What Poetry Moved You?

[spishoxxx]

Dreams of Darkness

 

I see demonic shadows,

floating in the darkness,

waiting me to fall a sleep,

searching a moment of my weakness...

 

Shadows of death,

inside my head,

this outstanding pain,

in my brain...

 

Flames of hellfire,

in my eyes,

smell of death,

in my nose...

 

Molten seas of hell,

this demonic smell,

someone is casting a dark spell,

holding me in the hell...

[Lipstick]

Blessed be the day, the month, the year

the season, the time, the hour, the instant

the moment and the place where I

was struck by those two lovely eyes that bound me;

 

and blessed be the first sweet agony

I felt when I found myself bound to love,

the bow and all the arrows that have pierced me,

the wounds that reach the bottom of my heart.

 

and blessed be all the poetry

I scattered calling out my lady's name,

and all the sighs, and tears, and the desire;

 

blessed be all the paper upon which

I earn her fame, and every thought of mine,

only of her, and shared with no one else.

 

And he loved her so ... 6:12:05, twice as much. :heart:

[lemon]

graces that heaven's bounty gives to tew:

a rare virtue not found in humankind,

under blond hair a wise and ripened mind,

and in a humble woman beauty true;

a loveliness unique in excellence,

and the singing that one hears in the heart,

the heavenly gait, the dear and ardent sense

that breaks the hardest, curbs the highest art;

the eyes that every heart can petrify,

puissant to lighten darkness, the abyss,

and to steal souls from bodies where they stormed;

and the speech full of reasons pure and high,

with the sighs sweetly broken for my bliss:

by these magicians i have been transformed.

 

s213.

 

as always, mask on but delighted to see you... then again this was public.

[tygerius]

invictus

[laging_nagmamahal]

"There Are Too Many Saviours On My Cross"

 

 

 

There are too many saviours on my cross

lending their blood to flood out my ballot-box

with needs of their own.

 

Who put you there?

Who told you that that was your place?

 

You carry me secretly naked in your hearts,

and clothe me publicly in armour, saying

"God is on our side,"

Yet I openly cry

"Who is on My side? Who, tell Me who?

You who buried your sons and crippled your fathers

whilst you buried My Father in crippling His Son."

 

The antiquated Saxon sword, rusty in its scabbard of time,

now rises.

You gave it cause in My name,

bringing shame to the thorned head that once bled for

your salvation.

I hear your cries in the far-off byways, and your

mouth pointing north and south,

and my Calvary looms again, desperate in rebirth.

Your earth is partitioned but in contrition

it is the partition in your hearts that you must abolish.

 

You nightly watchers of Gethsemane,

who sat through my nightly trial delivering me from evil,

now, deserted, I watch you share your silver.

Your purse, rich in hate, bleeds my veins of love,

shattering my bone in the dust of the Boxside

and the Shaghill Road.

 

There is no issue stronger than the tissue of love,

no need as holy as the palm outstretched in the

run of generosity,

no monstrosity greater than the anger you inflict.

 

Who gave you the right to increase your fold while

decreasing the pastures of My flock?

Who gave you the right? Who gave it to you, who?

and in whose name do you fight?

 

I am not in heaven,

I am here, hear Me.

I am with you, see Me,

I am in you, feel Me,

I am of you, be Me,

I am for you, need Me.

I am all mankind, only through kindness will you reach Me.

 

What masked and bannered men can rock the ark

and navigate a course to their own anointed kingdom come?

Who sailed their captain to waters that they troubled

in My font, sinking in the ignorant seas of prejudice?

 

There is no virgin willing to conceive in the heat of

any bloody Sunday.

You children, lying in cries on Derry streets,

pushing your innocence into the full-flushed face of Christian guns,

battling the blame on each other,

Do not grow tongues in your dying dumb wounds speaking My name.

I am not your prize in your death,

you have exorcised Me in your game of politics.

 

Go home to your knees, and worship Me in any cloth,

for I was never tailor-made.

And who told you I was? Who gave you the right to think it?

Take your beads in your crippled hands.

Can you count My decades?

Take My love in your crippled hearts.

Can you count the loss?

 

I am not orange, I am not green,

I am a half-ripe fruit, needing both colors to grow into ripeness,

and shame on you to have withered my orchard!

I, in my poverty, alone and without trust,

cry shame on you and shame on you again and again

for converting Me into a bullet and shooting Me into men's hearts.

 

The ageless legend of My trial grows old, and the youth of your pulse,

staggering shamelessly from barricade to grave,

filing in the book of history My needless death one April,

Let Me in My betrayal lie low in My grave,

and you in your bitterness lie low in yours,

for our measurements grow strangely dissimilar.

 

Our Father, who art in Heaven, sullied be Thy Name!

[sweetie]

Love is so very special

Yet can make you feel so lost

It can arrive just like the springtime

And melt away like morning frost

 

You must find ways to nurture

Always grow your love with care

Never ever take for granted

The love that you both share

 

Mistakes are bound to happen

You may hurt each other's heart

Yet don't give up to easily

It will tear your love apart

 

Love resembles a bright flame

That lights a dark starry night

Never ever let this flame burn down

Rekindle with all your might

 

Take a moment every day

Look deep into each other's eyes

Never hesitate to show affection

Small gestures will keep a love alive

 

Talk openly about your feelings

Take time to show that you care

Treasure each and every moment

Because to find true love is rare

[lemon]

Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight,

love's lashed and insatiable essences,

sodden with fragrance,

the lemon tree's yellow emerges,

the lemons move down from the tree's planetarium

 

Delicate merchandise!

The harbors are big with it-

bazaars for the light and the barbarous gold.

We open the halves of a miracle,

and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions:

creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive:

so the freshness lives on in a lemon,

in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,

the proportions, arcane and acerb.

 

Cutting the lemon the knife leaves a little cathedral:

alcoves unguessed by the eye that open

acidulous glass to the light; topazes

riding the droplets, altars,

aromatic facades.

 

So, while the hand holds the cut of the lemon,

half a world on a trencher,

the gold of the universe wells to your touch:

a cup yellow with miracles,

a breast and a nipple perfuming the earth;

a flashing made fruitage,

the diminutive fire of a planet.

 

Pablo Neruda.

 

Ya think?

[iwalkalone]

Our love is like a simple wildflower,

budding from a tiny scattered seed,

Carried by an aimless wandering wind,

having but a single chance to be.

 

Loneliness floats on a restless breeze,

two empty lives search for a home.

Crossing paths at a moment in time,

seeking love that can’t exist alone.

 

Needing one another to be whole,

restless souls together reaching out.

Driven by a thirst for something more,

nurtured by love without doubt.

 

Blossoming like the rose, love thrives,

its passion like the gentle summer shower.

Creating untold beauty as it blooms,

our love is like a simple wildflower.

 

http://mi5.bpcdn.us/ggg0/loveisblue.gif

[naked_angel]

Stars have a special gleam, a twinkle about them.

Only to be seen from your safe distance.

Galaxies away, they are gods of the universe.

Immortal and beautiful.

 

I tried to count all the stars in the universe.

Only to realize my ignorance.

That infinity cannot be totaled.

 

I tried to write about them.

But enigma of that kind can never be words.

We may try, but we will always fail.

 

And maybe that's the point.

That I can say that.

I tried to write about these gods.

And I failed.

And I'm supposed to see the beauty in that failure.

Failure to write about the stars.

 

But with a newfound thirst for stardust.

A heady objection to failure.

And just maybe.

For a fear that.

After passing up opportunities.

During The First and The Second.

I may not outlive them this time.

 

So now, in The Third Big Bang.

I can now proudly say.

I went star-hopping.

For the first time.

 

***

 

I first came to a constellation.

Shaped like a heart, with a small crack.

 

But I soon realized that these are silly gods.

And from that point I decided.

To call them plainly as stars.

 

These stars.

Kept on moving away from each and each.

Their respective gravities chose to repel.

And caused the small crack to open wider.

Wider, bigger, and in danger of breaking apart.

For reasons shocking and mysterious.

Mysterious, and no longer enigmatic.

 

Silly gods, indeed.

 

***

 

Indeed.

Stars have a special gleam, a twinkle about them.

Only to be seen from your safe distance.

Galaxies away, they are gods of the universe.

Immortal and beautiful.

But they burn you up close.

 

There are billions and billions.

Out there, so infinite of them.

And you.

It is you who burns the most.

 

-p.medina

[bluegreen717]

Puedo escribir -Pablo Neruda

 

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

 

Escribir, por ejemplo: 'La noche está estrellada,

y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.'

 

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

 

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

 

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.

La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

 

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.

Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

 

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

 

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmnesa sin ella.

Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

 

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guadarla.

La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

 

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.

Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

 

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.

Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

 

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.

Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

 

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.

Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

 

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.

Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

 

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.

Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

 

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,

mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

 

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,

y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

[X]

A thousand times I go astray

 

A thousand times I care not

 

No matter where I go or stay

 

She's not the one I got

 

 

A thousand times she haunts my dream

 

A thousand times I awake

 

And even though my eyes a-gleam

 

My heart beats fast she makes...

Edited July 5, 2006 by X

[bluegreen717]

Reluctance -Robert Frost

 

Out through the fields and the woods

And over the walls I have wended;

I have climbed the hills of view

And looked at the world, and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

And lo, it is ended.

 

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

When others are sleeping.

 

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

The flowers of the witch hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

But the feet question "Whither?"

 

Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?

[russ]

This anger is boiling.

Festering inside me.

It wants to erupt.

But it will remain hidden.

Away from prying eyes.

Hidden deep within my heart.

Away from everyone.

Too many secrets.

Painful memories.

Lies.

Betrayal.

I won’t ever tell.

No dealings.

Just forget it.

The anger will remain.

But my face won’t show.

My heart won’t tell.

I’m fine.

Perfectly fine...

 

http://www.angelfire.com/darkside/poems/dark.html

Edited July 7, 2006 by russ

[jodi sta.ana]

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same:.

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings,

And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son

 

---if, rudyard kipling

[Y-ohhh-Y]

I love this piece... I simply love Rilke... :thumbsupsmiley:

 

 

You who never arrived

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

 

 

You who never arrived

in my arms, Beloved, who were lost

from the start,

I don’t even know what songs

would please you. I have given up trying

to recognize you in the surging wave of the next

moment. All the immense

images in me – the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,

cities, towers, and bridges, and un-

suspected turns in the path,

and those powerful lands that were once

pulsing with the life of the gods –

all rise within me to mean

you, who forever elude me.

 

You, Beloved, who are all

the gardens I have ever gazed at,

longing. An open window

in a country house – and you almost

stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon, --

you had just walked down them and vanished.

And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors

were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back

my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same

bird echoed through both of us

yesterday, separate, in the evening…