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Old 08-02-2007, 09:36 AM
 
Location: By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea
59,980 posts, read 43,629,794 times
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At times when you lose someone:


Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.


.......Mary Elizabeth Frye
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Old 08-02-2007, 09:45 AM
 
4,271 posts, read 14,245,974 times
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Quote:
Originally Posted by burdell View Post
Also, Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Whoa, I've actually read that one, too!! It is a very good poem.
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Old 08-02-2007, 09:53 AM
 
Location: PALM BEACH, FL.
607 posts, read 3,363,017 times
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I love Robert Frost


Who's woods are these I think I know

His house is in the village though

He will not see me sitting here......

polishing off this case of beer?



I seem to have forgotten the poem
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Old 08-02-2007, 09:57 AM
 
Location: on an island
13,387 posts, read 41,734,283 times
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Quote:
Originally Posted by burdell View Post
At times when you lose someone:


Do not stand at my grave and weep,
My mom had cut out this poem; we found it on her desk and I read it at her funeral. I really believe in it.
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Old 08-02-2007, 11:32 AM
 
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leaving cali: That is also MY favorite poem. Robert Frost is great. Also like much of e.e. cummings stuff.
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Old 08-02-2007, 01:26 PM
 
Location: Oxford, England
13,036 posts, read 22,583,818 times
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Rimbaud's "Dormeur du Val " ( Original French poem and approximate translation which does not do it justice)

Le dormeur du val

C’est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D’argent; où le soleil de la montagne fière,
Luit; C’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort; il est étendu dans l’herbe, sous la nue,
Pale dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme:
Nature, berce-le chaudement: il a froid.

Les parfums ne font plus frissonner sa narine;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au coté droit

Here’s an English translation by Lisa Yannucci…

The Sleeper in the Valley

There’s a recess in the greenery, where the river sings
Tangling wildly in the tattered grass
Silvery; where the sun from the proud mountain
Glimmers; It’s a little valley that sparkles with light.

A young soldier, mouth open, head bare,
And nape bathing in the cool blue cresses
Sleeping; he’s spread out on the grass, under the clouds,
Pale on his green bed where the light rains down.

Feet in the gladiolas, he sleeps. Smiling like
A sick child would smile, he dozes.
Warmly lull him Nature, he’s cold.

The scents no longer make his nose quiver
He sleeps in the sun, hand on his chest
Tranquil, he has two red holes on his right side.




Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple.
By Jenny Joseph.

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin slippers, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.


Most of my favourite poems are by World War I poets as I find them so poignant but I particularly like Rupert Brooke (and Wilfred Owen ) :

V. The Soldier by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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Old 08-02-2007, 01:54 PM
 
Location: Home is where we park it.
3,099 posts, read 8,497,421 times
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I got this from an email group and wanted to pass it along. I first read this the Christmas after my Mother died.

Lysandra Kay Bencke was my thirteen year old handicapped daughter. On Christmas day 1997, Lysandra had a seizure and was in a coma for five days before she died. During those five days I wrote the poem "Christmas in Heaven". I sent it out in a belated Christmas cards to friends and relatives that year. They also sent it on to other friends and relatives, thus the poem and the story behind it have been changed. See [url="http://www.christmasinheaven.net/story.html"] The story behind the poem by Wanda Bencke

I'm Spending Christmas With Jesus Christ This Year

I see the countless Christmas trees
Around the world below,
With tiny lights like heaven's stars
Reflecting in the snow.

The sight is so spectacular
Please wipe away that tear
For I'm spending Christmas
With Jesus Christ this year.

I hear the many Christmas songs
That people hold so dear
But earthly music can't compare
With the Christmas choir up here.

I have no words to tell you
The joy their voices bring
For it's beyond description
To hear the angels sing.
I know how much you miss me,
Trust God and have no fear
For I'm spending Christmas
With Jesus Christ this year.

I can't tell you of the splendor
Or the peace here in this place.
Can you imagine Christmas
With our Savior, face to face?

May God uplift your spirit
As I tell Him of your love
Then pray for one another
As you lift your eyes above.

So let your hearts be joyful
And let your spirits sing
For I'm spending Christmas in Heaven
And I'm walking with the king!

This one was given to me by a very dear friend just a few years before he died. I've cherished it since.
Life is Eternal

I am standing upon the seashore; a ship at my side
spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and
starts for the blue ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand
and watch her until – at length – she hangs like a
speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come
down to mingle with each other.

The someone at my side says, “There! She’s gone.”
Gone where? Gone from my sight – that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she
was when she left my side and just as able to bear her
load of living freight to the place of destination.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her; and just at the
moment when someone at my side says, “There! She’s
gone,” there are other eyes watching her coming and
other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “There
she comes!”

And that is dying.

- Author Unknown

And this one...

The Dash
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on his tombstone
From the beginning...to the end.
He noted that first came his date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
That he spent alive on earth...
And now only those who loved him
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars...the house...the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard...
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile..
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash...
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
-- Author Unknown

Liz
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Old 08-03-2007, 01:47 PM
 
Location: Warwick, NY
1,173 posts, read 5,596,615 times
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I appreciate many poets but the modern ones who seem to strike me most are Ezra Pound and Shelley. I love Imagist poetry but then, being a man, I suppose that's natural. I profoundly love Homer, Dante, and a host of unknown epic poets, but I'm not counting them here as I'm guessing they're in a different league of poetry altogether.

By Pound:

In A Station on The Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough
.

Stupid simple but magically evocative. It's brilliant.

This one is a translation by Pound of an old poem by Li-Po. I love the exact phrasing as if you can imagine a young wife saying these things and the wife saying, without every explicitly doing so, how her love has tempered over the years, that she's taken for granted, and that while she still loves her merchant husband, there are limits to that love:

The River-Merchant's Wife

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.


By Shelley:

I'm thinking of this poem very frequently these days and not for happy reasons. Coincidentally, it was written the very same dark and stormy night at Lord Byron's Swiss castle that Dr. Polidori wrote The Vampyre, and Shelley's wife began writing Frankenstein:

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 shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd 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


Song Of Proserpine

Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,
Thou from whose immortal bosom
Gods and men and beasts have birth,
Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,
Breathe thine influence most divine
On thine own child, Proserpine.

If with mists of evening dew
Thou dost nourish these young flowers
Till they grow in scent and hue
Fairest children of the Hours,
Breathe thine influence most divine
On thine own child, Proserpine


Sappho of Lesbos:

This last poet ranks as the greatest female poet who has ever lived and her works have been lauded in the highest for twenty six hundred years. For her tremendous gifts she was given the status of a man which, in ancient Greece, was something only prostitutes could achieve. Her poetry uses Imagery and Lyricism to create profoundly personal glimpses into the depth of her emotion. What we have of Sappho largely survives in fragments of papyrus, some of which were used to wrap mummies. Little is complete. Blame the sacking of Alexandria and the burning of the library there for this. It is the single greatest loss of knowledge the world has every experienced and we still have not recovered. The poems have no titles so I use the first word of the poems to distinguish them.

Cyprian

Cyprian, in my dream
the folds of a purple
kerchief shadowed
your cheeks --- the one

Timas one time sent,
a timid gift, all
the way from Phocaea


Awed

Awed by her splendor
stars near the lovely
moon cover their own
bright faces
when she
is roundest and lights
earth with her silver


Some

Some an army of horsemen, some an army on foot
and some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest sight
on this dark earth; but I say it is what-
ever you desire:

and it is possible to make this perfectly clear
to all; for the woman who far surpassed all others
in her beauty, Helen, left her husband --
the best of all men --

behind and sailed far away to Troy; she did not spare
a single thought for her child nor for her dear parents
but [the goddess of love] led her astray
[to desire...]

[...which]
reminds me now of Anactoria
although far away,


Please

Please come back to me, Gongyla, here tonight,
You, my rose, with your Lydian lyre.
There hovers forever around you delight:
A beauty desired.

Even your garment plunders my eyes.
I am enchanted: I who once
Complained to the Cyprus-born goddess,
Whom I now beseech

Never to let this lose me grace
But rather bring you back to me:
Amongst all mortal women the one
I most wish to see.

Last edited by Jason_Els; 08-03-2007 at 03:15 PM..
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Old 08-03-2007, 04:30 PM
 
Location: Phoenix metro
20,005 posts, read 70,941,688 times
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Some great poems guys!!! Keep em comin!

I dont have any specific poems I enjoy. But I do love this little phrase/sentence/etc that my grandmother used to have on her wall. It was a sepia drawing of a horse-drawn sleigh at night, traversing through the barren woods with a full moon (reminded me of a scene from Sleepy Hollow). Underneath the drawing was the following:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep


I would stare at that for hours and get lost in the moment. Im cheesy, I know.
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Old 08-03-2007, 05:10 PM
 
Location: Warwick, NY
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That line's from Frost's (whom I don't like one bit, sorry to say), Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, which has already been posted in this thread. Take a look at it. The word being unfairly assaulted by the censorship software is, "q-ueer"
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