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  • FIRST POST
    • colinw
    • By colinw 21st May 17, 1:45 PM
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    colinw
    A-Z of Poets
    • #1
    • 21st May 17, 1:45 PM
    A-Z of Poets 21st May 17 at 1:45 PM
    Here is a one you gamesters will love

    Aristotle
    Last edited by colinw; 03-06-2017 at 2:43 PM.
Page 7
    • pollypenny
    • By pollypenny 7th Jun 17, 12:02 PM
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    pollypenny
    George Gordon, Lord Byron.

    She Walks in Beauty Like the Night.


    I can't copy on the flipping iPad.
    Member #14 of SKI-ers club

    Words, words, they're all we have to go by!.

    (Pity they are mangled by this autocorrect!)
    • colinw
    • By colinw 7th Jun 17, 12:12 PM
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    colinw
    George Gordon, Lord Byron.

    She Walks in Beauty Like the Night.


    I can't copy on the flipping iPad.
    Originally posted by pollypenny
    To the rescue!


    She Walks in Beauty BY Lord Byron


    She walks in beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that’s best of dark and bright
    Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
    Thus mellowed to that tender light
    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

    One shade the more, one ray the less,
    Had half impaired the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress,
    Or softly lightens o’er her face;
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

    And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
    But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
    A heart whose love is innocent!
    • colinw
    • By colinw 7th Jun 17, 12:14 PM
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    colinw
    Thomas Hardy

    The Man He Killed by Thomas Hardy

    Had he and I but met
    By some old ancient inn,
    We should have set us down to wet
    Right many a nipperkin!

    But ranged as infantry,
    And staring face to face,
    I shot at him as he at me,
    And killed him in his place.

    I shot him dead because--
    Because he was my foe,
    Just so: my foe of course he was;
    That's clear enough; although

    He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
    Off-hand like--just as I--
    Was out of work--had sold his traps--
    No other reason why.

    Yes; quaint and curious war is!
    You shoot a fellow down
    You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
    Or help to half a crown.


    and

    Dead Man Walking

    They hail me as one living,
    But don't they know
    That I have died of late years,
    Untombed although?

    I am but a shape that stands here,
    A pulseless mould,
    A pale past picture, screening
    Ashes gone cold.

    Not at a minute's warning,
    Not in a loud hour,
    For me ceased Time's enchantments
    In hall and bower.

    There was no tragic transit,
    No catch of breath,
    When silent seasons inched me
    On to this death ....

    -- A Troubadour-youth I rambled
    With Life for lyre,
    The beats of being raging
    In me like fire.

    But when I practised eyeing
    The goal of men,
    It iced me, and I perished
    A little then.

    When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
    Through the Last Door,
    And left me standing bleakly,
    I died yet more;

    And when my Love's heart kindled
    In hate of me,
    Wherefore I knew not, died I
    One more degree.

    And if when I died fully
    I cannot say,
    And changed into the corpse-thing
    I am to-day,

    Yet is it that, though whiling
    The time somehow
    In walking, talking, smiling,
    I live not now.
    Last edited by colinw; 07-06-2017 at 1:07 PM.
    • Chris25
    • By Chris25 7th Jun 17, 7:36 PM
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    Chris25
    Ibsen, Henrik

    Gone

    The last, late guest
    To the gate we followed;
    Goodbye -- and the rest
    The night-wind swallowed.

    House, garden, street,
    Lay tenfold gloomy,
    Where accents sweet
    Had made music to me.

    It was but a feast
    With the dark coming on;
    She was but a guest --
    And now, she is gone.
    • pollypenny
    • By pollypenny 7th Jun 17, 7:54 PM
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    pollypenny
    John Idris Jones

    Barry Island

    Between the haunted house,
    The sea-blue walls of the big-dipper,
    The fruit machines, the trinket stall,
    And the sea,

    Going round and round,
    Its horses on poles ascending and descending,
    Words circulating round its roof
    Reading : here are
    the ever popular
    stud of galloping
    horses and flying birds
    patronised and enjoyed
    by all classes.

    Circulating, circulating,
    Poised, clear -
    All classes -
    That's it, that's it,
    That's how life should be.
    Member #14 of SKI-ers club

    Words, words, they're all we have to go by!.

    (Pity they are mangled by this autocorrect!)
    • colinw
    • By colinw 7th Jun 17, 8:20 PM
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    colinw
    Rudyard Kipling

    Common Form

    If any questions
    why we died,
    Tell them,
    because our fathers lied.

    A Dead Statesman

    I could not dig: I dared not rob:
    Therefore I lied to please the mob.
    Now all my lies are proved untrue
    And I must face the men I slew.
    What tale shall serve me here among
    Mine angry and defrauded young?
    Last edited by colinw; 08-06-2017 at 8:16 AM.
    • pollypenny
    • By pollypenny 7th Jun 17, 8:34 PM
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    pollypenny
    Alun Lewis

    All Day it has Rained

    All day it has rained, and we on the edge of the moors
    Have sprawled in our bell-tents, moody and dull as boors,
    Groundsheets and blankets spread on the muddy ground
    And from the first grey wakening we have found
    No refuge from the skirmishing fine rain
    And the wind that made the canvas heave and flap
    And the taut wet guy-ropes ravel out and snap.
    All day the rain has glided, wave and mist and dream,
    Drenching the gorse and heather, a gossamer stream
    Too light to stir the acorns that suddenly
    Snatched from their cups by the wild south-westerly
    Pattered against the tent and our upturned dreaming faces.
    And we stretched out, unbuttoning our braces,
    Smoking a Woodbine, darning dirty socks,
    Reading the Sunday papers - I saw a fox
    And mentioned it in the note I scribbled home; -
    And we talked of girls and dropping bombs on Rome,

    And thought of the quiet dead and the loud celebrities
    Exhorting us to slaughter, and the herded refugees;

    As of ourselves or those whom we
    For years have loved, and will again
    Tomorrow maybe love; but now it is the rain
    Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain.

    And I can remember nothing dearer or more to my heart
    Than the children I watched in the woods on Saturday
    Shaking down burning chestnuts for the schoolyard's merry play,
    Or the shaggy patient dog who followed me
    By Sheet and Steep and up the wooded scree
    To the Shoulder o' Mutton where Edward Thomas brooded long
    On death and beauty - till a bullet stopped his song.


    Alun Lewis is one of my favourite poets. I wanted to post War Wedding versus the Marriage Bed, but it's not on poemhunter.
    Last edited by pollypenny; 07-06-2017 at 8:40 PM.
    Member #14 of SKI-ers club

    Words, words, they're all we have to go by!.

    (Pity they are mangled by this autocorrect!)
    • colinw
    • By colinw 8th Jun 17, 8:16 AM
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    colinw
    Les Murray

    Flowering Eucalypt

    In Autumn by
    That slim creek out of the sky
    the dried-blood western gum tree
    is all stir in its high reaches:

    its strung haze-blue foliage is dancing
    points down in breezy mobs, swapping
    pace and place in an all-over sway

    retarded en masse by crimson blossom.
    Bees still at work up there tack
    around their exploded furry likeness

    and the lawn underneath's a napped rug
    of eyelash drift, of blooms flared
    like a sneeze in a redhaired nostril,

    minute urns, pinch-sized rockets
    knocked down by winds, by night-creaking
    fig-squirting bats, or the daily

    parrot gang with green pocketknife wings.
    Bristling food tough delicate
    raucous life, each flower comes

    as a spray in its own turned vase,
    a taut starbust, honeyed model
    of the tree's fragrance crisping in your head.

    When the japanese plum tree
    was shedding in spring, we speculated
    there among the drizzling petals

    what kind of exquisitely precious
    artistic bloom might be gendered
    in a pure ethereal compost

    of petals potted as they fell.
    From unpetalled gun-debris
    we know what is grown continually,

    a tower of fabulous swish tatters,
    a map hoisted upright, a crusted
    riverbed with up-country show towns.
    • pollypenny
    • By pollypenny 8th Jun 17, 9:19 AM
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    pollypenny
    Ah, Colin, we did Les Murray in poetry group a fortnight ago! I was introduced to him, a new poet to me. Very interesting man and poet.

    And we're doing Neruda this month, so I'll look in a minute, unless someone gets in first. I have to use the MacBook. Need to get dressed and go off to vote!
    Member #14 of SKI-ers club

    Words, words, they're all we have to go by!.

    (Pity they are mangled by this autocorrect!)
    • pollypenny
    • By pollypenny 8th Jun 17, 12:28 PM
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    pollypenny
    Here we are then, Pablo Neruda

    Sonnet Xvii

    I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
    or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
    I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
    in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

    I love you as the plant that never blooms
    but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
    thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
    risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
    I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
    so I love you because I know no other way

    than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
    so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
    so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep
    Member #14 of SKI-ers club

    Words, words, they're all we have to go by!.

    (Pity they are mangled by this autocorrect!)
    • colinw
    • By colinw 8th Jun 17, 12:59 PM
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    colinw
    Wilfred Owen

    Disabled

    He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
    And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
    Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
    Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
    Voices of play and pleasure after day,
    Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

    About this time Town used to swing so gay
    When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
    And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
    In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
    Now he will never feel again how slim
    Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
    All of them touch him like some queer disease.

    There was an artist silly for his face,
    For it was younger than his youth, last year.
    Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
    He's lost his colour very far from here,
    Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
    And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
    And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

    One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
    After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
    It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
    He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
    Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
    That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
    Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
    He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
    Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

    Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
    And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
    Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
    For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
    And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
    Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
    And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

    Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
    Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
    Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

    Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
    And do what things the rules consider wise,
    And take whatever pity they may dole.
    Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
    Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
    How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
    And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
    • Chris25
    • By Chris25 8th Jun 17, 5:04 PM
    • 11,704 Posts
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    Chris25
    Plath, Slyvia

    I am Vertical

    But I would rather be horizontal.
    I am not a tree with my root in the soil
    Sucking up minerals and motherly love
    So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
    Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
    Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
    Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
    Compared with me, a tree is immortal
    And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
    And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

    Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
    The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odours.
    I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
    Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
    I must most perfectly resemble them--
    Thoughts gone dim.
    It is more natural to me, lying down.
    Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
    And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
    Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
    • colinw
    • By colinw 9th Jun 17, 9:26 AM
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    colinw
    Salvatore Quasimodo

    You should not have
    ripped out your image
    taken from us, from the world,
    a portion of beauty.
    What can we do
    we enemies of death,
    bent to your feet of rose,
    your breast of violet?
    Not a word, not a scrap
    of your last day, a No
    to earth’s things, a No
    to our dull human record.
    The sad moon in summer,
    the dragging anchor, took
    your dreams, hills, trees,
    light, waters, darkness,
    not dim thoughts but truths,
    severed from the mind
    that suddenly decided,
    time and all future evil.
    Now you are shut
    behind heavy doors
    enemy of death.


    Who cries?
    You have blown out beauty
    with a breath, torn her,
    dealt her the death-wound,
    without a tear
    for her insensate shadow’s
    spreading over us.
    Destroyed solitude,
    and beauty, failed.
    You have signalled
    into the dark,
    inscribed your name in air,
    your No
    to everything that crowds here
    and beyond the wind.
    I know what you were
    looking for in your new dress.
    I understand the unanswered question.
    Neither for you nor us, a reply.
    Oh, flowers and moss,
    Oh, enemy of death.
    • Chris25
    • By Chris25 9th Jun 17, 9:13 PM
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    Chris25
    Rosen, Michael

    Where Broccoli Comes From

    Not many people know
    that broccoli grows in the armpits
    of very big green men
    who live in the forest
    and brave broccoli cutters
    go deep into the forests
    and they creep up on the
    very big green men.
    They wait for the
    very big green men
    to fall asleep
    and the broccoli cutters
    get out their
    great big broccoli razors
    and they shave the
    armpits
    of the very big green men.
    And that’s where broccoli
    comes from.
    Not many people know that.

    Just thought I’d let you know.
    • pollypenny
    • By pollypenny 10th Jun 17, 6:20 PM
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    pollypenny
    Vernon Scannell

    Nettles
    My son aged three fell in the nettle bed.
    'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,
    That regiment of spite behind the shed:
    It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears
    The boy came seeking comfort and I saw
    White blisters beaded on his tender skin.
    We soothed him till his pain was not so raw.
    At last he offered us a watery grin,
    And then I took my billhook, honed the blade
    And went outside and slashed in fury with it
    Till not a nettle in that fierce parade
    Stood upright any more. And then I lit
    A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,
    But in two weeks the busy sun and rain
    Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:
    My son would often feel sharp wounds again.
    Member #14 of SKI-ers club

    Words, words, they're all we have to go by!.

    (Pity they are mangled by this autocorrect!)
    • colinw
    • By colinw 11th Jun 17, 3:32 PM
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    colinw
    Dylan Thomas

    Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas


    Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Dylan Thomas

    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on that sad height,
    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
    • frugalmacdugal
    • By frugalmacdugal 11th Jun 17, 4:10 PM
    • 5,881 Posts
    • 5,085 Thanks
    frugalmacdugal
    Hi,

    folks probably only know Rabbie Burns as a Scots poet, but there was William McGonagall,

    A three leg-ed dug rode west one day,
    Doon tae the jile at Moose Jaw,
    Sheriff he said, on unsteady leg,
    Sheriff I've come for ma paw.
    Last edited by frugalmacdugal; 12-06-2017 at 4:57 AM.
    Y'all take care now.
    • colinw
    • By colinw 11th Jun 17, 7:00 PM
    • 48,812 Posts
    • 133,430 Thanks
    colinw
    A Private Thought - Poem by Uloia Norris Moore

    Thread bare she
    whom I saw in
    San Francsico
    as I entered a store
    there she stood

    Poor perhaps
    I do not know

    The look on her face
    such made me
    turn back to apologize
    for a customer in a hurry
    no time for her face

    Dirty dieveled was she
    worthy was she
    dignity had she
    ashamed for he
    whom turned his back

    Before I left our eyes did meet
    an understanding foerever
    I keep

    The road home some
    never will see
    • Pyxis
    • By Pyxis 13th Jun 17, 6:37 AM
    • 26,527 Posts
    • 96,147 Thanks
    Pyxis
    Reetika Vazirani (1962–2003), American poet and educator

    Independence

    When I am nine, the British quit
    India. Headmaster says, "The Great
    Mutiny started it. "We repeat,
    The Great Mutiny of 1857
    in our booming voices. Even
    Akbar was Great, even Catherine,
    Great! We titter over History. His back
    Turns: we see his pink spotty neck.


    Sorry, the British leaving? we beg.
    "This is hardly a joke or a quiz --
    Sit up and stay alert," he spits.
    "It is about the trains and ships
    You love and city names. As for me,
    I'm old, I'll end in a library,
    I began in trade. "But you must stay,
    We tell him. He lived here as we have lived


    But longer. He says he was alive
    In Calcutta in 1890.He didn't have
    A rich father. A third son, he came with
    The Tea Company:we saw a statement
    In his office. The company built
    The railroads to take the tea "home
    To England" so that Darjeeling and Assam
    Could be sipped by everyone, us and them.


    They sold our southern neighbor Ceylon,
    Silk, pepper, diamonds, cotton.
    We make a trade of course. In England
    There is only wool and salt and
    Snobs and foggy weather, Shakespeare.
    (I just lurve spiders! )
    INFJ(Turbulent).

    Her Greenliness Baroness Pyxis of the Alphabetty, P.P..
    ¥ ¥ ¥
    X ~O
    • colinw
    • By colinw 13th Jun 17, 8:53 AM
    • 48,812 Posts
    • 133,430 Thanks
    colinw
    Richard Wilbur

    A Fire-Truck by Richard Wilbur

    Right down the shocked street with a
    siren-blast
    That sends all else skittering to the
    curb,
    Redness, brass, ladders and hats hurl
    past,
    Blurring to sheer verb,

    Shift at the corner into uproarious gear
    And make it around the turn in a squall
    of traction,
    The headlong bell maintaining sure and
    clear,
    Thought is degraded action!

    Beautiful, heavy, unweary, loud,
    obvious thing!
    I stand here purged of nuance, my
    mind a blank.
    All I was brooding upon has taken
    wing,
    And I have you to thank.

    As you howl beyond hearing I carry you
    into my mind,
    Ladders and brass and all, there to
    admire
    Your phoenix-red simplicity, enshrined
    In that not extinguished fire.
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