Share A Poet

[Jennifer C]

Song

All suddenly the wind comes soft,

And spring is here again;

And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,

And my heart with buds of pain.



My heart all Winter lay so numb,

The earth so dead and frore,

That I never thought the Spring would come,

Or my heart would wake any more.



But winter's broken and earth has woken,

And the small birds cry again;

And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,

And my heart puts forth its pain.

Rupert Brooke

 

[Jennifer C]

Day That I Have Loved



Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes,
And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands.
The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies.
I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands,

Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making
Mist-garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water crowned.
There you be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking;
And over the unmoving sea, without a sound,

Faint hands will row you outward, out beyond our sight,
Us with stretched arms and empty eyes on the far-gleaming
And marble sand. . . .
Beyond the shifting cold twilight,
Further than laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming,

There'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands! But the drear
Waste darkening, and, at length, flame ultimate on the deep.
Oh, the last fire -- and you, unkissed, unfriended there!
Oh, the lone way's red ending, and we not there to weep!

(We found you pale and quiet, and strangely crowned with flowers,
Lovely and secret as a child. You came with us,
Came happily, hand in hand with the young dancing hours,
High on the downs at dawn!) Void now and tenebrous,

The grey sands curve before me. . . .
From the inland meadows,
Fragrant of June and clover, floats the dark, and fills
The hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadows,
And the white silence brims the hollow of the hills.

Close in the nest is folded every weary wing,
Hushed all the joyful voices; and we, who held you dear,
Eastward we turn and homeward, alone, remembering . . .
Day that I loved, day that I loved, the Night is here!


Rupert Brooke

 

[Jennifer C]

Finding

From the candles and dumb shadows,

And the house where love had died,

I stole to the vast moonlight

And the whispering life outside.

But I found no lips of comfort,

No home in the moon's light

(I, little and lone and frightened

In the unfriendly night),

And no meaning in the voices....

Far over the lands, and through

The dark, beyond the ocean,

I willed to think of you!

For I knew, had you been with me

I'd have known the words of night,

Found peace of heart, gone gladly

In comfort of that light.



Oh! The wind with soft beguiling

Would have stolen my thought away

And the night, subtly smiling,

Came by the silver way;

And the moon came down and danced to me,

And her robe was white and flying;

And trees bent their heads to me

Mysteriously crying;

And dead voices wept around me;

And dead soft fingers thrilled;

And the little gods whispered....

Desperately I willed;

Till all grew soft and far

And silent...



And suddenly

I found you white and radiant,

Sleeping quietly,

Far out through the tides of darkness,

And I there in that great light

Was alone no more, nor fearful;

For there, in the homely night,

Was no thought else that mattered,

And nothing else was true,

But the white fire of moonlight,

And a white dream of you.

Rupert Brooke

 

[Jennifer C]

Dust

When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the world's delight
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death,
And through the lips corruption thrust
Has stilled the labour of my breath--
When we are dust, when we are dust!--

Not dead, not undesirous yet,
Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit,
Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun,
And light of foot, and unconfined,
Hurry from road to road, and run
About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air
Will speed and gleam, down later days
And like a secret pilgrim fare
By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie
Till, beyond thinking, out of view,
One mote of all the dust that's I
Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind,
Warm in a sunset's afterglow,
The lovers in the flowers will find
A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring,
So high a beauty in the air,
And such a light, and such a quiring,
And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,
Or out of earth, or in the height,
Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher....
But in that instant they shall learn
The shattering ecstasy of our fire,
And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow,
Until the darkness close above;
And they will know -- poor fools, they'll know! --
One moment, what it is to love.

Rupert Brooke



Ok that's the last one, lol, I love this poet

 

[twelveoone]

Missing Dates

Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
It is not the effort nor the failure tires.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It is not your system or clear sight that mills
Down small to the consequence a life requires;
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.

They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills
Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It is the Chinese tombs and the slag hills
Usurp the soil, and not the soil retires.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.

Not to have fire is to be a skin that shrills.
The complete fire is death. From partial fires
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It is the poems you have lost, the ills
From missing dates, at which the heart expires.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

-- William Empson

 

[Jennifer C]

Villanelle

It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

What later purge from this deep toxin cures?
What kindness now could the old salve renew?
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.

The infection slept (custom or changes inures)
And when pain's secondary phase was due
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

How safe I felt, whom memory assures,
Rich that your grace safely by heart I knew.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.

My stare drank deep beauty that still allures.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

You are still kind whom the same shape immures.
Kind and beyond adieu. We miss our cue.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

-- William Empson

 

[Jennifer C]

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

-- T. S. Eliot

 

[Jennifer C]

Romance

Romance, who loves to nod a sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been - a most familiar bird -
Taught me my alphabet to say -
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child - with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years,
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky,
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings -
That litle time with lyre and rhyme
To while away - forbidden thing!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

Edgar Allen Poe

 

[twelveoone]

Villanelle

It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

What later purge from this deep toxin cures?
What kindness now could the old salve renew?
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.

The infection slept (custom or changes inures)
And when pain's secondary phase was due
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

How safe I felt, whom memory assures,
Rich that your grace safely by heart I knew.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.

My stare drank deep beauty that still allures.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

You are still kind whom the same shape immures.
Kind and beyond adieu. We miss our cue.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

-- William Empson

Oh double wink

 

[Jennifer C]

lol

Thanks

 

[Jennifer C]

As One Listens to the Rain

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.

Octavio Paz

 

[Jennifer C]

ROSES

You love the roses - so do I. I wish
They sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!


George Eliot 1819-1880

 

[Jennifer C]

Wake up. Day calls you

Wake up. Day calls you
to your life: your duty.
And to live, nothing more.
Root it out of the glum
night and the darkness
that covered your body
for which light waited
on tiptoe in the dawn.
Stand up, affirm the straight
simple will to be
a pure slender virgin.
Test your bodys metal.
cold, heat? Your blood
will tell against the snow,
or behind the window.
The colour
in your cheeks will tell.
And look at people. Rest
doing no more than adding
your perfection to another
day. Your task
is to carry your life high,
and play with it, hurl it
like a voice to the clouds
so it may retrieve the light
already gone from us.
That is your fate: to live
Do nothing.
Your work is you, nothing more.

Pedro Salinas
1891-1951

translated by Willis Barnstone

 

[Jennifer C]

Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her
a poem by Christopher Brennan



If questioning would make us wise
No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;
If all our tale were told in speech
No mouths would wander each to each.

Were spirits free from mortal mesh
And love not bound in hearts of flesh
No aching breasts would yearn to meet
And find their ecstasy complete.

For who is there that lives and knows
The secret powers by which he grows?
Were knowledge all, what were our need
To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?.

Then seek not, sweet, the "If" and "Why"
I love you now until I die.
For I must love because I live
And life in me is what you give.

 

[Angeline]

ROSES

You love the roses - so do I. I wish
They sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!


George Eliot 1819-1880

I haven't read her for the longest time. This is a breath of fresh air to me. Thanks.

 

[Jennifer C]

I haven't read her for the longest time. This is a breath of fresh air to me. Thanks.

My pleasure Ange

 

[Jennifer C]

Just for you Ange

Count That Day Lost

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face--
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost --
Then count that day as worse than lost.

George Eliot(Mary Ann Evans)

 

[Jennifer C]

Hope

It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,
it shakes sleep from its eyes
and drops from mushroom gills,
it explodes in the starry heads
of dandelions turned sages,
it sticks to the wings of green angels
that sail from the tops of maples.
It sprouts in each occluded eye
of the many-eyed potato,
it lives in each earthworm segment
surviving cruelty,
it is the motion that runs the tail of a dog,
it is the mouth that inflates the lungs
of the child that has just been born.
It is the singular gift
we cannot destroy in ourselves,
the argument that refutes death,
the genius that invents the future,
all we know of God.
It is the serum which makes us swear
not to betray one another;
it is in this poem, trying to speak.

Lisel Mueller

 

[Angeline]

Count That Day Lost

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face--
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost --
Then count that day as worse than lost.

George Eliot(Mary Ann Evans)

True and wonderful to read. Some people would say it's banal, but I think it's a lovely sentiment. I've loved her since I read Mill on the Floss in college.

Here's a found poem I just overheard being sung on the deck.

Hey hey, my my
Barbeque will never die.
It's better to burn it
than to eat it raw.
Hey hey, my my.

mmmm chicken.

 

[Jennifer C]

True and wonderful to read. Some people would say it's banal, but I think it's a lovely sentiment. I've loved her since I read Mill on the Floss in college.

Here's a found poem I just overheard being sung on the deck.

Hey hey, my my
Barbeque will never die.
It's better to burn it
than to eat it raw.
Hey hey, my my.

mmmm chicken.

lol!

I agree, I love her work

 

[Jennifer C]

Song

I.
Strive not, vain lover, to be fine;
Thy silk's the silk-worm's, and not thine:
You lessen to a fly your mistriss' thought,
To think it may be in a cobweb caught.
What, though her thin transparent lawn
Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn:
Not all the arms the god of fire ere made
Can the soft bulwarks of nak'd love invade.

II.
Be truly fine, then, and yourself dress
In her fair soul's immac'late glass.
Then by reflection you may have the bliss
Perhaps to see what a true fineness is;
When all your gawderies will fit
Those only that are poor in wit.
She that a clinquant outside doth adore,
Dotes on a gilded statue and no more.


Richard Lovelace

 

[Jennifer C]

Once Upon a Time

From behind each tree you appeared
in such great numbers that I felt alone,
and amid the gust of your mad movements
my laffer against the fortress whirled away.

I met you at the corner of each street,
you were so absent that I cried, lost myself.
Within clouds reminiscent of ancient seas
floated rocks gnawed down with your blood.

What a pity! You vanished in great numbers
as if coexistent with a time that never was.
I bent and picked up the sky from the ground,
the sky you had carelessly dropped, dropped.


Oktay Rifat

 

[PatCarrington]

Sophia
by Betty Franklin

Don't you worry none
about Sophia.

Sophia be strong.
Strong come outa her
mouth before the talk do.
Strong come outa her
eye when she lay it
on you.
Strong be in her stride.

Don't you worry none
about Sophia.
Sophia maimed
but she be holdin on
jus fine.
She be Sophia all the time.

 

[Jennifer C]

Surrender

Take all of me,--I am thine own, heart, soul,
Brain, body--all; all that I am or dream
Is thine for ever; yea, though space should teem
With thy conditions, I'd fulfil the whole--
Were to fulfil them to be loved of thee.
Oh, love me!--were to love me but a way
To kill me--love me; so to die would be
To live for ever. Let me hear thee say
Once only, "Dear, I love thee"--then all life
Would be one sweet remembrance,--thou its king:
Nay, thou art that already, and the strife
Of twenty worlds could not uncrown thee. Bring,
O Time! my monarch to possess his throne,
Which is my heart and for himself alone.


Amelie Rives

 

[Jennifer C]

Cherry-Ripe

There is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies blow;

A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:

There cherries grow which none may buy

Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.



Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearls a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds filled with snow;

Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy

Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.



Her eyes like angels watch them still;

Her bows like bended bows do stand,

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill

All that attempt with eye or hand

Those sacred cherries to come nigh,

Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Thomas Campion