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about forget?

or forgiveness?

or bitterness?

or blame turning into regret?

 

I think I have already posted this one, but it is always good to read.

 

The road not taken

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

 
Robert Frost

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Sonnet Iv: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend -


Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

William Shakespeare

 

:)

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Violin And A Little Nervous - Poem by Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski

Violin was torn to pieces begging,

And then broke out in tears

So childishly,

That Drum couldn't handle it any longer,

“It's all right, it's all right, it's all right!” He got tired, Not hearing out Violin's speech, and Sneaked out to the Kuznetsky, And made off. The orchestra looked strangely, as Violin cried herself out — Wordless — Without tempo — And only somewhere Foolish Cymbals Were banging out: “What is it?” “How is it?” Then when Helicon — Copper-faced — Sweating — Shouted: “Stupid! Softy! Wipe it off!” I got up, Shaking, crawled over the notes, Bending low under the horror of the pupitre, For some reason cried out, “Oh, God!” Threw myself at her wooden neck, “Violin, you know? We are so alike: I do also Shout — But still can not prove anything either!” The musicians are laughing: “Gotcha! He's dating a wooden girlfriend! Smart one, ha!” I don't give a damn! I am worthy! “You know what, Violin? Why don't we — Move in together! Ha?”

 

 

 

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Sonet XVII   William Shakespeare

 

 

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

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Sonnets Xxv: Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars - Poem by William Shakespeare

 

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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To Thomas Moore (My Boat Is On The Shore) - Poem by George Gordon Byron

 

 

I.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;

But before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee!

 

II.

Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate;

And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate.

 

III.

Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on;

Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.

 

IV.

Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasp'd upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

 

V.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Should be - peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

 

July 1817.

George Gordon Byron

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I found it is so heartful, it is long,but amazing poem of A Scottish poet:

 

Iona
Poem
 
Where are you taking us, sir?
the crew needed to know;
but since by the final day
my guiding star,
instinct and purpose both, had strayed so far
off the monitor – I found I couldn't stay
for fear of the answer.

To tell the truth
I had given up on youth; would only stew
in the chemical toilet, the door half-
open, a 'cry for help', till out of the blue
a nurse ducked
from the cockpit holding you, and I
was face to face with my pilot!

*

In the weeks before you were born
the head did warn
me not to give over the stage at once
to baby talk: and so we stood our ground
when from among your breathings-out were told
two voluntary sounds,
a rudimentary yes and no.

But now, when all the words
we care about are yours, I have to tender
our deep surrender;
as in a suit of dungarees you go
groping your way to sense
like Milton, blind before he felt
the wall's resistance.

*

Already you discern what the artist meant
in an old poster of mine, the 'Mars'
of Velazquez: the war god in his afterprime
released too soon
from that perpetual service; sat
in his demob nakedness and gloom,
only his helmet on, almost
a souvenir, muscles smoking away,
until you up and say

– Poor tin soldier man!
He's thinking about things!


*

My right hand is Nessie's head,
her neck my dripping arm.
How old
is the dinosaur?
Forty
or fifty million years.

Can the dinosaur sing? No,
too old; but likes to be soothed
by others singing.

I open her thumb–
and-finger beak
at least to let her speak
in her quavery Triassic,
'Take me to your leader!'
– to which you instantly,

I haven't got any leader.

*

What, meanwhile, are my own terms?
Darling – 'little' –
Mädchen – the same
Suspicious argot I used to spy on.

*

Strange, that we dwell so much
sometimes, on self and such,
that we can spend an age without
a clear view out:
when, if I asked the mirror once
in the way of an old queen,
to frame how things might look
twenty or thirty visits thence,
all it reflected back was white
and unrefracted light, the mean
prophetics of a closed book.

Of course, it was not allowed to show
or we to know
that you were coming all the time,
my perfect rhyme;
how you would seize the reins, Iona,
riding my shoulders over the hill
or rarely sitting still,
your hands spread on my knees, my jeans
the sidelines of your throne.
Succession is easy: first it was them,
then me for a bit; and now it's you.

*

Granted your repertoire
has lumps in it,
of Shrek and Cinderella;
but there’s prodigious poetry too,
a magic spring
in the sweet Cordelia thing
you once undid me with –


Let’s laugh through all the days, till the water
comes over our eyes …

or, which is more my line – not
mawkish, I think, or maudlin:

In Oxford Church, there are two Marys;
one of them has got a baby
and one of them hasn’t got a baby.
 
Mick Imlah

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that is a point of view.

 
Answer - Poem by Sir Walter Scott

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.

 

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Innocence

 

Sensation - Poem by Arthur Rimbaud

 

In the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths,
And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat:
Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet.
I will let the wind bathe my bare head.
I will not speak, I will have no thoughts:
But infinite love will mount in my soul;
And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy,
Through the country side-joyous as if I were with a woman.

 

 

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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The morning of - Poem by Thomas Love Peacock

 

 

 

O! The spring-time of life is the season of blooming,
And the morning of love is the season of joy;
Ere noontide and summer, with radiance consuming,
Look down on their beauty, to parch and destroy.
0! faint are the blossoms life's pathway adorning,
When the first magic glory of hope is withdrawn;
For the flowers of the spring, and the light of the morning,
Have no summer budding, and no second dawn.

Through meadows all sunshine, and verdure, and flowers
The stream of the valley in purity flies;
But mixed with the tides, where some proud city lowers,
O! where is the sweetness that dwelt on its rise ?
The rose withers fast-on the breast it first graces;
Its beauty is fled ere the day be half done:--
And life is that stream which its progress defaces,
And love is that flower which can bloom but for one.

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    Paul VERLAINE   (1844-1896)


Il pleure dans mon coeur

Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville ;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie,
Ô le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison ?...
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon coeur a tant de peine !

 

 

I know it may sound in vane for someone, but life can be different.
 

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Chanson

 

Quel jour sommes-nous
Nous sommes tous les jours
Mon amie
Nous sommes toute la vie
Mon amour
Nous nous aimons et nous vivons
Nous vivons et nous nous aimons
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c'est que la vie
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c'est que le jour
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c'est que l'amour.

Jacques Prevert

 

gracious!

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I found it is so heartful, it is long,but amazing poem of A Scottish poet:

 

 

Iona Poem

 

Where are you taking us, sir?

the crew needed to know;

but since by the final day

my guiding star,

instinct and purpose both, had strayed so far

off the monitor – I found I couldn't stay

for fear of the answer.

 

To tell the truth

I had given up on youth; would only stew

in the chemical toilet, the door half-

open, a 'cry for help', till out of the blue

a nurse ducked

from the cockpit holding you, and I

was face to face with my pilot!

 

*

 

In the weeks before you were born

the head did warn

me not to give over the stage at once

to baby talk: and so we stood our ground

when from among your breathings-out were told

two voluntary sounds,

a rudimentary yes and no.

 

But now, when all the words

we care about are yours, I have to tender

our deep surrender;

as in a suit of dungarees you go

groping your way to sense

like Milton, blind before he felt

the wall's resistance.

 

*

 

Already you discern what the artist meant

in an old poster of mine, the 'Mars'

of Velazquez: the war god in his afterprime

released too soon

from that perpetual service; sat

in his demob nakedness and gloom,

only his helmet on, almost

a souvenir, muscles smoking away,

until you up and say

– Poor tin soldier man!

He's thinking about things!

 

*

 

My right hand is Nessie's head,

her neck my dripping arm. How old

is the dinosaur? Forty

or fifty million years.

Can the dinosaur sing? No,

too old; but likes to be soothed

by others singing.

 

I open her thumb–

and-finger beak

at least to let her speak

in her quavery Triassic,

'Take me to your leader!'

– to which you instantly,

I haven't got any leader.

 

*

 

What, meanwhile, are my own terms?

Darling – 'little' – Mädchen – the same

Suspicious argot I used to spy on.

 

*

 

Strange, that we dwell so much

sometimes, on self and such,

that we can spend an age without

a clear view out:

when, if I asked the mirror once

in the way of an old queen,

to frame how things might look

twenty or thirty visits thence,

all it reflected back was white

and unrefracted light, the mean

prophetics of a closed book.

 

Of course, it was not allowed to show

or we to know

that you were coming all the time,

my perfect rhyme;

how you would seize the reins, Iona,

riding my shoulders over the hill

or rarely sitting still,

your hands spread on my knees, my jeans

the sidelines of your throne.

Succession is easy: first it was them,

then me for a bit; and now it's you.

 

*

 

Granted your repertoire

has lumps in it,

of Shrek and Cinderella;

but there’s prodigious poetry too,

a magic spring

in the sweet Cordelia thing

you once undid me with –

 

Let’s laugh through all the days, till the water

comes over our eyes …

or, which is more my line – not

mawkish, I think, or maudlin:

In Oxford Church, there are two Marys;

one of them has got a baby

and one of them hasn’t got a baby.

 

Mick Imlah[/quote

 

This is lovely. Thanks for posting this Paola. :)

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'I've seen you walk unafraid
I've seen you in the clothes you've made
Can you see the beauty inside of me?
What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?'

 

 

'City of Blinding lights'   U2

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I found it is so heartful, it is long,but amazing poem of A Scottish poet:

 

 

Iona Poem

 

Where are you taking us, sir?

the crew needed to know;

but since by the final day

my guiding star,

instinct and purpose both, had strayed so far

off the monitor – I found I couldn't stay

for fear of the answer.

 

To tell the truth

I had given up on youth; would only stew

in the chemical toilet, the door half-

open, a 'cry for help', till out of the blue

a nurse ducked

from the cockpit holding you, and I

was face to face with my pilot!

 

*

 

In the weeks before you were born

the head did warn

me not to give over the stage at once

to baby talk: and so we stood our ground

when from among your breathings-out were told

two voluntary sounds,

a rudimentary yes and no.

 

But now, when all the words

we care about are yours, I have to tender

our deep surrender;

as in a suit of dungarees you go

groping your way to sense

like Milton, blind before he felt

the wall's resistance.

 

*

 

Already you discern what the artist meant

in an old poster of mine, the 'Mars'

of Velazquez: the war god in his afterprime

released too soon

from that perpetual service; sat

in his demob nakedness and gloom,

only his helmet on, almost

a souvenir, muscles smoking away,

until you up and say

– Poor tin soldier man!

He's thinking about things!

 

*

 

My right hand is Nessie's head,

her neck my dripping arm. How old

is the dinosaur? Forty

or fifty million years.

Can the dinosaur sing? No,

too old; but likes to be soothed

by others singing.

 

I open her thumb–

and-finger beak

at least to let her speak

in her quavery Triassic,

'Take me to your leader!'

– to which you instantly,

I haven't got any leader.

 

*

 

What, meanwhile, are my own terms?

Darling – 'little' – Mädchen – the same

Suspicious argot I used to spy on.

 

*

 

Strange, that we dwell so much

sometimes, on self and such,

that we can spend an age without

a clear view out:

when, if I asked the mirror once

in the way of an old queen,

to frame how things might look

twenty or thirty visits thence,

all it reflected back was white

and unrefracted light, the mean

prophetics of a closed book.

 

Of course, it was not allowed to show

or we to know

that you were coming all the time,

my perfect rhyme;

how you would seize the reins, Iona,

riding my shoulders over the hill

or rarely sitting still,

your hands spread on my knees, my jeans

the sidelines of your throne.

Succession is easy: first it was them,

then me for a bit; and now it's you.

 

*

 

Granted your repertoire

has lumps in it,

of Shrek and Cinderella;

but there’s prodigious poetry too,

a magic spring

in the sweet Cordelia thing

you once undid me with –

 

Let’s laugh through all the days, till the water

comes over our eyes …

or, which is more my line – not

mawkish, I think, or maudlin:

In Oxford Church, there are two Marys;

one of them has got a baby

and one of them hasn’t got a baby.

 

Mick Imlah[/quote

 

This is lovely. Thanks for posting this Paola. :)

In fact that's why I have posted it!

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Variations of nothing

 

 

That negligible bit of sand which slides
Without a sound and settles in the hourglass,
And the fleeting impressions on the fleshy-pink,
The perishable fleshy-pink, of a cloud...

Then a hand that turns over the hourglass,
The going back for flowing back, of sand,
The quiet silvering of a cloud
In the first few lead-gray seconds of dawn...

The hand in shadow turned the hourglass,
And the negligible bit of sand which slides
And is silent, is the only thing now heard,
And, being heard, doesn't vanish in the dark.

 

Giuseppe Ungaretti.

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later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

 

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere

 

-- Warsan Shire

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later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

 

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere

 

-- Warsan Shire

good

 

Belfast, what is of the past it looks bright, but History tells us of dismay. Rebels of yesterday, oppressors of today, is that the logic circle?

 

belfast-opera-house-728x344.jpg

 

source : http://www.framor.eu/belfast/

 

If you can travel you can verify the real.

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Sleep now, o, sleep now

 

Sleep now, O sleep now,
O you unquiet heart!
A voice crying "Sleep now"
Is heard in my heart.

The voice of the winter
Is heard at the door.
O sleep, for the winter
Is crying "Sleep no more."

My kiss will give peace now
And quiet to your heart -- -
Sleep on in peace now,
O you unquiet heart!

 

James Joyce
 
 
:mellow:

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Hi gang, I'm going to file this under Poems. It's basically a poem set to music, which was then reverse engineered into a song. You can download it if you like or just check it out here, I hope you'll like it:

https://soundcloud.com/bookofcaverns/waiting-for-the-flowers-to-bloom-annihilator-mix

 

It's basically about waiting for a Love that never comes; Divine/Mortal/Spiritual, but keeping the faith even through death.

Edited by razspazz

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