For all who like poetry.

[Darkside2009]

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

[bigregory]

It just seems to long to enjoy but it was good

[bigregory]

fav poem
The highwayman

[bigregory]

This is long too.
The Highwayman
PART ONE

I

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.



PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
'Now, keep good watch!' and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

X

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Alfred Noyes
He died about 1952
great poem

Funny things get changed over the years
The landlords black eyed daughter was Beth not Bess.
And in part 2 He had a bunch of lace at his face..
I still love it
My favorite line is.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

[bigregory]

My # 2 poem
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death



I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.



William Butler Yeats

[void()]

Antigonish, 1899
Hugh Mearn

Yesterday upon the stair

I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today

Oh how I wish he'd go away.




Other verses Mearn wrote:

As I was sitting in my chair,

I knew the bottom wasn't there,

Nor legs nor back, but I just sat,

Ignoring little things like that.


When I came home last night at three

The man was waiting there for me

But when I looked around the hall

I couldn't see him there at all!

Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!

Go away, go away, and please don't slam the

door... (slam!)



Also like Olgden Nash, Joseph Addison, Matthew Arnold in fits.

[Diva667]

"WILD GEESE"
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

also Loreena McKennit Singing "The Highwayman" (http://youtu.be/teq2m0BN-Wo)

[Yoyome100]

"The Calf-Path"
by Sam Walter Foss

One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And I infer the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bell—wether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell—wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made.
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed — do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.
This forest path became a lane
That bent and turned and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare.
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed this zigzag calf about
And o'er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way.
And lost one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.
A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf.
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.

[Hephaestion]

...........also Loreena McKennit Singing "The Highwayman" (http://youtu.be/teq2m0BN-Wo)

Poetry to music - excellent. In this case, as is the rest of the album "Book of Secrets".

So much out there. It's such a shame when music and the words are not of equal quality.

.

[bluesky55]

Here's one for Poetry Rhyme Time.

If that old Dr. we loved as children turned out to be bisexual and wrote a bisexual, internet personal ad it might go like this:

I'm tired of writing of things like ducks
I want to write of nice hot fucks
No more words like swooosh and shooosh
Just different kinds of christmas goose

I'd like to jack a nice hard dick
A nice hard one I'd like to lick
Into my mouth some nice hard cocks
I'd like them bare, don't want no socks

I'd watch it grow with every hug
But make it clean and free of bug
Onto my face I'd watch it shoot
And treasure it, like pirate loot

I'd like the chance to grab a taste
Without a single drop to waste
Some nice hot cum inside my mouth
Then move that dick down further south

I'd like to try it in the ass
I'd want my first to show some class
Don't care if he's short or long
I only ask for nice hard schlong

An average guy not built like waif
With covered dick to poke me safe
Wet with lube for slips and slides
Into my ass with ease it glides

In and out my ass he'd pump
Deep so that his balls would bump
Against my cheeks they'd be so slappy
I think that this would make me happy

I like the looks when dicks are cut
Would like one for my mouth and butt
That kind to me they look so fine
Maybe because they look like mine

I want this man a little older
I ask he be a little bolder
I do not want a younger boi
Want 40 plus to be my toy

So if this makes you want to meet
I'll suck your cock, you fuck my seat
And if you like my nice hard meat
You suck my cock, I'll fuck your seat

Hope to hear back from you,

Dr. Loose
The Versatile Horney Goose

[RyanPrince]

Before the world knew the term ADD I wrote this in my teens in an attempt to try to explain what was going on in my head.

I sit here mindless
a victim of waste
my soul is mirthless
a mind in disgrace

I can see nothing
is something there
I can hear nothing
a face of blank stare

I try to evoke
how do I explain
they think it’s a joke
they think its for fame

to elucidate
I cant concentrate

I chose this one to share with all of you becuase it is just another part of my life that my circle wouldnt understand. Anyways if you really enjoy poetry I have alot more.

[Rich28]

I've been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than i do
in an entire day

but if i wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
i will have done enough
and killed no one in the process.

Shane L Koyczan

[silberwolf1960]

Great reading. There is nothin like some poetry to read and enjoy. Great job folks. Threads like this one I really love to read.

[darkeyes]

I wrote this a little over four years ago upon a traumatic revelation of the secret of my birth. Some may remember. At the time I was in great pain, trembling, in floods of tears and felt so bitter and betrayed two people I most loved.

Frankie's Wail

I am Ann
Am not Frankie
She never was
And Franky is gone
As if he too never was
Half is no more
And half as if no more
I am 4 not 3
Am 1 not 2
Still the baby
And treated just like
I am me
Who?
Frances or Ann
God help me
Fukked if I know..
Why the lies?
Why the denial of Ann?
Of Frank?
Our birthright denied
My name not mine
Forgive them little boy
Forgive them for you
Forgive them for me...

I had almost forgotten.. Kate posted this when I was at my lowest ebb.. o to be so loved.. now she has me blubbing again... cow!

Lay beside thee
I sense and feel thy tears
The loss and anguish within thee, sweet vanity
Thy needs once more to be whole
Allow me to hold thee
To wipe away thy tears
No longer brusque
Now soft and vulnerable
Thy pain gnawing at thee
That past is no more
Not forgotten, yet it cannot harm
Thou art mine own comfort
Mine own joy
To hear thee laugh and sing
Make merry with life
‘Tis mine own bliss

Mere words cannot kill thy pain
These baubles are not all that I offer
And give freely my sweet vanity
But love, and my life
Thine to treasure or no
As is thy wont
My whole being
To be thy prop
Thy joy
Those who have transgressed
Who have harmed thee so
Did nothing from malice
But from grief and love
Thou art mine own sweet vanity
My life
Yet thou art not mine alone
Forget it not my dear
Those who have loved thee far longer than I
Have grieved once for their loss
Spare them thy ire
Dispense with bitter recrimination
And return the love which has always been thine

I grieve to see thee so
Return to us all that is thy essence
The love, the joy, music and laughter
Thy zest for life
That once inexhaustible compassion and forgiveness
And thy understanding
Not simply to me
But to all who are a part of thy world

__________________

[ErosUrge]

Keats___ Fragment

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather;
Come to-day and come to-morrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.
Meadows sweet where flames are under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomime;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Cleopatra regal-dress'd
With the aspic at her breast;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright, and muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale;--
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
Oh, the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright and muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil;
Let me see; and let me write
Of the day, and of the night--
Both together:--let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath'd with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass-tomb.