Poems that please you Page 2

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  • dufftownallan 12 Jan 2012 03:58:28 4,518 posts
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    if i could see all my friends tonight
    i'd tell them how grateful i am
    for whatever random decisions
    strong bonds built with strangers
    for some reason
    i never accept you.
  • Fab4 12 Jan 2012 07:22:08 5,692 posts
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    From 'The keeper of Sheep' by Fernando Pessoa, writing as Alberto Caeiro,


    I never kept sheep,
    But it's as if I'd done so.
    My soul is like a shepherd.
    It knows wind and sun
    Walking hand in hand with the Seasons
    Observing, and following along.
  • MetalDog 12 Jan 2012 08:30:07 23,706 posts
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    Pleasing to see this thread back with a couple of nice contributions :)
    I always liked this one by that Gormenghast chappie:

    THE TROUBLE WITH GERANIUMS

    The trouble with geraniums
    is that they’re much too red!
    The trouble with my toast is that
    it’s far too full of bread.

    The trouble with a diamond
    is that it’s much too bright.
    The same applies to fish and stars
    and the electric light.

    The troubles with the stars I see
    lies in the way they fly.
    The trouble with myself is all
    self-centred in the eye.

    The trouble with my looking-glass
    is that it shows me, me;
    there’s trouble in all sorts of things
    where it should never be.

    Mervyn Peake

    @edit - I see EG is still randomly fucking up my posts because of equals smilies

    Edited by MetalDog at 08:31:46 12-01-2012

    -- boobs do nothing for me, I want moustaches and chest hair.

  • ResidentKnievel 12 Jan 2012 10:44:18 5,877 posts
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    I've always enjoyed this collection of poems.

    [code]Armoured_Bear wrote:
    Unlike yourself, I don't have a weird obsession with any platform.[/code]

  • localnotail 18 Dec 2012 10:04:17 23,093 posts
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    "Upon a Fart unluckily let,"

    [I] in Musarum deliciae: or, The Muses recreation. Conteining Severall Pieces of Poetique Wit. The second Edition. By Sr J.M. and Ja: S. (London: Printed by J.G. for Henry Herringman, 1656), pp. 37-39:


    Well Madam, wel, the Fart you put upon me

    Hath in this Kingdome almost quite undone me.

    Many a boystrous storm, & bitter gust

    Have I endur'd, by Sea, and more I must:

    But of all storms by Land, to me 'tis true,

    This is the foulest blast that ever blew.

    Not that it can so much impaire my credit,

    For that I dare pronounce, 'twas I, that did it.

    For when I thought to please you with a song,

    'Twas but a straine too low that did me wrong;

    But winged Fame will yet divulge it so,

    That I shall heare of't wheresoe're I goe.

    To see my friends, I now no longer dare,

    Because my Fart will be before me there.

    Nay more, which is to me my hardest doom,

    I long to see you most, but dare not come;

    For if by chance or hap, we meet together,

    You taunt me with, what winde, Sir, blew you hither?

    If I deny to tell, you will not fayle,

    I thought your voice, Sir, would have drown'd your Taile;

    Thus am I hamper'd wheresoe're you meet me,

    And thus, instead of better termes you greet me.


    I never held it such a heinous crime,

    A Fart was lucky held, in former time;

    A Foxe of old, being destitute of food,

    Farted, and said, this news must needs be good,

    I shall have food, I know, without delay,

    Mine Arse doth sing so merrily to day;

    And so they say he had. But yet you see

    The Foxes blessing proves a curse to me.

    How much I wronged am, the case is cleare,

    As I shall plainly make it to appear.

    As thus, of all men let me be forsaken,

    If of a Fart can any hold be taken:

    For 'tis a Blast, and we Recorded finde,

    King Aeolus alone commands the winde.

    Why should I then usurp, and undertake

    The Subject of a Royall Prince to make

    My Prisoner? No, but as my duty bindes,

    Leave that command unto the King of windes.

    So, when I found him struggling to depart,

    I freely gave him leave with all my heart.

    Then judge you, gentle Ladyes, of my wrong,

    Am I not well requited for my Song?

    All the revenge that I require is this,

    That you may Fart as oft as e're you pisse;

    So may you chance, the next time that we meet,

    To vie the Ruffe, and I dare not to see't.


    In the meane time, on knees devoutly bended,

    My Tongue craves pardon, if my Taile offended.

    A strange game. The only winning move is not to play.

  • senso-ji 18 Dec 2012 11:22:12 5,315 posts
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    Porphyria's lover, by Robert Browning:

    The rain set early in tonight,
    The sullen wind was soon awake,
    It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
    and did its worst to vex the lake:
    I listened with heart fit to break.

    When glided in Porphyria; straight
    She shut the cold out and the storm,
    And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
    Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
    Which done, she rose, and from her form
    Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
    And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
    Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
    And, last, she sat down by my side
    And called me. When no voice replied,
    She put my arm about her waist,
    And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
    And all her yellow hair displaced,
    And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
    And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
    Murmuring how she loved me—she
    Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor,
    To set its struggling passion free
    From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
    And give herself to me forever.

    But passion sometimes would prevail,
    Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain
    A sudden thought of one so pale
    For love of her, and all in vain:
    So, she was come through wind and rain.
    Be sure I looked up at her eyes
    Happy and proud; at last I knew
    Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
    Made my heart swell, and still it grew
    While I debated what to do.

    That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
    Perfectly pure and good: I found
    A thing to do, and all her hair
    In one long yellow string I wound
    Three times her little throat around,
    And strangled her. No pain felt she;
    I am quite sure she felt no pain.
    As a shut bud that holds a bee,
    I warily oped her lids: again
    Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

    And I untightened next the tress
    About her neck; her cheek once more
    Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
    I propped her head up as before
    Only, this time my shoulder bore
    Her head, which droops upon it still:
    The smiling rosy little head,
    So glad it has its utmost will,
    That all it scorned at once is fled,
    And I, its love, am gained instead!
    Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
    Her darling one wish would be heard.
    And thus we sit together now,
    And all night long we have not stirred,
    And yet God has not said a word!

    Edited by senso-ji at 11:22:47 18-12-2012
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