What Poetry Moved You?

[johnnynobody013]

When I think of you, I always see you lit from below, like a queen on a terrace looking down upon a torchlit courtyard.

 

I've adored your unusual ways, your quiet cool, your beautiful face. But instead of talking to you, I say it to the wind.

 

I have loved you for so long I do not remember how not to.

 

I have tried.

 

I try.

 

I will try.

 

But I miss your voice, your strength, your gifted eye, and earthy ways and all those other things I have no words for.

 

I have been awakened and delighted by the push and pull of our acquaintance though I have never truly understood it. We meet and we talk as if we aren't who we are and what we've been—not lovers, but we must have been something.

 

I have respected the boundaries you've set between us. I have never touched you or seen the secret, sacred places of your heart.

 

I realize that it's my nature that's put me where I am—my gaze that's determined who you are to me.

 

It is my need to resolve this that brings me here, time and time and time again.

 

I have made so many mistakes that to dwell on them is foolish if I can't learn from them and put them aside. You say what you say. I do what I do. Nothing matters, and I walk away.

 

But even as I put the space between us, I feel you and I love you.

 

I have longed for you so deeply but cannot have you in life, so I claim you in my art—caressing you with another's hands, consorting with you in another's voice, and honoring you in my own gentle way—secretly hoping that you'll happen upon my work one day, and get it.

 

I'm stupid, I know.

 

Perhaps writing this will help me come to terms with how I feel and the fact that you don't

 

—never have

 

—never will—

 

love me.

 

Maybe if I say it enough times, my soul

 

will

 

let

 

you

 

go.

 

 

 

Maybe.

 

("Infinite Variety" by L. Tooks)

[yawsiyawsa]

Invictus

[ADAM]

rows of houses,

sound asleep.

only street lights

notice me.

 

i am desperate,

if nothing else,

in a holding pattern

to find myself.

 

i talk in circles,

i talk in circles,

i watch for signals,

for a clue.

 

how to feel different.

how to feel new.

like science fiction

bending truth.

 

no one can unring this bell,

unsound this alarm, unbreak my heart new.

God knows, i am dissonance

waiting to be swiftly pulled into tune.

 

i’ll go anywhere you want,

anywhere you want me.

 

i know the further i go,

the harder i try, only keeps my eyes closed.

and somehow i’ve fallen in love

with this middle ground at the cost of my soul.

 

yet i know, if i stepped aside,

released the controls, you would open my eyes.

that somehow, all of this mess

is just an attempt to know the worth of my life…

[Lord Superb]

Do You Love Me?

 

A lover asked his beloved,

Do you love yourself more

than you love me?

The beloved replied,

I have died to myself

and I live for you.

 

I've disappeared from myself

and my attributes.

I am present only for you.

I have forgotten all my learning,

but from knowing you

I have become a scholar.

 

I have lost all my strength,

but from your power

I am able.

If I love myself

I love you.

If I love you

I love myself.

 

~ Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

[shhhhhh]

Lifetime of Goodbyes

Never once did I take for granted what we had,

and now it's over, though it makes me kinda sad,

I know that you'll be better off this way.

 

Though you said you were happy here with me

I looked inside and saw the pain you couldn't see.

I want you to smile, so I let you fly away.

 

I set you free to be happy as you were before,

So smiling sadly, I'll turn to close my door.

I should have known, your heart would sway.

 

Because I love you lots I have let you leave.

Let your dreams come true, or so I believe.

So I'll still be wishing you well, day to day.

 

Still, I have left a lifetime of goodbyes.

So, I'll hide my tears with a little bit of lies,

as my heart still pleads for you to stay.

Edited May 12, 2014 by shhhhhh

[shhhhhh]

I Do Not Love You

Pablo Neruda

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.

[BettyConfidential]

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

 

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

 

Here captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

[blacklantern]

The first lines and last lines of a Tale of Two Cities. the last lines were read by Comm. Gordon for Bruce Wayne in the DKR

[blacklantern]

We are not now that strength which in old days moved Heaven and Earth;

That which we are, we are:

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

made weak by time and fate, but strong in will:

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

--Lord Alfred Tennyson

[Julianda]

"The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."

Said the old man, "I do that too."

The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."

I do that too," laughed the little old man.

Said the little boy, "I often cry."

The old man nodded, "So do I."

But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems

Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."

And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.

I know what you mean," said the little old man."

- Shel Silverstein -

[Guest Dwayne Sanchez.]

Footprints in the Sand

Edited October 11, 2014 by Dwayne Sanchez.

[Leyna]

I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches,

only writes to, keeps little photographs of.

—Charles Bukowski, An Almost Made Up Poem

[ganjaman318]

Invictus...

[arep1632]

Great wide beautiful wonderful world.

[arep1632]

Great wide beautiful wonderful world.

[johnnynobody013]

"When Love Arrives"

 

I knew exactly what love looked like in seventh grade. Even though I hadn't met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom, I would have recognized her at first glance.

Love wore a hemp necklace. Love wore a tight French braid. Love played acoustic guitar and knew all my favorite Beatles songs. Love wasn't afraid to ride the bus with me. And I knew. I might have been searching the wrong classrooms, might have been checking the wrong hallways. But she was there. I was sure of it. If only I could find her.

But when love finally showed up, she had a bowl cut. She wore the same coat every day for a week. Love hated the bus. Love didn't know anything about the Beatles. Instead, every time I tried to kiss love, our teeth got in the way.

Love became the reason I lied to my parents ("I'm going to . . . Ben's house"). Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song. Love waited by the phone because she knew if her father picked up, my nerves would have been shot to pieces.

Love grew, stretched like a trampoline. Love changed. Love disappeared. Slowly, like baby teeth---parts of me lost that I thought I needed. Love vanished like an amateur magician. Everyone could see the trapdoor---but me. Love was like a flat tire. There were other places I had planned on going, but my plans didn't matter.

Love stayed away for years.

And when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized her. Love smelled different now, had darker eyes, a broader back. Love came with freckles I didn't recognize, new birthmarks, a softer voice. Now there were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books. Love had songs that reminded her of someone else, songs she didn't want to listen to. So did I. But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly. We found jokes that made us laugh.

And now, love makes me fresh homemade choclate chip cookies (but love will probably finish most of them as a midnight snack). Love looks great in lingerie, but still likes to wear her retainers. Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator. Love knows where she's going---it just might take her two more hours to get there than she'd planned.

Love is messier now. Love is simpler. Love uses the words "boobs" in front of my parents. Love chews too loudly. Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste. Love hates the smilies I use in my text messages. And it turns out, love shits.

But love also cries. And love will tell you "You are beautiful" over and over again and mean it.

"You are beautiful" when you first wake up.

"You are beautiful" when you've just been crying.

"You are beautiful" when you don't want to hear it.

"You are beautiful" when you don't believe it.

"You are beautiful" when nobody else will tell you.

Love still thinks you are beautiful.

But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget.

When you need to hear it the most---"You are beautiful"---do not forget this: Love is notwho you are expecting. Love is not what you can predict.

Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep, while you are in California, wide awake. Maybe love is in the wrong time zone.

Maybe love is not ready for you.

Maybe you aren't ready for love.

Maybe love just isn't the marrying type. Maybe love meets you twenty years after the divorce---love looks older now, but just as beautiful as you remember. Maybe love is only there for a month. Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party . . . every hospital visit.

Maybe love stays.

Maybe love can't.

Maybe love shouldn't.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to. Love leaves exactly when love must.

When love arrives, say "Welcome, make yourself comfortable."

When love leaves, tell her to leave the door open. Then turn off the lights, listen to the quiet. Whisper "Thank you for stopping by."

---adapted from "When Love Arrives" by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye

[MsDebauchery]

If I Should Have A Daughter

[monsiflor]

It Couldn't be Done by Edgar Albert Guest

[cutemike1975]

Tonight I can Write the Saddest Lines by Pablo Neruda

[lemon]

Stumbled upon this thread again, it's been years since I posted here last. Bored with work so here's one from weird Emily... as I remembered it.

 

I found the phrase to every thought


I ever had but one.


And that defies me as a hand


Did try to chalk the sun


 


To races nurtured in the dark,


How would your own begin?


Can blaze be done in cochineal,


Or noon in mazarin?


[lemon]

From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,

With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,

For there in vain the tranquil life is sought:

If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,

Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie,

In its calm shade my trembling heart's still;

And there, if Love so will,

I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.

While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,

The wild emotions roll,

Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;

That whosoe'er has proved the lover's state

Would say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.

On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,

I find repose, and from the throng'd resort

Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside;

At each lone step thoughts ever new arise

Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport

Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;

Yet e'en these ills I prize,

Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removed

For my heart whispers me, Love yet has power

To grant a happier hour:

Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved:

E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,

Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?

Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave

I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone

With thought intense her beauteous face engrave;

Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find

With tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus alone

Hast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind?

But as with fixed mind

On this fair image I impassion'd rest,

And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,

Love my rapt fancy fills;

In its own error sweet the soul is blest,

While all around so bright the visions glide;

Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.

Her form portray'd within the lucid stream

Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn,

Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam

So lovely fair, that Leda's self might say,

Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn

A star when cover'd by the solar ray:

And, as o'er wilds I stray

Where the eye nought but savage nature meets,

There Fancy most her brightest tints employs;

But when rude truth destroys

The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets,

I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,

Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.

Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,

On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings,

Led by desire intense the steep I climb;

And tracing in the boundless space each woe,

Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings,

Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow:

While, viewing all below,

From me, I cry, what worlds of air divide

The beauteous form, still absent and still near!

Then, chiding soft the tear,

I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'd

That thou art far away: a thought so sweet

Awhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.

 

Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound,

Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene,

There by a murmuring stream may I be found,

Whose gentle airs around

Waft grateful odours from the laurel green;

Nought but my empty form roams here unblest,

There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.

 

 

Yup, Francesco, that's where we're headed... again.

[Alex_Corvis]

I watched a Vimeo vid last week about a modern age take on Nativity and the voice over poem is sooooo powerful.

I wrote it down pero I forgot where I put it.

 

Hanapin ko nga mamya.

[OMEGAnun]

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

 

last stanza reads...

 

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

[lemon]

I have you and I have enough.
Even in those early days of witty bantering,
When the fireflies lurked to greet the morning.
And cherubs giggled at the passing breeze,
Thus, melted the day’s hurdle with even ease.

I have you and I have enough.
When dark clouds crept in to murky the skies,
And the flock repulsed with frowning eyes,
An obsessive longing of velvety haze,
So confused the world… empty and ablaze.

I have you and I have enough,
When birds scrupled through adieu impending.
Defying and denying the pains of anon yearning.
Wrong seemed right and right seemed wrong.
But love was as clear as a persisting song.

I have you and I have enough,
In the quiet sadness of dawn’s dampened mood,
And in the foggy uncertain of darkness brewed,
I held your hand and my glassy eyes would laugh,
For I know I have you and I have enough.

 

Just an old poem recalled.

[filibustero]

If—

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

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!