i'm almost ready..
^^snow white that is one of my favorite poems........
i wrote an extensive paper on it, once upon a time....
the dance ---- william carlos williams
when the snow falls the flakes
spin upon the long axis
that concerns them mostly intimately
two and two to make a dance
the mind dances with itself,
taking you by the hand,
your lover follows
there are always two,
yourself and the other,
the point of your shoe setting the pace,
if you break away and run
the dance is over
Breathlessly you will take
better or worse who will keep
at your side, at your stops
whirls and glides until he too
on his way down as if
there were another direction
gayer, more carefree
spinning face to face but always down
with each other secure
only in each other's arms
but only the dance is sure!
make it your own.
Who can tell
what is to come of it?
in the woods of your
own nature whatever
twig interposes, and bare twigs
have an actuality of their own
this flurry of the storm
that holds us,
plays with us and discards us
dancing, dancing as may be credible.
I think I posted it before in another thread.
Talk to Strangers by Saul Williams
Now I wasn’t raised at gunpoint
and I’ve read too many books
to distract me from the mirror
when unhappy with my looks
and I ain’t got proper diction
for the makings of a thug
though I grew up in the ghetto
and my ******s all sold drugs,
and though that may validate me
for a spot on MTV
and give me all the airplay
that my bank account would need,
I was hoping to invest in
a lesson that I learned
I thought this fool had jumped me
just because it was my turn.
I went to an open space
because I knew he wouldn’t do it
if somebody there could see him
or somebody else might prove it,
and maybe in your eyes
it may seem I got punked out
because I walked in their own path
and then went and changed my route.
But that open-ness exposed me
to a truth I couldn’t find
in the clenched fists of my ego
or the confines of my mind
or the hip-ness of my swagger,
or the swagger of my step,
the scowl of my grimace,
or the mean-ness of my rap.
Because we represent a truth son,
that changes by the hour,
and when you open to it,
for nobility is power,
in that shifting form you’ll find a truth that doesn’t change
and that truth is living proof of the fact that God is strange…
Talk to strangers
when the family fails and friends led you astray
and Buddah laughs and Jesus weeps and turns out God is gay.
As angels in disguise love can come in many forms,
the hallways of your projects or the fat girl in your dorm,
and when you finally take the time to see what they’re about
perhaps you find they’re lonely or their wisdom trips you out.
Maybe you’ll find the cycles end
right back where you began,
but come this time around
you’ll have someone to hold your hand,
who prays for you who is there for you
who sends you love and light,
exposes you to parts of you
that you once tried to fight.
And come this time around
you choose to walk a different path,
you’ll embrace what you turned away
and cry at what you laughed,
because that’s the only way
we’re going to make it through this storm,
where ignorance is common sense
and senseless is the norm.
Infact we’re high above the truth
and that you never touch,
and stolen goods are overpriced
and freedom costs too much,
and no-one seems to recognise
the symbols come to life,
the bitten apple on the screen
and Jesus had a wife,
and she was his Messiah
like that stranger may be yours,
who holds a subtle knife
that carves through worlds
like magic doors,
and that’s what I’ve been looking for,
the bridge from then to now,
just watching B.E.T like what the **** son,
this is foul
But that’s where [Boston?] represents
this fear that we live in,
the world is not a flat screen
I ain’t trying to fit in.
But this ain’t for the underground
this here is for the sun.
A seed a stranger gave to me
and planted on my tongue.
And when I look at you,
I know I’m not the only one.
As a great man once said,
there’s nothing more powerful
than an idea
Rhapsody On A Windy Night - TS Elliot
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memoryAnd 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.
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,The street-lamp said, “Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward 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.
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 the 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, 50La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths 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 eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smellsThat 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.
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.
Last edited by Little Star; 05-10-2005 at 06:08 AM.
Margaret Atwood - You Begin
You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
this is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.
Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.
This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
I love all of Sara Teasdale's poems but this one is the current favorite:
Iowa Girl Loves Fashion
This is Not About Her (or, rather, Him for me)
by Tim Fairman
Some kind of explosion bounces
around my guts and brain when
we're talking and, man, do I hate you
and want you and loathe you and
desire you and taste you.
One minute your voice is ice that
quickly melts into my skin and makes
my stupid face wide and grinning and there's
nothing I can think about except the Sins
we could commit.
Then you're exposing so much
that I can't help but fall into you
like winter and I'm almost certain this
is bad for my health.
But you're naked and I'm human,
so maybe we'll be us,
at least for one night.
Alone With Everybody by Bukowski
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
and nobody finds the
crawling in and out
the bone and the
for more than
there's no chance
we are all trapped
by a singular
nobody ever finds
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn...
It doesn't make sense to put it here, since it's Danish poetry, but I'm very happy about the Danish poet Michael Strunge, almost all his stuff. I also have a cousin who's pretty talented (an upcoming star, me thinks) and I really like his stuff, too.
Janie, today I quit my job. And then I told my boss to go f*** himself, and then I blackmailed him for almost sixty thousand dollars. Pass the asparagus.
my fave is from sonnets for the portugese byElizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
my loves a pony.
I love TS Eliot, everything he ever wrote, especially The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock.
And we liked to party
and we kept it live
and we had a three volume tome of contemporary slang
to keep a handle on all this jive.
Ever since I saw meegan followes recite The Lady Of Shalottin the Movie Anne of Green Gables(great movie btw), I fell in love.
It's my favorite poem!
It's really long, so I'll just post the link for those who care to read it
By Alfred Tennyson
I also live anything by Beau Sia!
My favorite is Howl by Allen Ginsberg..much too long to put here, I think, but its very easily found if you haven't read it! Also, Pete Doherty's songwriting; especially the song Albion;
Down in Albion
Ah, they're black and blue
But we don't talk about that
Are you from 'round here?
How do you do?
I'd like to talk about that
Gin in teacups
And leaves on the lawn
Violence in bus stops
And the pale thin girl with eyes forlorn
Aah, gin in teacups
And leaves on the lawn
Violence in dole queues
And the pale thin girl behind the checkout
But if you're looking for a cheap talk
Glint with perspiration
There's a four-mile queue
Outside the disused power station
Now come away, won't you come away
We'll go to
Anywhere in Albion
And canons at dawn
And canons at dawn
But if you're looking for a cheap sort
That's in false anticipation
It'll be waiting in the photo booth
At the railway station
Ah come away, won't you come away
We're going to...
Watford, London Fields
If you're looking for a cheap sort
That's in false anticipation
It'll be waiting in the photo booth
At the underground station
Oh come away, won't you come away
We're going to...
Mine comes from Mark Strand, written in 1963. Everytime i read it, it gives me a sense of peace and i feel like it takes me one step near to whom and what i really want to be...
In a field
I am the absence
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
to keep things whole.
two new favorites by ee cummings are "i like my body when it is with your" and this one:
"i love you much(most beautiful darling)"
i love you much(most beautiful darling)
more than anyone on the earth and i
like you better than everything in the sky
-sunlight and singing welcome your coming
although winter may be everywhere
with such a silence and such a darkness
noone can quite begin to guess
(except my life)the true time of year-
and if what calls itself a world should have
the luck to hear such singing(or glimpse such
sunlight as will leap higher than high
through gayer than gayest someone's heart at your each
nearness)everyone certainly would(my
most beautiful darling)believe in nothing but love
Last edited by electricladyland; 02-12-2005 at 11:20 AM.