Your Favorite Poems

[journey]

Fernando Pessoa

"Your Eyes Go Sad"

Your eyes go sad
You're not
Listening to what I say
They doze, dream, fade out
Not listening. I talk away.

I tell what I've told, out of listless
Sadness, so often before ...
I think you never listened,
So you're away, you are.

All of a sudden, an absent
Stare, you look at me, still
Immeasurably distant,
You begin a smile.

I go on talking. You
Go on listening - your own
Thoughts you listen to,
The smile as good as gone,

Until, through the loafing
Afternoon's waste of while,
The silence self-unleafing
Of your useless smile.



"This"

They say I pretend or lie
All I write. No such thing.
It simply is that I
Feel by imagining.
I don't use the heart-string.

All that I dream or lose,
That falls short or dies on me,
Is like a terrace which looks
On another thing beyond.
It's that thing that leads me on.

And so I write in the middle
Of things not next to one's feet,
Free from my own muddle,
Concerned for what is not.
Feel? Let the reader feel!

[leila]

To a stranger

PASSING stranger! you do not
know how longingly I look upon
you,
You must be he I was seeking, or
she I was seeking, (it comes to
me,
as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a
life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each
other, fluid, affectionate,
chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy
with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you,
your body has become not yours
only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your
eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you
take of my beard, breast, hands,
in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to
think of you when I sit alone or
wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am
to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose
you.

Walt Whitman "Leaves of Grass"

[journey]

"Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

[Jim]

Father prayed and guess who came, the hooded man in Sithis' name, who left but then he came once more to pass through window, wall and door. I lie in fear, my mouth agape, as wicked blade did cleave your nape, for I was watching 'neath the bed to see the falling of your head. And when your face lie on the floor, our loving eyes did meet once more. And so I pledged to you that day, the Brotherhood would dearly pay, and just as they took me from you, I'd find and kill their mother too. But there's someplace I need to start, and that's with father's bleeding heart. And when that's done I'll sing and dance to celebrate a dead LaChance.

When in the snow, I like to lie and fold my arms and wait to die.


(Okay, so I did make some amendments and technically it isn't a poem, but still......

I like it, so for the Oblivion fans........)

[Natasha23]

Resume -- by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

[Doc Emmett Brown]

Patience

Patience is
wider than one
once envisioned,
with ribbons
of rivers
and distant
ranges and
tasks undertaken
and finished
with modest
relish by
natives in their
native dress.

Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable ?
a place with
its own harvests.
Or that in
time's fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn't be
distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.

~ Kay Ryan....by way of Huey & Aaron McGruder

[journey]

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
   
 
  The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

 - Billy Collins
 
 

[judaskennedy]

there once was a man from Nantuket...

[journey]

What is music to you?
   
 
Music is freedom that relentlessly exists
Freedom of speech
Freedom of thought
Freedom of creativity
Freedom of imagination

Music is ever soothingly healing
A bombardment of on-going expression of feelings
Music is a tool of unity
Always bringing people together as family
Hence be described as a mentor of spirituality

Music is magic
Performing its tricks
With sweet instrumental tones and lyrics

Music is emotionally captivating
Music is positively distracting
Music is a form of beautiful art
Passed on as a message on a public stage

Music is as powerful as water
Flowing in and out of generations
Trapped ever so often only by its own enormous power

Music is an angel
Singing out from the skies as she flies
Music is love
Music is the food of all moods
Music is perfect and it is good for you

 - Sylvia Chidi
 
 

[Queen of Everything]

A SOLITUDE


A blind man. I can stare at him
ashamed, shameless. Or does he know it?
No, he is in a great solitude.
O, strange joy,
to gaze my fill at a stranger s face.
No, my thirst is greater than before.
In his world he is speaking
almost aloud. His lips move.
Anxiety plays about them. And now joy
of some sort trembles into a smile.
A breeze I can't feel
crosses that face as if it crossed water.
The train moves uptown, pulls in and
pulls out of the local stops. Within its loud
jarring movement a quiet,
the quiet of people not speaking,
some of them eyeing the blind man
only a moment though, not thirsty like me,
and within that quiet his
different quiet, not quiet at all, a tumult
of images, but what are his images,
he is blind? He doesn't care
that he looks strange, showing
his thoughts on his face like designs of light
flickering on water, for he doesn't know
what look is.
I see he has never seen.
And now he rises, he stands at the door ready,
knowing his station is next. Was he counting?
No, that was not his need.
When he gets out I get out.
"Can I help you towards the exit?"
"Oh, alright." An indifference.
But instantly, even as he speaks,
even as I hear indifference, his hand
goes out, waiting for me to take it,
and now we hold hands like children.
His hand is warm and not sweaty,
the grip firm, it feels good.
And when we have passed through the turnstile,
he going first, his hand at once
waits for mine again.
"Here are the steps. And here we turn
to the right. More stairs now." We go
up into sunlight. He feels that,
the soft air. "A nice day,
isn't it?" says the blind man. Solitude
walks with me, walks
beside me, he is not with me, he continues
his thoughts alone. But his hand and mine
know one another,
it's as if my hand were gone forth
on its own journey. I see him
across the street, the blind man,
and now he says he can find his way. He knows
where he is going, it is nowhere, it is filled
with presences. He says. I am.


Denise Levertov.

[sesor]

Nobody hurt you. Nobody turned off the light and argued
with somebody else all night. The bad man on the moors
was only a movie you saw. Nobody locked the door.

Your questions were answered fully. No. That didn't occur.
You couldn't sing anyway, cared less. The moment's a blur, a Film Fun
laughing itself to death in the coal fire. Anyone's guess.

Nobody forced you. You wanted to go that day. Begged. You chose
the dress. Here are the pictures, look at you. Look at us all,
smiling and waving, younger. The whole thing is inside your head.

What you recall are impressions; we have the facts. We called the tune.
The secret police of your childhood were older and wiser than you, bigger
than you. Call back the sound of their voices. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Nobody sent you away. That was an extra holiday, with people
you seemed to like. They were firm, there was nothing to fear.
There was none but yourself to blame if it ended in tears.

What does it matter now? No, no, nobody left the skidmarks of sin
on your soul and laid you wide open for Hell. You were loved.
Always. We did what was best. We remember your childhood well.

Carol Ann Duffy

[echrisl]

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
   
 
  The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

 - Billy Collins
 
 

That's a fantastic poem.   

[liquidvirus]

This was when i was really bored at work and all i could see on the news was the lebanon situation

Blindfold


When bombs drop through the midnite sky
the echoes of screams are hauntingly dry,
silence that will petrify
children and women break down and cry.
When will the cloud of violence clear ?
and the sound of peace be heard /
a river dries for a blood filled tear
for nations so perturbed,

how can one sleep at night,
as nations justify wrong as right
more than dogeatdog,
its maneatman
is it worth it when carcusses form the border of this disputed land ?

the troops march to the war drum
carrying out orders of militant scum,
when the sun sets and we wait for dinner
the nuclear dust clears, now whos the winner ?
when the thunder of weapons punctuate the words
screams of pain are whispers unheard,
when death tolls are measured from dusk to dawn,
I'd rather walk this thru this life with a blindfold on.
(cause if i cant see, to me, it will cease to be)

[kathryn2662]

I've been staring at the sky tonight
Marvelling and passing time
Wondering what to do with daylight
Until I can make you mine
You are the one I want, you are the one I want

I've been thinking of changing my mind
(It never stays the same for long)
But of all the things I know for sure
You're the only certain one
You are the one I want, you are the one I want

I've been counting up all my wrongs
One sorry for each star
See I'd apologise my way to you
If the heavens stretched that far
You are the one I want, you are the one I want

I won't find what I am looking for
If I only "see" by keeping score
'Cos I know now you are so much more than arithmetic

'Cos if I add, if I subtract
If I give it all, try to take some back
I've forgotten the freedom that comes from the fact
That you are the sum
So you are the one
I want

When the years are showing on my face
And my strongest days are gone
When my heart and flesh depart this place
From a life that sung your song

You'll still be the one I want

 

[journey]

Invictus
   
 
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

 - William Ernest Henley
 
 

[Kujo]

I'm walking through the summer nights
Jukebox playing low
Yesterday everything was going too fast
Today, it's moving too slow
I got no place left to turn
I got nothing left to burn
Don't know if I saw you, if I would kiss you or kill you
It probably wouldn't matter to you anyhow
You left me standing in the doorway, crying
I got nothing to go back to now

The light in this place is so bad
Making me sick in the head
All the laughter is just making me sad
The stars have turned cherry red
I'm strumming on my gay guitar
Smoking a cheap cigar
The ghost of our old love has not gone away
Don't look like it will anytime soon
You left me standing in the doorway crying
Under the midnight moon

Maybe they'll get me and maybe they won't
But not tonight and it won't be here
There are things I could say but I don't
I know the mercy of God must be near
I've been riding the midnight train
Got ice water in my veins
I would be crazy if I took you back
It would go up against every rule
You left me standing in the doorway, crying
Suffering like a fool

When the last rays of daylight go down
Buddy, you'll roll no more
I can hear the church bells ringing in the yard
I wonder who they're ringing for
I know I can't win
But my heart just won't give in
Last night I danced with a stranger
But she just reminded me you were the one
You left me standing in the doorway crying
In the dark land of the sun

I'll eat when I'm hungry, drink when I'm dry
And live my life on the square
And even if the flesh falls off of my face
I know someone will be there to care
It always means so much
Even the softest touch
I see nothing to be gained by any explanation
There are no words that need to be said
You left me standing in the doorway crying
Blues wrapped around my head

[journey]

^ Very nice poems, RQ and Kujo.



November
   

There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.

Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.

 - Walter de la Mare

[2NaFish]

Philip Larkin - Church Going
Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

[journey]

Big Heart

In their short lives
give to me repeatedly,
in the way the sea
places its many fingers on the shore,
again and again
and they know me,
they help me unravel,
they listen with ears made of conch shells,
they speak back with the wine of the best region.
They are my staff.
They comfort me.

They hear how
the artery of my soul has been severed
and soul is spurting out upon them,
bleeding on them,
messing up their clothes,
dirtying their shoes.
And God is filling me,
though there are times of doubt
as hollow as the Grand Canyon,
still God is filling me.
He is giving me the thoughts of dogs,
the spider in its intricate web,
the sun
in all its amazement,
and a slain ram
that is the glory,
the mystery of great cost,
and my heart,
which is very big,
I promise it is very large,
a monster of sorts,
takes it all in--
all in comes the fury of love.

 - Anne Sexton

[sisterofyu]

keekee....... anne sexton is my favoriate manic depressive poet,

Anna Who Was Mad
Anne Sexton


Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.

Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.

Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.