"Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."
Fra Giovanni gave us these immortal words in 1513:
"No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future that is not hidden in this present moment. Take peace! The gloom of this world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within reach, is joy. There is a radiance and glory in the darkness, could we but see, and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look. Life is so generous a giver..."
I guess it was from fairy tales I learned a puissant immortality, and then discerned the words involved were lovelier than blocks and equally oblivious of clocks.
when the facts of birth were straightened out in time to know what life was all about, I assumed, though saying nothing indiscreet, that I was more or less complete.
now those old volumes of my aping trust reveal provisos I never had discussed, tracing an acquired taste for dust.
if I rightly understand the way it goes: as naturally as looking out on winter snows, I wind up wearing bones for clothes.
Michael, I...I...hardly know what to say. You are incredibly brave, for one thing. And, I think you are right. Bones with no living flesh on them are, actually, dead. But it is ALWAYS possible to revive the dry dust-- it just takes the water of life (I am not speaking religiously) being poured in: love is the best form of this.
For dearest Jackie, no fan of Shakespeare though she be (witness an earlier thread) A truly sublime sonnet ...
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May And summer's lease hath all too short a date; Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And ev'ry fair from fair sometimes declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade ...
... To know what's next, YHTLIU; And find what William truly said of you.
OH! I...I...am completely overwhelmed, but not so much that I don't know what to say! THANK YOU! Thank you! Thank you! You are an absolute darling! I love you! You have my heart forever! How could anyone NOT look it up, after that?? I shall type the rest:
"Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long as lives this, and this gives life to thee."
For dearest lusy, a heartfelt counterpoint that applies to you!
My Heart Leaps Up
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow od, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
tsuwm, encouraged by your bravery, I'll post something original too. (This was an exercise from my writing class - apparently a sestina, definitely the most taxing poetic form I've come across in English)
Keeping Together
My sun, my moon, my stars - you are the light that gilds the summer days within my heart. I do not know or care if this is right. I'm more concerned - and have been from the start of this our love - by twisted Fate, that might find cruel ways to tear our souls apart.
For in the briefest hour we spend apart my senses fail, my spinning head is light. I lose my very self, till with a start I know your voice or touch and all is right. The storm subsides - your presence soothes my heart to rock in sweet content as infants might.
Do you recall - I rather think you might - we swore that we would never be apart? Then, from the fading of the evening light until the sun called the new day to start, I grasped your tiny hands and held them right where they could feel the trembling of my heart.
Do you remember how it beat, that heart, and pushed against your touch with all its might? How you leaned close, how lips barely apart breathed soft with love and stars and laughter light? And then we kissed… It was the start of my belief our love would come out right.
But now it seems you'll exercise your right to tear the bleeding entrails of my heart. The hold I have upon you is too light - you'd leave, and rip our close embrace apart. Your soul succumbs and knows another's might - our game's played out so yours and his can start.
I cannot understand. When did it start? Just when and how was it you seized the right to play these deadly tricks upon my heart? I thought we loved as true as any might, but I was wrong, and now that we're apart, my shattered dreams will never see the light
Yet in the cold dawn light, when I wake with a start, though it might break my heart, I will not prove you right. E'en though you said I might, I will not fall apart.
Bridget, that is so beautiful. Thank you very much for posting it. Me old mate Bill should be jealous of your pentameters! Perhaps not, but it was really lovely. Thanks!
What an impact! Oh, if anyone has ever loved, they will just devour those words! And for someone who has never loved, this will make them cry for what they've missed. Thank you, Dearest Bridget. How very lovely!
<the worse verse thread seems to have petered out (at least momentarily :)>
Gallantly swallowing the momentarily (I'm sure I can get used to this if I try....), let's get back to wrose verse. I used to know someting that ended up
...then Peter's ?? will pall and Paul's will peter out.
"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 planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me, for a while And afterward 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."
Apologies for reviving an ancient topic, but I was doing some antiyart searching and just happened across it.
I don't know, but the verb "to peter" in bridge means to play a higher card than necessary followed next time round by a lower one, for example from A-7-3 or 7-3) the 7 then the 3 to request same again. I have always idly thought (with no evidence) that the connotation of high to low in bridge had some connection to "peter out".
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high pil`d books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And feel that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
John Keats
(one of my personal favorites-- one of about ten poems i still know by heart)
so many beautiful postings in this thread. a few people were brave enough to post original poems. proud would be a better word - they were powerful. i'm certainly not brave, just a six-pack the wiser! this from me:
To a Statue
I know you like an unknown: your loose-hipped grace and small-lipped face carved from a foreign stone.
Such perfection moved and saw! But stuck where lightning struck marbled your veins and bleached your eyes and tilt your head to miss my space and movement knows no more.
Your knowing hands would know my face but purposed they with fingers splay sense through my ductile space.
How to align your eyes with mine! But mighty trees have seasons' leaves and beauty can't with flesh alloy nor mind grow old but death betray and wear the great decay of time.
Hands closed your rippled ribs around locked in a flood of stone cold blood and breath held without sound.
Remember when your flesh was hewn! And music scraped your sand-spun cape and fingers dragged you from the rock: back there you tread with noiseless thud and to the mud of earth return.
Being in my office with no poetry books handy, one of the few I know by heart:
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame With conqu'ring limbs astride from land to land, Here by our sea-washed sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is th'emprisoned lightning, and her name, Mother of exiles. From her beacon hand Flows world-wide welcome. Her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp," cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore; Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me! I lift my lamp beside the golden door."
Being in my office with no poetry books handy, one of the few I know by heart:
-- ditto:
Tragedy
I always wanted a red balloon They only cost a dime But Ma said it was risky, They broke too quickly And besides, She didn’t have the time And even if she did, She didn’t think they were worth a dime.
We lived in the country And I only went To one circus and fair And all the balloons I ever saw were there. There were green ones And yellow ones But the kind I liked the best were red And I don’t see why She couldn’t have stopped and said, Well, maybe I could have one. But she didn’t.
I live in the city now And I’ve got the time And no one to tell me how to spend my dime Plenty of balloons – But somehow, Something has died inside of me And I don’t want one, now.
[Although I profess to know these lines by heart, I was reluctant to trust memory cells o'er -taxed with relentless years. I peeked. (Don't even THINK "peaked"!)]
Rose Aylmer .......Walter Savage Landor
Ah, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer*,all were thine
Rose Aylmer*, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.
* (Note -- One may here (*) substitute another name of one's own choosing provided, of course, that one does not violate Mr. Landor's graceful meter.)
Worshipped-from-afar Scribbler: I cannot imagine that you have peaked yet! "...the best is yet to be..." =========================================================== william: thank you. You know that has special meaning for me. =========================================================== Sparteye: how terribly, terribly sad.
I know this is an old revived thread (the most beautiful of threads?) . I know Tsuwm has not slipped back to addict And then I see William's post! I am happy to see him back. I want to say welcome .. But Wait! I check the date. Yes it is current. So he is really back. This is not an old post. Make sure. Make sure. Yes, I am now sure enough to speak.
Welcome back William. Good to have you back. I have missed your posts.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
Your poem is beautiful. It reminds me of the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. Pygmalion created a statue of the perfect woman, then fell in love with her. Aphrodite brought her to life for him (more details can be found online). I was curious - is your poem related to this story? I really enjoy the imagery, especially the second stanza.
thank you very much for you comments. actually i didn't know the story of pygmalion. from memory, i wrote that quite a few years ago after seeing the face of a statue and thinking how sad it would be to fall in love with something not living (or not living anymore). had a similar feeling when i met the bust of nefertiti, too. on the other hand, the only thing you can really worship is perfection, is it not?
if i'm asked again about the poem i'll whip out the ol' pygmalion story, though...
Perhaps we want most those things which are not within our grasp?
I think that is part of it, Francais. But also, that our capacity for certain treasured aspects of life - small joys, deep affections, trust and love, to name a few - can be killed if not nurtured. A cold childhood can raise a barren adult.
For a more self-induced regret, here is:
Days
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. I, in my pleachèd garden, watched the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed-- and gazed-- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
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), let's get back to wrose verse. I used to know someting that ended up
