What Poetry Moved You?

[banditrevolver]

Do you remember still the falling stars

that like swift horses through the heavens raced

and suddenly leaped across the hurdles

of our wishes--do you recall? And we

did make so many. For there were countless numbers

of stars: each time we looked above we were

astounded by the swiftness of their daring play,

while in our hearts we felt safe and secure

watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate,

knowing somehow we had survived their fall.

 

Rainer Maria Rilke

[neville]

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled

 

E. E. Cummings

 

 

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to preceive in this world equals

the power of you intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

:flowers:

 

hahaha, ako ito rin ang boto ko!

 

[Guest bleeding_angel]

Leaves

-Sara Teasdale

 

One by one, like leaves from a tree

All my faiths have forsaken me;

But the stars above my head

Burn in white and delicate red,

And beneath my feet the earth

Brings the sturdy grass to birth.

I who was content to be

But a silken-singing tree,

But a rustle of delight

In the wistful heart of night--

I have lost the leaves that knew

Touch of rain and weight of dew.

Blinded by a leafy crown

I looked neither up nor down--

But the little leaves that die

Have left me room to see the sky;

Now for the first time

I know Stars above and earth below.

Edited August 15, 2007 by bleeding_angel

[Guest bleeding_angel]

But Not To Me

-Sara Teasdale

 

The April night is still and sweet

With flowers on every tree;

Peace comes to them on quiet feet,

But not to me.

 

My peace is hidden in his breast

Where I shall never be,

Love comes to-night to all the rest,

But not to me.

[reix]

What is the sound of one heart breaking?

 

 

It is the sound of someone curled up in a tiny ball

crying softly in the night, the sound of the first

unwanted teardrop touching your skin, its the sound of

the telephone that does'nt ring, the sound of regret

pounding inside your brain with every heartbeat, its

the whispers of the toy animals he gave you.

 

Its the shuffling of the feet walking away from you,

the sound of your soul shattering into a million

pieces at recognizing the word "goodbye", its the

soundtrack of memories torturing you, its the sound of

feeble hands trying to push you back the obstinate

hands of time, its the sound of a cherub's dying

breath, the sound of all those years disappering in

the vortex of Cupid's kitchen sink, its the

unrelenting, plaintive baby meows of an abondoned

kitten outside an ignoring door.

 

Its the sound of the rain that doesnt ever stop, the

sound of all the doors in the world shutting and

closing in your face at the same time, of

raging,howling storms in the night when theres no one

there to hold you,the sound of your voice as it

screams back at you, the echo of "i love yous" burning

holes in you, the sound your heart makes as it tells

you to lie still because nothing you will ever do will

matter without love.

 

 

The sound of things in your room being thrown aaround

and landing on the floor, the caress of sharpened

kitchen knives on the skin, the sound your throat

makes as you swallow your saltiest tear. Its the sound

of your voice calling out to someone who isnt there,

of winged creatures dying and falling on a city

pavement, of terms of endearment used hundred times a

days struggling to crawl into a vacuum of

forgetfulness, its the sound of your sobs keeping you

company, its the cold, uncaring stillness of the air

you share your space with.

 

 

Destruction isnt always as noisy as bombs exploding.

Sometimes the ultimate catastrophes are as quiet as a

feather falling on the floor of a Zen monastery. No

one else can hear your heart breaking except you.

[molato]

without pretensions, i just love this poem. enough said, lest i ruin it.

 

Pablo Neruda - XVII (I do not love you...)

 

 

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.

[little_devil]

SOLTERA

 

Tinatanong mo pa rin hanggang ngayon

kung bakit hindi pa ako nag-aasawa.

Sa pagkakataong ito, hindi na ako natawa.

Luminga akong naghahanap ng mga sagot:

Baka nakalista sa aking mga tula.

Baka nakaguhit sa aking mga pintura.

Baka nakaeksena sa aking mga pelikula.

Pinilit kong tandaan

kung ito ba ang pinagpilian:

ang kamera kaysa sa kaserola,

ang kanbas kaysa sa kuna,

ang talinghaga kaysa sa asawa.

 

Tinatanong mo pa rin hanggang ngayon

kung bakit wala pa rin akong kasama.

Kahit kelan hindi ko inisip

na ang pag-iisa

ay isang sumpa.

Hindi na muna ako lilinga,

magtanong ka man isang beses pa.

Baka ang darating na sagot ay matagal pa.

 

- Vivian N. Limpin

[Guest freyja]

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes

Emily Dickinson.

 

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs

The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,

And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

 

The Feet, mechanical, go round

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought

A Wooden way

Regardless grown,

A Quartz contentment, like a stone

 

This is the Hour of Lead

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons recollect the Snow

First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go

[naked_angel]

variations on the word "sleep"

margaret atwood

 

 

i would like to watch you sleeping,

which may not happen.

i would like to watch you,

sleeping. i would like to

sleep with you, to enter

your sleep as its smooth dark wave

slides over my head

 

and walk with you through that lucent

wavering forest of bluegreen leaves

with its watery sun and three moons

towards the cave where you must descend,

towards your worst fear

 

i would like to give you

the silver branch,

the small white flower,

the one word that will protect you

from the grief at the center

of your dream, from the grief

at the center. i would like to follow

you up the long stairway

again and become

the boat that would row you back

carefully, a flame

in two cupped hands

to where your body lies

beside me, and you enter it

as easily as breathing in

i would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. i would like to be that unnoticed

and that necessary.

[naked_angel]

variations on the word love

 

 

this is a word we use to plug

holes with. it's the right size for those warm

blanks in speech, for those red heart-

shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing

like real hearts. add lace

and you can sell

it. we insert it also in the one empty

space on the printed form

that comes with no instructions. there are whole

magazines with not much in them

but the word love, you can

rub it all over your body and you

can cook with it too. How do we know

it isn't what goes on at the cool

debaucheries of slugs under damp

pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-

seedlings nosing their tough snouts up

among the lettuces, they shout it.

Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising

their glittering knives in salute.

 

then there's the two

of us. this word

is far too short for us, it has only

four letters, too sparse

to fill those deep bare

vacuums between the stars

that press on us with their deafness.

it's not love we don't wish

to fall into, but that fear.

this word is not enough but it will

have to do. it's a single

vowel in this metallic

silence, a mouth that says

o again and again in wonder

and pain, a breath, a finger

grip on a cliffside. you can

hold on or let go.

[poppinfresh2k5]

Tonight I can write the saddest lines

 

 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

 

Write, for example,'The night is shattered

and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

 

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

 

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

 

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

 

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

 

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is shattered and she is not with me.

 

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

 

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

 

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

 

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

 

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.

Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

 

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

 

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

 

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.

 

Pablo Neruda

[poppinfresh2k5]

Where the Sidewalk Ends

 

 

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

 

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

 

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

 

Shel Silverstein

[dakota]

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

 

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

Half a league half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred:

'Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns' he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

 

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'

Was there a man dismay'd ?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do & die,

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

 

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd & thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

 

Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they turn'd in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack & Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,

Shatter'd & sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

 

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

While horse & hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro' the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

 

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

[melancholic]

She is...

 

A certified neck twister

A retina super glue

Need a day brighter?

See her for a second or two

 

A wormhole in space

To a world of fantasy

Reality she will glace

With such surreal beauty

 

A witch by nature

Not by powers unknown

But by her charm and lure

Spells none can bemoan

 

A mysterious Fairy

She glows sublimely

With eyes so dazzling

And lips so tempting

 

A happy thought

My Happy thought

To fly to never land

Where I can hold her hand

[nuggetable]

DULCE ET DECORUM EST1

 

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4

Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

 

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .

Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

 

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13

To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori

 

 

 

War sucks !!!!!!!!!!