Poems...

[Siblesz]

Here I'll post a couple of poems each day that I like for all of you to read.



Poem 1:

Richard Cory
By Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

[Kazak borispavlovgrozny]

Revelation

We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated hear
Till someone really find us out.

'Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play
At hid-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.
Roberst frost

[morble]

On Princesses

The Giant's Perspective:

The ones who are already pinched in at the waist
are easier to pick up
but the ones with at least a bit of a belly
have a better flavor.

The shrieking used to bother me--
I always took care of the end that had the mouth first
but I've gotten deaf with the years
so sometimes I start with the feet.


The Dragon Replies:

Now that I've made my fortune
I actually prefer a nice peasant--
saves me time picking through my droppings
for gold and jewels.
Plus I've developed an allergy to silk
and a rough tunic adds a bit of fiber to my diet.
A youngish peasant,
just after the harvest season--aah.

And another benefit,
I can eat thirty or forty peasants
before a knight shows up.
With princesses the ratio
is pretty much one to one.

--Laurel Winter

[Kazak borispavlovgrozny]

Originally posted by morble@Apr 24 2004, 02:30 AM
And another benefit,
I can eat thirty or forty peasants
before a knight shows up.
With princesses the ratio
is pretty much one to one.

--Laurel Winter

Awesome. Where'd you find this.

[morble]

Originally posted by borispavlovgrozny@Apr 24 2004, 08:00 AM
Awesome. Where'd you find this.

Asimov's Science Fiction, April/May 2004, p. 173.

[nothing]

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 s:wub: 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 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 or other 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 recognizable 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 whom 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 recognised, 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.

[Siblesz]

I like this poem.

(hearing it right now)

War

What life has taught me
I would like to share with
Those who want to learn...

Until the philosophy which hold one race
Superior and another inferior
Is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned
Everywhere is war, me say war

That until there are no longer first class
And second class citizens of any nation
Until the colour of a man's skin
Is of no more significance than the colour of his eyes
Me say war

That until the basic human rights are equally
Guaranteed to all, without regard to race
Dis a war

That until that day
The dream of lasting peace, world citizenship
Rule of international morality
Will remain in but a fleeting illusion
To be persued, but never attained
Now everywhere is war, war

And until the ignoble and unhappy regimes
that hold our brothers in Angola, in Mozambique,
South Africa sub-human bondage
Have been toppled, utterly destroyed
Well, everywhere is war, me say war

War in the east, war in the west
War up north, war down south
War, war, rumours of war

And until that day, the African continent
Will not know peace, we Africans will fight
We find it necessary and we know we shall win
As we are confident in the victory

Of good over evil, good over evil, good over evil
Good over evil, good over evil, good over evil

-Bob Marley

[nothing]

I'm sure this won't be appreciated for its literary merit, but I'm sure the majority of the prepubescents out there will enjoy this nonetheless . . . .

This Be The Verse

They :wub: you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were :wub:ed up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

[Taiko]

"Not Marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besemeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
´Gainst death and all-ablivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes if all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dweell in lovers´eyes."

( Shakespeare's 55 sonet)

[Baron Lokimus]

Of a far-off place
Where a great warm welcome
Will be waiting for me
Where the crowds will cheer
When they see my face
And a voice keeps saying
This is where I'm meant to be

I will find my way
I can go the distance
I'll be there someday
If I can be strong
I know ev'ry mild
Will be worth my while
I would go most anywhere
to feel like I belong

I am on my way
I can go the distance
I don't care how far
Somehow I'll be strong
I know ev'ry mile
Will be worth my while
I would go most anywhere
to find where I belong

I will beat the odds
I can go the distance
I will face the world
Fearless, proud and strong
I will please the gods
I can go the distance
Till I find my hero's welcome
Right where I belong

[Baron Lokimus]

Tomyris is my man of war I see him evermore And at night, when I smell the floor It is covered in gloor That is, of course, unless Haggard should come out and FIGHT!

this is a little of tom and myselfs past

[Siblesz]

What Is That Sound?
by W. H. Auden (1907-1973)

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
The soldiers coming.

O what is that light I see flashing so clear
Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
As they step lightly.

O what are they doing with all that gear,
What are they doing this morning, this morning?
Only their usual manoeuvres, dear.
Or perhaps a warning.

O why have they left the road down there,
Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in their orders, dear.
Why are you kneeling?

O haven’t they stopped for the doctor’s care,
Haven’t they reined their horses, their horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear.
None of these forces.

O is it the parson they want, with white hair,
Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
Without a visit.

O it must be the farmer who lives so near.
It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?
They have passed the farmyard already, dear,
And now they are running.

O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.

O it’s broken the lock and splintered the door,
O it’s the gate where they’re turning, turning;
Their boots are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning.

[the Black Prince]

asking for favourite poems from an LOTR fan is rsiky heheheheh



Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

Sing hey! for the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away!
A loon is he that will not sing:
O! Water Hot is a noble thing!

O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better than rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams.

O! Water cold we may pour at need
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed;
but better is Beer, if drink we lack,
and Water Hot poured down the back.

O! Water is fair that leaps on high
in a fountain white beneath the sky;
but never did fountain sound so sweet
as splashing Hot Water with my feet!


both by the mighty master of verse, JRR Tolkien

[Ceasar Antonius XVIII]

May 1 of you guys find a poem for me thats called"Annabell Lee by Edgar Allan Poe,I havn't heard it in years since I was like in 4th grade so please I'm begging you or better yet give me a link.

[Siblesz]

Originally posted by Ceasar Antonius XVIII@Apr 29 2004, 09:23 PM
May 1 of you guys find a poem for me thats called"Annabell Lee by Edgar Allan Poe,I havn't heard it in years since I was like in 4th grade so please I'm begging you or better yet give me a link.

Annabel Lee

IT was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

[Ceasar Antonius XVIII]

thank-you

[Siblesz]

Next poem:

Religion

Religions, what are they
Just man-made beliefs
Instruments of war
Or true tools of peace
It's hard to decipher
The one from the other
When two beliefs clash
And brother kills brother
Yet they all preach peace
So how can this pass
Their goals are the same
Are they not
So shouldn't we ask
The gods in the heavens
Why so much pain on earth
Is religion bad, Does religion work
I say it works for the powers
Who manipulate the masses
The real power, you and me
Some see it like warpaint
To cause conflict and pain*
And it's all in god's name

-Anonymous

[Kazak borispavlovgrozny]

"Ours is a christian army;" so he said
A regiment of bangomen who led.
"And ours a christian navy," added he
Who sailed a thunder-junk upon the sea.
Better they know than men unwarlike do
What is an army, and navy too.
Pray God there may be sent them by-and-by
The knowledge what a christian is, and why
For somewhat lamely the conception runs
of a brass-buttoned Jesus firing guns.

Arma Virumque

[Kazak borispavlovgrozny]

Thoughts on Quantum, Dostoevsky, Lucia, my :wub:ing computer, etc...

Fuerza molestada,
Casi enojada,
Por la soledad.

Noche tan callada,
Estrella investigada,
Ojos de emboscada,
Por la Soledad.

Sin querer ya piensa,
Mi mente loca y lenta,
Que a lo mejor ya halla,
O tropeza o estralla,
Con la verdad.

Pero es que sin guía,
Sin noche y sin día,
Se encuentra sola, y fría,
En la soledad.

Boris

[the Black Prince]

could someone grace us with a translation of that one?