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.
Poems that please you • Page 2
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dufftownallan 4,723 posts
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Fab4 7,762 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 24,035 posts
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Registered 15 years ago
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.
@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
ResidentKnievel 6,908 posts
Seen 9 hours ago
Registered 9 years ago
I've always enjoyed this collection of poems.
localnotail 23,084 posts
Seen 3 years ago
Registered 8 years ago
"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.
senso-ji 7,436 posts
Seen 13 minutes ago
Registered 8 years ago
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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