Famed Poems/Famed Poets

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2007/05/27 22:14:22 (permalink)

Famed Poems/Famed Poets

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll, from the children's literature book Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871)
 
Jabberwocky
 
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
 
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
 
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
 
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
 
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
 
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
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    devil doll
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/05/27 22:44:56 (permalink)
    "A Poison Tree" from Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake
     
    I was angry with my friend:
    I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
    I was angry with my foe;
    I told it not, my wrath did grow.
     
    And I water'd it in fears,
    Night & morning with my tears;
    And I sunned it with my smiles
    And with soft deceitful wiles.
     
    And it grew both day and night,
    Till it bore an apple bright;
    And my foe beheld it shine,
    And he knew that it was mine,
     
    And into my garden stole
    When the night had veil'd the pole:
    In the morning glad I see
    My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree

    He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.--Close Encounters of the Third Kind
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/05/28 15:11:38 (permalink)
    Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, written in 1797, published in 1816. Coleridge claims the poem was inspired by an opium-induced dream, but that the composition was interrupted by the 'person of Porlock' (unwelcome visitor). 
     
    Kubla Khan
     
    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.

    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
    And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.

    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!

    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.

    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.

    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
    That with music loud and long,
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome ! those caves of ice!

    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/01 23:19:23 (permalink)
    anyone lived in a pretty how town...

    by E. E. Cummings (poem originally appeared in the August 1940 issue of Poetry)


    anyone lived in a pretty how town
    (with up so floating many bells down)
    spring summer autumn winter
    he sang his didn’t he danced his did.


    Women and men(both little and small)
    cared for anyone not at all
    they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
    sun moon stars rain


    children guessed(but only a few
    and down they forgot as up they grew
    autumn winter spring summer)
    that noone loved him more by more


    when by now and tree by leaf
    she laughed his joy she cried his grief
    bird by snow and stir by still
    anyone’s any was all to her


    someones married their everyones
    laughed their cryings and did their dance
    (sleep wake hope and then)they
    said their nevers they slept their dream


    stars rain sun moon
    (and only the snow can begin to explain
    how children are apt to forget to remember
    with up so floating many bells down)


    one day anyone died i guess
    (and noone stooped to kiss his face)
    busy folk buried them side by side
    little by little and was by was


    all by all and deep by deep
    and more by more they dream their sleep
    noone and anyone earth by april
    wish by spirit and if by yes.


    Women and men(both dong and ding)
    summer autumn winter spring
    reaped their sowing and went their came
    sun moon stars rain
    #4
    devil doll
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/02 14:00:55 (permalink)
    Heh, I was going to post 'Kubla Khan' myself.

    I found this next poem in 'World Poetry' (an anthology of verse from around the world, from ancient times to modern).  The author David Curzon may not be famed, but the poem is worth including in this thread anyway.

    Go to the ant, you sluggard,

    and watch it lug an object
    forward single file
    with no short breaks for
    coffee, gossip, a croissant,

    and no stopping to apostrophize
    blossom, by-passed because
    pollen is not its job,
    no pause for trampled companions:

    consider her ways-and be content.


    He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.--Close Encounters of the Third Kind
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/02 16:11:01 (permalink)
    Heh, I was going to post 'Kubla Khan' myself.

    DD, it IS a timeless classic!
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/04 09:28:35 (permalink)
    The Cross of Snow by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (written in 1879 lamenting the death of his wife 18 years prior)
     
    In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
        A gentle face — the face of one long dead —
        Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
        The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.Here in this room she died; and soul more white    Never through martyrdom of fire was led    To its repose; nor can in books be read    The legend of a life more benedight.There is a mountain in the distant West    That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines    Displays a cross of snow upon its side.Such is the cross I wear upon my breast    These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes    And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/06 22:26:07 (permalink)
    I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (The Daffodils) written by William Wordsworth in 1804 (first published in 1807)
     

    I wandered lonely as a cloud
    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
    When all at once I saw a crowd,
    A host, of golden daffodils;
    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Continuous as the stars that shine
    And twinkle on the milky way,
    They stretched in never-ending line
    Along the margin of a bay:
    Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

    The waves beside them danced; but they
    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
    A poet could not but be gay,
    In such a jocund company:
    I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
    What wealth the show to me had brought:

    For oft, when on my couch I lie
    In vacant or in pensive mood,
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude;
    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
    And dances with the daffodils.
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/08 23:28:24 (permalink)
    Chicago by Carl Sandburg (written and published in 1916)
     
     
    Hog Butcher for the World,
    Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
    Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
    Stormy, husky, brawling,
    City of the Big Shoulders:
    They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
    And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
    And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
    And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
    Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
    Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
    Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
    Bareheaded,
    Shoveling,
    Wrecking,
    Planning,
    Building, breaking, rebuilding,
    Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
    Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
    Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
    Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing!
    Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/11 11:42:24 (permalink)
    "Sonnet 94" by William Shakespeare published in 1609 with most of his other sonnets (critics have argued for years whether or not the last six lines address his patron, who may also be the beautiful aloof young man addressed in other sonnets)
     
    They that have power to hurt and will do none,
    That do not do the thing they most do show,
    Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
    Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
    They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
    And husband nature's riches from expense;
    They are the lords and owners of their faces,
    Others but stewards of their excellence.
    The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
    Though to itself it only live and die,
    But if that flower with base infection meet,
    The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
    For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
    Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

    He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.--Close Encounters of the Third Kind
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    Listen to Tennyson read 2007/06/11 13:13:39 (permalink)
    Lord Alfred Tennyson reading "The Charge of the Light Brigade" (recorded by Thomas Edison on a wax cylinder in 1890):  http://charon.sfsu.edu/TENNYSON/lightbrigadewax.html
     
    This link includes the text of the poem.

    He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.--Close Encounters of the Third Kind
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    Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/15 18:22:23 (permalink)
    Pray to What Earth Does This Sweet Cold Belong by Henry David Thoreau
    One of 13 poems published in The Dial (1840-1844)
     
     

    Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong,
    Which asks no duties and no conscience?
    The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path
    In some far summer stratum of the sky,
    While stars with their cold shine bedot her way.
    The fields gleam mildly back upon the sky,
    And far and near upon the leafless shrubs
    The snow dust still emits a silver light.
    Under the hedge, where drift banks are their screen,
    The titmice now pursue their downy dreams,
    As often in the sweltering summer nights
    The bee doth drop asleep in the flower cup,
    When evening overtakes him with his load.
    By the brooksides, in the still, genial night,
    The more adventurous wanderer may hear
    The crystals shoot and form, and winter slow
    Increase his rule by gentlest summer means.
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/17 14:06:57 (permalink)
    On The Pulse Of Morning by Maya Angelou
     
    composed in 1993 (Bill Clinton, a great admirer of Ms. Angelou, asked if she would read one of her poems at his presidential inaugural - instead she wrote a poem specifically for the event)
     
     

    A Rock, A River, A Tree
    Hosts to species long since departed,
    Marked the mastodon.
    The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
    Of their sojourn here
    On our planet floor,
    Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
    Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

    But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
    Come, you may stand upon my
    Back and face your distant destiny,
    But seek no haven in my shadow.
    I will give you no more hiding place down here.

    You, created only a little lower than
    The angels, have crouched too long in
    The bruising darkness,
    Have lain too long
    Face down in ignorance.
    Your mouths spilling words
    Armed for slaughter.
    The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
    But do not hide your face.

    Across the wall of the world,
    A River sings a beautiful song,
    Come rest here by my side.

    Each of you a bordered country,
    Delicate and strangely made proud,
    Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
    Your armed struggles for profit
    Have left collars of waste upon
    My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
    Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
    If you will study war no more. Come,
    Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
    The Creator gave to me when I and the
    Tree and the stone were one.
    Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
    Brow and when you yet knew you still
    Knew nothing.
    The River sings and sings on.

    There is a true yearning to respond to
    The singing River and the wise Rock.
    So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
    The African and Native American, the Sioux,
    The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
    The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
    The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
    The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
    They hear. They all hear
    The speaking of the Tree.
    Today, the first and last of every Tree
    Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
    Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

    Each of you, descendant of some passed
    On traveller, has been paid for.
    You, who gave me my first name, you
    Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
    Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
    Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
    Other seekers--desperate for gain,
    Starving for gold.
    You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot
    You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
    Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
    Praying for a dream.
    Here, root yourselves beside me.
    I am the Tree planted by the River,
    Which will not be moved.

    I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
    I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
    Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
    For this bright morning dawning for you.
    History, despite its wrenching pain,
    Cannot be unlived, and if faced
    With courage, need not be lived again.

    Lift up your eyes upon
    The day breaking for you.
    Give birth again
    To the dream.

    Women, children, men,
    Take it into the palms of your hands.
    Mold it into the shape of your most
    Private need. Sculpt it into
    The image of your most public self.
    Lift up your hearts
    Each new hour holds new chances
    For new beginnings.
    Do not be wedded forever
    To fear, yoked eternally
    To brutishness.

    The horizon leans forward,
    Offering you space to place new steps of change.
    Here, on the pulse of this fine day
    You may have the courage
    To look up and out upon me, the
    Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
    No less to Midas than the mendicant.
    No less to you now than the mastodon then.

    Here on the pulse of this new day
    You may have the grace to look up and out
    And into your sister's eyes, into
    Your brother's face, your country
    And say simply
    Very simply
    With hope
    Good morning

    post edited by Scar Tactics - 2007/06/17 14:13:54
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/20 19:43:57 (permalink)
    Brahma by Ralph Waldo Emerson


    If the red slayer think he slays,
    Or if the slain think he is slain,
    They know not well the subtle ways
    I keep, and pass, and turn again.

    Far or forgot to me is near;
    Shadow and sunlight are the same;
    The vanished gods to me appear;
    And one to me are shame and fame.

    They reckon ill who leave me out;
    When me they fly, I am the wings;
    I am the doubter and the doubt;
    And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

    The strong gods pine for my abode,
    And pine in vain the sacred Seven,
    But thou, meek lover of the good!
    Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
    #14
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/21 11:16:32 (permalink)
    XVIII by A.E. Housman
     
    Oh, when I was in love with you
    Then I was clean and brave,
    And miles around the wonder grew
    How well did I behave.

    And now the fancy passes by
    And nothing will remain,
    And miles around they'll say that I
    Am quite myself again.


    He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.--Close Encounters of the Third Kind
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/24 03:43:08 (permalink)
    "You Are Old Father William," by Lewis Carroll (a parody of Robert Southey's "The Old Man's Comforts and How He Got Them")

    You are old, Father William', the young man said,
    'And your hair has become very white;
    And yet you incessantly stand on your head --
    Do you think, at your age, it is right?'

    'In my youth', Father William replied to his son,
    'I feared it might injure the brain;
    But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
    Why, I do it again and again.'

    'You are old', said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,
    And have grown most uncommonly fat;
    Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door --
    Pray, what is the reason of that?'

    'In my youth', said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
    'I kept all my limbs very supple
    By the use of this ointment - one shilling the box -
    Allow me to sell you a couple?'

    'You are old', said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak
    For anything tougher than suet;
    Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak -
    Pray, how did you manage to do it?'

    'In my youth', said his father, 'I took to the law,
    And argued each case with my wife;
    And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
    Has lasted the rest of my life.'

    'You are old', said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose
    That your eye was as steady as ever;
    Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose -
    What made you so awfully clever?'

    'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'
    Said his father, 'don't give yourself airs!
    Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'

    He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.--Close Encounters of the Third Kind
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    RE: Famed Poems/Famed Poets 2007/06/24 18:33:06 (permalink)
    Our Countrymen In Chains! by John Greenleaf Whittier (1837)

    OUR FELLOW COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS!
       SLAVES—in a land of light and law !—
    SLAVES—crouching on the very plains
       Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war !
    A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood—
       A wail where Camden's martyr's fell—
    By every shrine of patriot blood,
       From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well !

    By storied hill and hallowed grot,
       By mossy wood and marshy glen,
    Whence rang of old the rifle shot,
       And hurrying shout of Marion's men !—
    The groan of breaking hearts is there—
       The falling lash—the fetter's clank !—
    Slaves—SLAVES are breathing in that air
       Which old De Kalb and Sumpter drank !

    What, ho !—our countrymen in chains !—
       The whip on WOMAN'S shrinking flesh !
    Our soil yet reddening with the stains,
       Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh !
    What ! mothers from their children riven !—
       What ! God's own image bought and sold !—
    AMERICANS to market driven,
       And bartered as the brute for gold !

    Speak !—shall their agony of prayer
       Come thrilling to our hearts in vain !
    To us—whose fathers scorned to bear
       The paltry menace of a chain ;—
    To us whose boast is loud and long
       Of holy liberty and light—
    Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong
       Plead vainly for their plundered Right ?

    What !—shall we send, with lavish breath,
       Our sympathies across the wave,
    Where manhood on the field of death
       Strikes for his freedom, or a grave ?—
    Shall prayers go up—and hymns be sung
       For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning—
    And millions hail with pen and tongue
       Our light on all her altars burning !

    Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,
       By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall
    And Poland, gasping on her lance,
       The impulse of our cheering call ?
    And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye,
       Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain ?
    And toss his fettered arm on high,
       And groan for freedom's gift, in vain ?

    Oh say, shall Prussia's banner be
       A refuge for the stricken slave ;—
    And shall the Russian serf go free
       By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave ;—
    And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane
       Relax the iron hand of pride,
    And bid his bondmen cast the chain
       From fettered soul and limb, aside ?

    Shall every flap of England's flag*
       Proclaim that all around are free,
    From 'fartherst Ind' to each blue crag
       That beetles o'er the Western Sea ?
    And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,
       When Freedom's fire is dim with us,
    And round our country's altar clings
       The damning shade of Slavery's curse ?

    Go—let us ask of Constantine
       To loose his grasp on Poland's throat—
    And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line
       To spare the struggling Suliote.
    Will not the scorching answer come
       From turbaned Turk, and fiery Russ—
    'Go, loose your fettered slaves at home,
       Then turn and ask the like of us !'

    Just God ! and shall we calmly rest,
       The christian's scorn—the heathen's mirth—
    Content to live the lingering jest
       And by word of a mocking earth ?
    Shall our own glorious land retain
       That curse which Europe seems to bear ?
    Shall our own brethren drag the chain
       Which not even Russia's menials wear ?

    Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,
       From gray-beard old to fiery youth,
    And on the nation's naked heart
       Scatter the living coals of Truth.
    Up—while ye slumber, deeper yet
       The shadow of our fame is growing—
    Up—While ye pause, our sun may set
       In blood, around our altars flowing !

    Oh rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth—
       The gathered wrath of God and man—
    Like that which wasted Egypt's earth,
       When hail and fire above it ran.
    Hear ye no warnings in the air ?
       Feel ye no earthquake underneath ?
    Up—up—why will ye slumber where
       The sleeper only wakes in death ?

    Up NOW for Freedom !—not in strife
       Like that your sterner fathers saw
    The awful waste of human life—
       The glory and the guilt of war :
    But break the chain—the yoke remove
       And smite to earth oppression's rod,
    With those mild arms of Truth and Love,
       Made mighty through the living God !

    Prone let the shrine of Moloch sink,
       And leave no traces where it stood
    Nor longer let its idol drink
       His daily cup of human blood :
    Bur rear another altar there,
       To truth and love and mercy given,
    And Freedom's gift and Freedom's prayer
       Shall call an answer down from Heaven !

    post edited by Scar Tactics - 2007/06/29 14:06:28
    #17
    devil doll
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    Ex-Basketball Player, by John Updike 2007/06/29 00:39:50 (permalink)
    Ex-Basketball Player, by John Updike
     
    Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
    Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
    Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
    At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth’s Garage
    Is on the corner facing west, and there, Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
    Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps—
    Five on a side, the old bubble-head style, Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low. One’s nostrils are two S’s, and his eyes An E and O. And one is squat, without A head at all—more of a football type.
    Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
    He was good: in fact, the best. In ’46 He bucketed three hundred ninety points, A county record still. The ball loved Flick. I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
    He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
    Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while, As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube, But most of us remember anyway. His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench. It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
    Off work, he hangs around Mae’s Luncheonette.
    Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball, Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates. Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
    post edited by devil doll - 2007/06/29 00:43:38

    He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.--Close Encounters of the Third Kind
    #18
    Scar Tactics
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    Ode to the West Wind 2007/06/29 14:45:54 (permalink)
    Ode to the West Wind  by Percy Bysshe Shelley
     
    I
    O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
    Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
    Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
    Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

    The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
    Each like a corpse within its grave,until
    Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

    Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
    (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
    With living hues and odours plain and hill:

    Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
    Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

     

    II

    Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
    Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
    Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

    Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
    On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
    Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

    Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
    Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
    The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

    Of the dying year, to which this closing night
    Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
    Vaulted with all thy congregated might

    Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
    Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!


    III
    Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
    The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
    Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

    Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
    And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
    Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

    All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
    So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
    For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

    Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
    The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
    The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

    Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
    And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

    IV
    If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
    If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
    A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

    The impulse of thy strength, only less free
    Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
    I were as in my boyhood, and could be

    The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
    As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
    Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
    Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
    I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

    A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
    One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.


    V
    Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
    What if my leaves are falling like its own!
    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

    Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
    Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
    My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
    Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
    And, by the incantation of this verse,

    Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
    Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
    Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

    The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

    post edited by Scar Tactics - 2007/06/29 14:49:19
    #19
    Scar Tactics
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    Walt Whitman 2007/07/07 17:56:32 (permalink)
    by Walt Whitman
     
     
    A Clear Midnight

    This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
    Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
    done,
    Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
    themes thou lovest best,
    Night, sleep, death and the stars.


    O Captain! My Captain!

    Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack,
    the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
    O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills, 

    For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores
    a-crowding,
    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
    Here Captain! dear father!
    This arm beneath your head!
    It is some dream that on the deck,
    You've fallen cold and dead.

    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
    The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
    From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
    Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
    But I with mournful tread,
    Walk the deck my Captain lies,
    Fallen cold and dead.
    post edited by Scar Tactics - 2007/07/07 17:58:52
    #20
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