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Post a favorite poem!
Dissy:
I forget who wrote it, but:
Ode to my Goldfish
Oh, my wet pet
KharBevNor:
Edna Millay - First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!
TheFuriousWombat:
Poems by one of my favorite poets, Charles Simic:
Clouds Gathering
It seemed the kind of life we wanted.
Wild strawberries and cream in the morning.
Sunlight in every room.
The two of us walking by the sea naked.
Some evenings, however, we found ourselves
Unsure of what comes next.
Like tragic actors in a theater on fire,
With birds circling over our heads,
The dark pines strangely still,
Each rock we stepped on bloodied by the sunset.
We were back on our terrace sipping wine.
Why always this hint of an unhappy ending?
Clouds of almost human appearance
Gathering on the horizon, but the rest lovely
With the air so mild and the sea untroubled.
The night suddenly upon us, a starless night.
You lighting a candle, carrying it naked
Into our bedroom and blowing it out quickly.
The dark pines and grasses strangely still.
The White Room
The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me--
And then didn't.
Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild
Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
Always more dark houses,
Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.
The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn't leave her room.
The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things,
Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as "perfect."
Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn't it.
Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light--
And the trees waiting for the night.
Watermelons
Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.
Ozymandias:
Roses are red.
Leather is tan.
What I am saying is
FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. :-D - THAT WAS A BIT OF A STRETCH. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN. FUCK THE MAN.
flauntit:
The Skater of Ghost Lake
William Rose Benét
Ghost Lake's a dark lake, a deep lake and cold:
Ice black as ebony, frostily scrolled;
Far in its shadows a faint sound whirrs;
Steep stand the sentineled deep, dark firs.
A brisk sound, a swift sound, a ring-tinkle-ring;
Flit-flit--a shadow, with a stoop and a swing,
Flies from the shadow through the crackling cold.
Ghost Lake's a dark lake, a deep lake and old!
Leaning and leaning, with a stride and a stride,
Hands locked behind him, scarf blowing wide,
Jeremy Randall skates, skates late,
Star for a candle, moon for a mate.
Black is the clear glass now that he glides,
Crisp is thaw whisper of long lean strides,
Swift is his swaying--but pricked ears hark.
None come to Ghost Lake late after dark!
Cecily only--yes, it is she!
Stealing to Ghost Lake, tree after tree,
Kneeling in snow by the still lake side,
Rising with feet winged, gleaming, to glide.
Dust of the ice swirls. Here is his hand.
Brilliant his eyes burn. Now, as was planned,
Arm across arm twined, laced to his side,
Out on the dark lake lightly they glide.
Dance of the dim moon, a rhythmical reel,
A swaying, a swift tune--skurr of the steel;
Moon for a candle, maid for a mate,
Jeremy Randall skates, skates late.
Black as if lacquered the wide lake lies;
Breath is a frost-fume, eyes seek eyes;
Souls are a sword-edge tasting the cold.
Ghost Lake's a dark lake, a deep lake and old!
Far in the shadows hear faintly begin
Like a string pluck-plucked of a violin,
Muffled in the mist on the lake's far bound,
Swifter and swifter, a low singing sound!
Far in the shadows and faint on the verge
Of blue cloudy moonlight, see it emerge,
Flit-flit--a phantom, with a stoop and a swing...
Ah, it's a night bird, burdened of wing!
Pressed close to Jeremy, laced to his side,
Cecily Culver, dizzy you glide.
Jeremy Randall sweepingly veers
Out on the dark ice far from the piers.
"Jeremy!" "Sweetheart?" "What do you fear?"
"Nothing, my darling--nothing is here!"
"Jeremy?" "Sweetheart?" "What do you flee?"
"Something--I know not; something I see!"
Swayed to a swift stride, brisker of pace,
Leaning and leaning, they race and they race;
Ever that whirring, that crisp sound thin
Like a string pluck-plucked of a violin;
Ever that swifter and low singing sound
Sweeping behind them, winding them round;
Gasp of their breath now that chill flakes fret:
Ice black as ebony--blacker--like jet!
Ice shooting fangs forth--sudden like spears;
Crackling of lightning--a roar in their ears!
Shadowy, a phantom swerves off from its prey...
No, it's a night bird flit-flits away!
Low-winging moth-owl, home to your sleep!
Ghost Lake's a still lake, a cold lake and deep.
Faint in its shadows a far sound whirrs.
Black stand the ranks of its sentinel firs.
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