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Post a favorite poem!
mberan42:
OZYMANDIAS
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Ozymandias:
Fuck youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.
SaskiWhiteflower:
1 Corinthians 13:1-13
--- Quote ---If I speak in the tongues of men and angels,
but have not love,
I have become sounding brass or a tinkling symbol.
And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge,
and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains,
but have not love, I am nothing.
And if I dole out all my goods, and
if I deliver my body that I may boast
but have not love, nothing I am profited.
Love is long suffering,
love is kind,
it is not jealous,
love does not boast,
it is not inflated.
It is not discourteous,
it is not selfish,
it is not irritable,
it does not enumerate the evil.
It does not rejoice over the wrong, but rejoices in the truth
It covers all things,
it has faith for all things,
it hopes in all things,
it endures in all things.
Love never falls in ruins;
but whether prophecies, they will be abolished; or
tongues, they will cease; or
knowledge, it will be superseded.
--- End quote ---
I truly love that one. And here is one of my own. Dont kill me, im still working on my english.
The only thing I'm good at
Is stating the obvious
Without any emotions
Writing down peoples "blue skies" and "red hearts"
The only thing I'm good at
Is talking trash
Why not at sweet talking?
Writing down peoples nasty lies and bad habits
The only thing I'm good at
Is writing the unreadable
And it doesn't make any sense now does it?
Writing down things people will never read or think of
The only thing I'm good at will dissapear
It wont make it through the ages
It wont ever really matter
Noone's to blame
Asterus:
Two of my favorites of late:
Chicken Scratch
Some say that the art of an artist is theirs
Their art is the mark that their medium bears
Their skill is judged by the meaning it shares
But this system is hollow inside
For instance my art is of paper and pen
Of where words are written, of where pencil's been
But if I erase them, what of it then?
This blank, from your eyes does it hide
But does this mean my work doesn't exist
The presence of [Deleted] words that we've missed?
Are the thoughts absent in the world if there isn't a list?
If that is so, by these rules I won't abide
The act of this pen gouging paths on this page
Is naught but my mark binding thoughts to a cage
Yet the prison isn't a container, instead it's a stage
Upon which these words act as a guide
My words are not mine, they've existed all along
The potential for poem, the potential for song
What I've done is put them into material strong
This is the truth to you I'll confide
Doorway to dream
The gate that leads to other worlds
Is made of paper and pen
What is it you the reader reads here and now?
what is it the writer wrote then?
The vistas imagined, though thought made them real
The construct and rise of a dream
The building of a dimension based on inspiration
Some central, integral theme
Yet the text is naught but a doorway
And the author is naught but a guide
You are free to step through and wander alone
Explore for yourself what's inside
The truth is that nothing stands the same for all
That our eyes are not equal in sight
That we see not the same vista of dream
Even though it's enbathed in the same light
So wander onward, reader! Step through doorway of text
Wander onward across this strange land
Move on your own whim, independent of any
This I, as the writer, demand!
Algernon:
Epilogue, by Robert Lowell
Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme—
why are they no help to me now
I want to make
something imagined, not recalled?
I hear the noise of my own voice:
The painter’s vision is not a lens,
it trembles to caress the light.
But sometimes everything I write
with the threadbare art of my eye
seems a snapshot,
lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,
heightened from life,
yet paralyzed by fact.
All’s misalliance.
Yet why not say what happened?
Pray for the grace of accuracy
Vermeer gave to the sun’s illumination
stealing like the tide across a map
to his girl solid with yearning.
We are poor passing facts,
warned by that to give
each figure in the photograph
his living name.
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