sam
Nick Nack
Posts: 235
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Post by sam on Apr 21, 2024 9:58:37 GMT
Embrace by Billy Collins
You know the parlor trick. wrap your arms around your own body and from the back it looks like someone is embracing you her hands grasping your shirt her fingernails teasing your neck from the front it is another story you never looked so alone your crossed elbows and screwy grin you could be waiting for a tailor to fit you with a straight jacket one that would hold you really tight.
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Post by spiderwort on Apr 21, 2024 14:11:28 GMT
To a Waterfowl by William Cullen Bryant
Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
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Post by Nalkarj on Apr 23, 2024 16:36:16 GMT
The Old Gardener’s Warning by Phyllis McGinley
Between one April’s jonquil buds And the next spring’s narcissus flowers, There used to roll imperial floods Of months and weeks and days and hours.
The year went slow, the year went slow… It idled, almost to provoke us, From the first flying of the snow Until the flaunting of the crocus.
And there was time to cope with roots Of irises, and be their master, Or count the roses’ earliest shoots Before one blinked and saw the aster.
But how a garden hurries now! The seasons blur and run together, Leaf scarcely anchored to the bough Before October cuts its tether.
No vine may pause, no blossom stay For our regard. While lilacs hurtle, Heedless and headstrong, into May, The zinnia tramples down the myrtle.
And daffodils, before our eyes, Are caught beneath November’s sickle As the year shrinks to the day’s size And the great flood becomes a trickle.
Quick! Run! Forbear to dilly-dally. Glance at the sky, but do not mind it. If here’s the lily of the valley, Can winter now be far behind it?
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Post by spiderwort on Apr 24, 2024 17:56:41 GMT
For Nothing Is Fixed by James Baldwin
For nothing is fixed, forever, forever, forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.
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sam
Nick Nack
Posts: 235
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Post by sam on Apr 24, 2024 18:58:20 GMT
Cat's Dream by Pablo Neruda
How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings—
a series of burnt circles—
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
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Post by spiderwort on Apr 25, 2024 13:10:39 GMT
The End by Mark Strand
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end, Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end, Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat, When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead. When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight, Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.
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Post by theravenking on Apr 25, 2024 15:02:45 GMT
The Cat by Charles Baudelaire
I
A fine strong gentle cat is prowling As in his bedroom, in my brain; So soft his voice, so smooth its strain, That you can scarcely hear him miowling.
But should he venture to complain Or scold, the voice is rich and deep: And thus he manages to keep The charm of his untroubled reign.
This voice, which seems to pearl and filter Through my soul's inmost shady nook, Fills me with poems, like a book, And fortifies me, like a philtre.
His voice can cure the direst pain And it contains the rarest raptures. The deepest meanings, which it captures, It needs no language to explain.
There is no bow that can so sweep That perfect instrument, my heart: Or make more sumptuous music start From its most vibrant cord and deep,
Than can the voice of this strange elf, This cat, bewitching and seraphic, Subtly harmonious in his traffic With all things else, and with himself.
II
So sweet a perfume seems to swim Out of his fur both brown and bright, I nearly was embalmed one night From (only once) caressing him.
Familiar Lar of where I stay, He rules, presides, inspires and teaches All things to which his empire reaches. Perhaps he is a god, or fay.
When to a cherished cat my gaze Is magnet-drawn and then returns Back to itself, it there discerns, With strange excitement and amaze,
Deep down in my own self, the rays Of living opals, torch-like gleams And pallid fire of eyes, it seems, That fixedly return my gaze.
Translated by - Roy Campbell
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Post by Nalkarj on Apr 25, 2024 15:44:39 GMT
Cat poems! I’m reminded of writer Neil Gaiman and artist Kelley Jones’s unforgettable comic-book story “A Dream of a Thousand Cats.”
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Post by spiderwort on Apr 29, 2024 13:05:36 GMT
The Dark Hours of My Being by Ranier Maria Rilke
I love the dark hours of my being. My mind deepens into them. There I can find, as in old letters, the days of my life, already lived, and held like a legend, and understood.
Then the knowing comes: I can open to another life that's wide and timeless.
So I am sometimes like a tree rustling over a gravesite and making real the dream of the one its living roots embrace:
a dream once lost among sorrows and songs.
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Post by spiderwort on May 3, 2024 1:05:40 GMT
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.
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Post by spiderwort on May 9, 2024 17:15:33 GMT
Entering a Rural Graveyard by Ed Coletti
Collective wisdom on yon- plotted naming stones under chattering tree squirrels calling to their human dead who well may have fed them kindnesses and acorns, sliced peaches and apricots over one and two centuries though little’s changed since except for cacophony from motorbike-flatulent streets overlooked by walkers on a twice- gentle hilly home to the living and certainly to its recollected dead whether squirrel or human.
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Post by mikef6 on May 10, 2024 18:53:35 GMT
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann’d: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
---Christina Rossetti
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Post by Nalkarj on May 14, 2024 18:02:50 GMT
Church-Going by Philip Larkin
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 ‘Hear 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 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 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 or 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 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.
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