first stanza you're addressing her, then you shift to talking about her in the third person in the remaining stanzas). Just an observation. (Also, probably a typo, but you spelled "porcelain" wrong).
Otherwise, that's quite a poem -- your friend is lucky to have a friend like you! Have you checked out the Writer's Workshop forum? You might like it. And welcome to Entmoot! |
08-06-2003, 12:00 AM | #150 |
Sapling
Join Date: Aug 2003
Posts: 1
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Thanks for the observation, I guess I got caught up in the whole plot and didn't notice.
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08-06-2003, 11:46 PM | #151 | |
Sapling
Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: In the wood with my fellow squirrel kin.
Posts: 8
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Quote:
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Squirrels are Gods in disguise. |
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10-17-2003, 04:30 PM | #152 |
Woolly Jumper
Join Date: Jul 2002
Location: In my field of paper flowers and candy clouds of lullaby
Posts: 1,200
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my friend wrote this poem for me just kinda randomly.
Oh, the leaves of the branches Blew off of the withering trees Coting the forms of the early-morning Passers by, with the a golden colour They thought so bold The leaves are blown further by the wind And further and further Until But yes, They have reached there maximum And as the viewers marvel at their splendour They forget to realise That this leaf oh so vibrant with colour, is sadly living no more
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:: there's nothing comforting in change:: Why dont sheep shrink in the rain?? |
07-19-2004, 11:09 AM | #153 |
Lady of Letters
Join Date: Jan 2002
Location: Either Oxford or Kent, England
Posts: 2,476
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*bump* for new poetry lovers.
Post (short) favourite poems here. The Windhover To Christ our Lord I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion. (Gerard Manley Hopkins)
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And all the time the waves, the waves, the waves Chase, intersect and flatten on the sand As they have done for centuries, as they will For centuries to come, when not a soul Is left to picnic on the blazing rocks, When England is not England, when mankind Has blown himself to pieces. Still the sea, Consolingly disastrous, will return While the strange starfish, hugely magnified, Waits in the jewelled basin of a pool. |
07-19-2004, 10:11 PM | #154 |
Thief Queen of Entmoot
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: oh, I just wander around, aimlessly...
Posts: 1,060
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hey cool! thanx, star, i didn't even see this thread before
i love poetry; i write poems quite often (i have a few posted in the some poems thread in the writing forum ) and i read them all the time. my favorite poem is Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy's "Ode, We Are The Music Makers"... We are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and the shakers Of the world forever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities. And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an ampire down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.
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*smooch* Proud Member of the Evil Mooters and upstanding citizen of the Planet Bob! And all you touch and all you see is all your life will ever be... My Space! Cynicism is what happens when a person opens their eyes; stops blinking in the sun, and starts wondering "why". Question everything, believe only that which you yourself deem true. Go ahead- Call me cynical. Last edited by Lady Ravyn : 07-19-2004 at 11:23 PM. |
08-19-2004, 10:54 PM | #155 |
Thief Queen of Entmoot
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: oh, I just wander around, aimlessly...
Posts: 1,060
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i have just discovered the poet robert creeley; excellent modern-contemperary poet.
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*smooch* Proud Member of the Evil Mooters and upstanding citizen of the Planet Bob! And all you touch and all you see is all your life will ever be... My Space! Cynicism is what happens when a person opens their eyes; stops blinking in the sun, and starts wondering "why". Question everything, believe only that which you yourself deem true. Go ahead- Call me cynical. |
09-19-2004, 02:29 PM | #156 | |
The Chocoholic Sea Elf Administrator
Join Date: Jan 2002
Location: N?n in Eilph (Belgium)
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Quote:
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We are not things. Last edited by Earniel : 09-19-2004 at 02:31 PM. |
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09-27-2004, 11:33 PM | #157 |
Thief Queen of Entmoot
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: oh, I just wander around, aimlessly...
Posts: 1,060
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lol earniel! great minds think alike
i've also been reading alot of william carlos williams lately; his poems can be cliched, but the way they're written disguises that fact and makes them seem very thoughtful. i like the one in my sig now ("The Act") and i also like "To Flossie"
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*smooch* Proud Member of the Evil Mooters and upstanding citizen of the Planet Bob! And all you touch and all you see is all your life will ever be... My Space! Cynicism is what happens when a person opens their eyes; stops blinking in the sun, and starts wondering "why". Question everything, believe only that which you yourself deem true. Go ahead- Call me cynical. |
09-28-2004, 03:53 PM | #158 |
Join Date: Nov 2003
Location: Narnia
Posts: 1,656
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Christina Rossetti
"Amor Mundi" 'Oh where are you going with your lovelocks flowing, on the west wind blowing along this valley track?' 'The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.' So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right; And dear she was to dote on, her swift feet seemed to float on The air like soft twin pigeons, too sportive to alight. 'Oh what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang even just at the rainy skirt?' 'Oh that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.' 'Oh what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly?' 'A scaled and hooded worm.' 'Oh what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?' 'Oh that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.' 'Turn again, O my sweetest, - turn again, false and fleetest; This beaten way thou beatest, I fear, is hell's own track.' 'Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting; This downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.' ~ its talking about how easy it is to get on the path to hell & not turn back On the other hand... ~ "Uphill" Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. ~ the answerer in this poem is Christ. (talking about the path to heaven) We just did these in English class.
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Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, "So, you're back from Moscow, eh?". Interested in C.S. Lewis? Visit the forum dedicated to one of Tolkien's greatest contemporaries. Last edited by Mercutio : 09-28-2004 at 03:55 PM. |
09-30-2004, 02:38 PM | #159 |
Lady of Letters
Join Date: Jan 2002
Location: Either Oxford or Kent, England
Posts: 2,476
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I love that second one, Mercutio
A seasonal poem (though only for those in the same hemisphere as me, I suppose). Read it slowly and savour the dreamy, sensual language. Ode to Autumn, by John Keats Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. Autumn is my favourite season
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And all the time the waves, the waves, the waves Chase, intersect and flatten on the sand As they have done for centuries, as they will For centuries to come, when not a soul Is left to picnic on the blazing rocks, When England is not England, when mankind Has blown himself to pieces. Still the sea, Consolingly disastrous, will return While the strange starfish, hugely magnified, Waits in the jewelled basin of a pool. Last edited by sun-star : 09-30-2004 at 02:40 PM. |
11-27-2004, 01:48 PM | #160 |
Lady of Letters
Join Date: Jan 2002
Location: Either Oxford or Kent, England
Posts: 2,476
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A poem which I don't really agree with but which is beautiful anyway
Dover Beach
Matthew Arnold (1822–88) The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d sand, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl’d. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-winds, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confus’d alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. *shiver*
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And all the time the waves, the waves, the waves Chase, intersect and flatten on the sand As they have done for centuries, as they will For centuries to come, when not a soul Is left to picnic on the blazing rocks, When England is not England, when mankind Has blown himself to pieces. Still the sea, Consolingly disastrous, will return While the strange starfish, hugely magnified, Waits in the jewelled basin of a pool. |
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