What? Why, yes, I know this thread ain't going to be popular. Still, nice to have it lying around, no?
So, this thread is to do with all things poetical. (And as of Reply 155, lyrics as well, it would seem!) Want help writing a poem? Ask here. Written one? Post it here. Want to discuss one? Post it here. Have a favourite one? Post i....
You get the picture. To start off, I'll post my favourite poem: The Listeners, by Walter de la Mare.
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
If posting a favourite/favoured poem, giving the author would help me to accredit it properly.
All poems so far posted. Those written by the poster will be noted with a "Written by
himselfthemself"(Because I realised the gender problem writing "himself" poses):
Edmus
Written by themself:
Y'all ain't never seen
Such nature as in the places I've been
Babbling brooks,
and flittering finches
Hidden nooks
and noble beeches
So shut y'all face hole.
Azkanan
Edited by themself:
"A dwarf, a dwarf,
My kingdom for a dwarf!"
Cried the lord of the high dusty hall,
Little did he know though, this lord of the high dusty hall,
That a coarse dwarf called Porf lived in the high dusty hall,
Below the throne with a crone called Eeborf.
"The king," said Eeborf, "Calls for dwarf,
You should call all the dwarfs who built the high dusty hall."
Porf wrinkled his nose like crushed in pantyhose,
His beard like black bows and cheeks of rose.
"I'll call the dwarfs," said Porf, "and call the lord of the high dusty hall."
So Porf climbed to the roof with mountain goat hoofs
and from a horn was borne a call across the lands of Gorn,
"THE KING!" HE CALLED, "THE KING CALLS FOR A DWARF!
I AM PORF THE DWARF WHO LIVES UNDER THE HIGH DUSTY HALL,
UNDER THE THRONE WITH A CRONE CALLED EEBORF,
I CALL ALL DWARVES IN THE LANDS OF GORN,
TO COME TO THE HIGH DUSTY HALL TO ANSWER THE CALL!"
And in the high dusty hall sat the king of Gorn,
And much did his eyes not bore as Porf the Dwarf
and Eeborf the crone walked in alone.
"My king," kneeled Porf the Dwarf in front of the throne,
"I am torn and forlorn," he said with a tear of lead,
"I am the last dwarf, my kin are all dead."
Th4DwArfY1
Written by themself:
When in your heart a gloom descends
And all seems black and dead,
Forget just what that thing portends
For this is what is said:
“Ah, music, music of my soul
Be calm, be still, be pure!
No grievances or pettiness-
My heart will not abjure.”
Take not the bristle of a thorn
And pin it in your flesh.
Take not the sting of living hell
And seal it in your breast.
Just harken, harken, hear my call
That through the darkness comes,
Don’t leave, don’t die, don’t fall
Live here where life and glory runs...
What’s this? The heart that beats is weak?
Just what is it you seek?
Some earthly gain? An end to pain?
Mayhap a shelter from the rain?
Death is no shelter. Death is no refuge.
If life is made of chains,
Then they are holding you aloft-
Go not where He in Evil reigns.
“Ah, music, music of my soul
Be calm, be still, be pure!
No grievances or pettiness-
My heart will not abjure.”
Written by themself:
The mountains rose as jagged teeth
Above the land my fathers knew.
The rivers ran in frothing fonts
And all I saw was good and true.
The vales were green and emerald,
The sea was slate grey and free
And all the while the trees arose
And spread their leafy canopy.
The forests rolled from shore to shore
And boats abounded on the waves.
There birds of green and vibrant red
Were in the scree and hollow caves.
I wish to wander longer there
And see the land my fathers knew.
I want to know the yellow flowers
And see their golden coloured hue.
I wish to look upon the scene
Where all my kin have ever been,
I wish that I could breathe that air,
That lingers there, fresh and fair.
Written by themself:
The dogs of war are nigh, are nigh
The horns of Satan ring.
The dogs of war are baying death
The Heralds praise the king.
Of carven throne, of yellow bone,
The king of death and war.
The heralds praise his strength of arms,
Which I myself abhor.
The gongs all sound the close of day,
The gates are closing fast.
The dead no longer need our fires,
Nor love to take repast.
You see them on the battlement,
You see them on the ground,
You hear their bays and calls
And fear that dreaded sound.
Some call them living men, the fools
That see such men wreak woe.
They say that they are men in suits
Made hard to kill their foe.
I care not, nor heed not, these words
For they have brought me pain.
You see them on the battlement?
Their strength seems not to wane.
For the dogs of war are nigh, are nigh,
And night is closing in.
So seal the gate, so seal the gate,
And then absolve our sin.
The blast of war has sounded now,
The gates are manned by Beasts,
And I must wander down the way
Where life and darkness meets.
The dogs of war are nigh, are nigh
The horns of Satan ring.
The dogs of war are baying death
The Heralds praise their king.
Written by themself:
The boughs of old are branched above
The grave of Ilyenor
And with her lies brave Alveron
Beneath those trees of yore.
Now Ilyenor from Villa Parva came
Amongst the lords of Wood
And in Fangorn she made her way
Where elf-trees blew and stood.
An Elven-fair she once had been
And lived in Wooden Hall
Upon her brow a gem shone forth
Ere came the Forest’s Fall.
But aye, she fled and lived amongst
The village folk of man
And lived in Villa Parva Town
Where once the rivers ran.
Long years had passed afore he came,
The Noble Alveron!
His habergeon was golden bright
And on his breast it shone.
Upon his brow a leaf alit
Inside an emerald’s light
And in his hand he clenched a lance;
It blazed first gold then white.
A man from mountains tall and grim,
He’d fought the stony beasts
That lurked within the cavern halls
Where once the Dwarves held feasts.
To Fangorn came his lance and shield,
To fight the dead that walk:
They’d chased away Ilyenor’s folk
From greenery and Loch.
A glimmer through the forest came
And there stood Ilyenor.
Oh Alveron, that mighty man
Looked upon Ilyenor.
The beasts around him growled and howled,
Impatiently he smote
And into dark their corpses flew
Away from He of Golden Coat.
He turned to her, the Elven Wise;
She saw the bloody blade
And off she sped away from him
To peaceful lake and glade.
But ever came Brave Alveron
O’er misty loch and fell.
He sought her long beneath the wood
He searched the lonesome dell.
And at the border edge he saw
That Fairest Elven maid.
She laughed and sang in sunny light,
He sighed and cast his blade.
For Alveron the fighting man
Had long been fighting beast
And now he saw his heart’s delight
He wished it all to cease.
His habergeon in weeds he dropped,
His lance and shield he left,
The emerald fell to the ground-
But he was not bereft.
She saw him come, the Man Who Chased
She saw his face so fair.
His eyes of blue did pierce her heart,
The Light was in his hair.
No weapons bore he in his haste,
He ran towards the maid
And in the dark a figure rose
In which the light did fade.
It aimed at Ilyenor the Elf
And shot a bolt of night
That Alveron in front of leapt
To save his heart’s delight.
No habergeon of gold he had,
The bolt went through his breast
And ‘neath the trees he breathed his last,
An arrow in his chest.
The figure chuckled darky now
To see what it had wrought,
And back to Ilyenor it aimed,
But found not what it sought.
The Elven maid was in the trees
And saw a star on earth:
The blade of Alveron she found,
A lance beyond all worth.
The darkling figure did not see,
For still it searched the light,
Behind came Fairest Ilyenor
And smote this Beast of Night.
It fell, it howled! She wept as blood
Upon her face did spray.
She looked at Alveron who lay
Inside the trees, away from day.
Her face of beauty was besmirched
By tears that fell to ground
But still she brought good Alveron
To where she had been found.
There sang she long and sang she deep,
Her arms about him lay,
And in her sorrow did she sing
To Alveron of Day.
She spoke of water, tree and bough
Of moonlight on the lake,
She begged for him to come to her
She begged him to awake.
No stir made Alveron for,
He was beyond her song,
So now she sat and wept alone,
In grief both deep and long.
Her tears did seep into the ground,
A river did they seem,
And now she sang again, the sound
Was likened to a dream.
“Oh Alveron, oh Alveron!
Who now does lie away
Beneath no moon that I can see
Come back along my way.”
Thus saying she did lie beside
Good Alveron the Knight
And in eternal slumber sought
His soul amongst the night.
She died, aye, searching there in death
But found at last his soul
And there they dwelt together long,
The two were made a whole.
The tears she cried, the song she sang,
Enchanted earthly graves
And from those sacred waters grew
A pair of trees like staves.
They rose above the trees around,
They grew in sorrow’s wake,
But in their boughs now Alveron
In spirit form’s awake.
And at his side fair Ilyenor
In tree and branch does bloom,
For she went forth and saved her love,
She saved him from his doom.
Written by Emily Dickenson:
How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn—
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun—
How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full—
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?
Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—
Touching all the Grass
With a departing—Sapphire—feature—
As a Duchess passed—
How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street—
How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel—
And where was the Wood—
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
Into Solitude—
These are the Visions flitted Guido—
Titian—never told—
Domenichino dropped his pencil—
Paralyzed, with Gold—
Written by themself:
These tears. These tears. From whence fall you?
From turgid streams of pain and woe?
No. Tears like these fall from but one place
A place that all of us would fear to go.
From misery, that deadened land,
From horror and from painful grief
They fall, in drips and drabs from high,
They cast on me a mourning wreath.
This pain. This pain. From whence came you?
From heat or cold, in ice or flame
From lying in the burning sun
Or being drenched by pouring rain?
No. From inside my soul it strains,
This pain. An ache between my ears,
An inner, constant life of rains
And living with my living fears.
This cut. This cut. From whence came you?
To where does that crimson river flow?
It falls, in drips and drabs from high,
It goes, and in it lies my woe.
A knife, yet not my own, was thrust on me
A spear to lie beside my heart.
My life is done, yet youth I have:
I died before I ever got to start.
This hope. This hope. From whence comes you?
Baptise me now with your light, I beg
And I shall fly from here upon a wave of hope
And Hope to me shall be both arm and leg.
No. No hope, I was a fool,
‘Twas just a shadow
Coming swiftly, with a duel
Between myself and death
Slipping through the window.
Death has come to blot the sun.
I post too much, so if you want to see anything else I post, you'll have to read on through. I'm too lazy to put it all here :/
T-Mick
Written by G. K. Chesterton:
The gates of heaven are lightly locked,
We do not guard our gold,
Men may uproot where worlds begin,
Or read the name of the nameless sin;
But if he fail or if he win
To no good man is told.
The men of the East may spell the stars,
And times and triumphs mark,
But the men signed of the cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark. . .
The wise men know what wicked things
Are written on the sky,
They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings,
Hearing the heavy purple wings,
Where the forgotten seraph kings
Still plot how God shall die. . .
But you and all the kind of Christ
Are ignorant and brave,
And you have wars you hardly win
And souls you hardly save.
I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.
Night shall be thrice night over you,
And heaven an iron cope.
Do you have joy without a cause,
Yea, faith without a hope?
Fabulous death bringer
Written by themself:
Slit, Crack, Stab, Stich.
Slit my wrist.
Let my blood be my ink
And write the words that died on the way to the page.
Crack my skull.
Let my blood be my paint,
And color the canvas beyond I what my hand can do.
Stab my heart.
Let my blood act
All my emotion and thoughts without censor.
Stich me up.
Hold me close.
Let your love be my blood
So I can heal and become stronger.
Written by Edgar Allan Poe:
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.
Written by themself:
My Pie
I sit in this café, eating a piece of pie.
At this moment I am the queen.
I am the picture of nobility
my clothes are now the finest outfit in the city
and my manners are proper.
All the girls
envys my looks
wish to be me,
while all the men
feel desires of lust and romance.
Everyone’s job
is to serve me
and please me.
I am perfect,
until I finish
my piece of pie
Written by themself:
My love
He loves me and I love him
But we have not touched.
He is text on my screen
And I, the same to him.
He says “You can do better than him”
I tell him, “You can do better”
He could have any one he wants.
But he wants me.
He is my support, for when I falling down
My happiness for when I am sad.
My company for when I am lonely
If I lose him, then I lose me, for he is my everything.
I am weird, random, socially inept.
He is plagued with many demons,
Many more then what he has told me.
We will remained fucked up, together
Hand in hand.
Arx:
Yes, this counts:
Behold from the past, a post arises;
Ancient and pow'rful, carried through ages
The post of warding, waiting, watching;
Cried by the masses, mindful of prizes:
Written by themself:
Three AM comes and goes
Like the thistle and the rose
Is there purpose? No-one knows
Watch the moment, feel it flow
Written by themself:
His boat floats down the river
Stained from the clearest snowmelt
Forsaking the trees, he wears purple
Living in his halls of stone.
Written by themself:
Falling. Burning.
Tearing. Yearning.
White-hot sublimation,
Darkness' annihilation.
I hear the world calling
But calling not to me
Crying to the free
Or crying for the free
In the end it's no matter
Who they would have renewed
I am far the stronger
My might is raw and crude.
I will return from the light
Fight back to the blight
There can be no destruction
Of the hammers of night
Cmega3:
Written by Emily Dickinson:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops- at all.
And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet never, in Extremity
It asked a crumb of me.
Talvieno:
Audioworm333
Vlob:
Written by themself:
Seven brave dwarves went through the gate,
the old gate of Mountainhomes,
off they went, not knowing their fate
was to die in pain and gore.
Their trip was long, gruelling and harsh,
but then they thought they'd succeed.
Then they arrived to evil marsh
and doubt has started to breed.
A massive tower, with giant spikes
made of black iron and stone,
stood there, piercing the thick gray clouds.
Of this they haven't been told.
But brave they were, they had no fear,
they came for riches and gold,
oblivious to the threat so near,
they established a dwarven hold.
The fortress have grown, more have come,
lured by the gold shine of coin,
and tower still stood, feared by some,
believed to be abandoned.
The fort rose to power and wealth,
fortune the dwarves have amassed,
too long they were lucky and safe,
they let their war axes rust.
Time has come, that all were proved wrong,
the dwarves have met their demise,
this was the day for them to fall,
the day for dead to arise.
Walls did not stop foul undead wave,
the bridge did not close on time,
and fought for life, the soldiers brave
but all efforts were futile.
Such was the price of dwarven gold
of coin and treasure and jewels.
And tower stands, for men to behold,
and to ignore, for such fools.
(Pour us some wine, buy us a drink,
for that we surely have earned.
Sober and thirsty dwarf can't sing,
at least when we are concerned.)
Urist Mc Dwarf:
Written by themself:
Run from the shadow run from the light
Run from that that makes you fight
Run from the hate run from the love
Run from the hawk and run from the dove
Run from the pleasure run from the pain
Run from the honor run from the shame
Run from the market run from the house
Run from the eagle run from the grouse
Run from the in and run from the out
Run from the decision and run from the doubt
Run from the young and run from the old
Run from the dung and run from the gold
How can I live when I run
From everything under the sun
Then
Run to the shadow run to the light
Run to that that makes you fight
Run to the hate run to the love
Run to the hawk and run to the dove
Run to the pleasure run to the pain
Run to the honor run to the shame
Run to the market run to the house
Run to the eagle run to the grouse
Run to the in and run to the out
Run to the decision and run to the doubt
Run to the young and run to the old
Run to the dung and run to the gold
How can I live when I run
To everything under the sun?
Then
Run from the shadow run to the light
Run to and from that that makes you fight
Run from the hate run to the love
Run to the hawk and run to the dove
Run from the pleasure run from the pain
Run to the honor run from the shame
Run to the market run to the house
Run to the eagle run to the grouse
Run to the in and run to the out
Run to the decision and run from the doubt
Run to the young and run to the old
Run to the dung and run to the gold
Now I can live
Tiruin:
Written 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!
sjm9876:
Written by William Ernest Henley:
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.
Mastahcheese:
Written by themself:
"So you think your lives aren't watched by the clock?"
He cackles and coughs, sputters and sneers,
"But when you reach the door, I know you'll knock.
I know three times, just like we did here."
And out he pulls his mysterious contraption,
"For the things we had, of knowledge, nothing,"
Meticulously measured, to divine infraction
"And even then, we never saw it coming."
Silthuri:
Written by themself:
She looks out on the gloomy sea
Waiting for a sign.
A sight, a sound, anything,
To soothe her restless mind.
She knows not where he is
Nor if he yet survives.
She knows not when they'll meet,
But she'll stay till he arrives.
She'll always be a-waiting
There upon the shore.
She'll never lose her faith in him,
She'll only love him more.
He stands upon the lonely deck
Waiting for a sign.
He longs just for his one true love,
His dear and darling wife.
He wishes but to see her,
And hold her in his arms.
And ne'er again to leave her
And break her loving heart.
When last he left her waiting.
There upon the shore,
He missed her ere he left her
And he'll only miss her more.
Written by themself:
We have been beaten down
Left in the dark,
Out in the cold
No voice in the coming dawn.
The rising sun forsakes us.
This is the choiceless choice,
The grand finale,
The end of what was ours.
The silent voices,
The quiet pleas,
A cold winter’s wind,
We are feared, abandoned, despised.
Left for dead,
Barely alive
The innocent bystanders
Caught in the crossfire;
The ones who suffered
For those undeservingly superior.
No savior seems present
Nor answers our cries.
Our cold hungry pleas.
No conscience guides us,
No one beside us,
Nothing to catch us as we fall.
No light, no star to guide us
The world has left us
Deep within shadows of doubt
Hidden by secrets dear.
Imprisoned for life,
Sentenced to death.
Our own leaders have killed us
For rebelling against corruption
For simply being different.
The lightning points a finger
The moon casts us a hollow stare
The thunder drowns out our screams.
The clouds in our hearts
Roam across endless gray skies.
The blade of false hope
Pierces our minds.
Filled with painful apathy
We walk the night
In distant lands
In waves of silent solitude
Our souls deep in slumber,
Unlikely ever to be revived.
The animals we have become,
Our true unforgiving nature,
Remains caged within us
For the rest of time.
We are the lonely shadows.
Though we will never forget
What they put us through,
They forgot us;
We are the Forgotten.
Written by themself:
Oh snow. Drift silently down around me.
Frozen teardrops from the sky's gloomy eye.
Clouded by darkness as vast as the sea.
A gift from above from the clouds so high.
How thou reminds me of memories past.
Of life and of death, and of nights I have wept,
And a friendship, a love, not meant to last.
For what may be had when nothing is left?
I hate thee for the sorrow thou doth sow
And for the pain frozen deep within my veins.
Still, thou hast shown me the beauty I know
That allows me to forget all my pains.
No matter how much I find I hate you,
The truth is I shall always love you too.
Maya Angelou:
A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Loam:
Translated from Russian:
I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again by another.
Translated from DF Dwarven:
Alcohol is like a strong defender:
the bitter bite is a flashing sword,
the warrior is armored in a metal suit,
cold in covering iron - warm,
though, within; he gives heat to those
who drink of him, the fragrant blood,
and worries are warded off with levity.
But too much drink, and now for you
there is trouble; the warrior now turns against you,
his arm too great to oppose,
and the bitter tool of war strikes you.
The helm is split; the head aches, eyes are blind,
and you fall down, crumble in defeat,
because you made the strong one too powerful.
Apiks:
Written by themself:
Rain crumbles
in the cacophony of silences,
the air shimmers
the city glimmers
Time indisposed,
exists now
light juxtaposed,
bleeds in view
It flows in the crevices,
unliving at last
sweeping the lives,
the lives of what once was
It rains. It rains red.
Tomasque:
Written by themself:
See the jester dance,
His jewelled feet do prance,
While on his throne,
The king thinks to take a chance.
He calls a juggling test,
But can't use the tools,
and to him says the jest,
"You'll make the wisest of fools!"
So the king lies prone,
Jest finds the king a-moan,
He takes his gold crown,
and jumps up onto his throne!
He says, "Now this is just great!
It feels quite strange,
I like this twist of fate,
Why don't you dance for a change?"
He had to obey;
He rose from where he lay.
The king was a fool,
yet but in which very way?
Written by G. K. Chesterton:
It is something to have wept as we have wept,
It is something to have done as we have done,
It is something to have watched when all men slept,
And seen the stars which never see the sun.
It is something to have smelt the mystic rose,
Although it break and leave the thorny rods,
It is something to have hungered once as those
Must hunger who have ate the bread of gods.
To have seen you and your unforgotten face,
Brave as a blast of trumpets for the fray,
Pure as white lilies in a watery space,
It were something, though you went from me to-day.
To have known the things that from the weak are furled,
Perilous ancient passions, strange and high;
It is something to be wiser than the world,
It is something to be older than the sky.
In a time of sceptic moths and cynic rusts,
And fatted lives that of their sweetness tire,
In a world of flying loves and fading lusts,
It is something to be sure of a desire.
Lo, blessed are our ears for they have heard;
Yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen;
Let thunder break on man and beast and bird
And the lightning. It is something to have been.
NRDL:
Written by themself:
The lies that we tell ourselves,
In truth, our greatest creations
The upright beast deludes itself
Into thinking itself a man
Or more
And so forgets
the hunger, and frost and fear from whence it came
So lost is it in fantasy that the word
Reality
Loses much of its potency
and all of its meaning
The Dream evolves
That which it is not it wants
Its true form something to be feared/forgotten/forsaken
Cast into the pit of never was and never shall be
It steps into impossible light
Not realising that its eyes are shut forever
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Topic: The Poetry Thread (Read 117917 times)