Poetry and Prose is dedicated to yout own poems, created by you

This should a place where you post the poems of your favorite authors, not forgetting to mention the author and book where it was published (if you know) ~

A boat beneath a sunnt sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July -

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear -

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die.
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream -
Lingering in the golden gleam -
Life, what is it but a dream?
----Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson)

^Beautiful poem..~

---

I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.

I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.

-Emily Dickinson

(I like this poem.. because it encourages me to believe in something that is hard for me to grasp at times--but I know for certain that He is truly there in my heart).

I love her poetry~ ^^

"The Meehoo and the Exactlywatt" by Shel Silverstein.

-Knock knock!
-Who's there?
-Me!
-Me who?
-That's right!
-What's right?
-Meehoo!
-That's what I want to know!
-What's what you want to know?
-Me, who?
-Yes, exactly!
-Exactly what?
-Yes, I have an Exactlywatt on a chain!
-Exactly what on a chain?
-Yes!
-Yes what?
-No, Exactlywatt!
-That's what I want to know!
-I told you - Exactlywatt!
-Exactly what?
-Yes!
-Yes what?
-Yes, it's with me!
-What's with you?
-Exactlywatt - that's what's with me.
-Me who?
-Yes!
-Go away!
-Knock knock...

I just find it funny, and it reminds me of "Who's on First" by Abbot and Costello.

I really like this poem because the imagery in it is so powerful:

Humming-Bird

I can imagine, in some otherworld
Primeval-dumb, far back
In that most awful stillness, that only gasped and hummed,
Humming-birds raced down the avenues.

Before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
This little bit chipped off in brilliance
And went whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems.

I believe there were no flowers, then,
In the world where the humming-bird flashed ahead of creation.
I believe he pierced the slow vegetable veins with his long beak.

Probably he was big
As mosses, and little lizards, they say were once big.
Probably he was a jabbing, terrifying monster.

We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time,
Luckily for us.

~D. H. Lawrence

From: Birds, Beasts and Flowers

Edit: LMAO, I managed to post this in Chapter 3B of the RP by mistake XD

Stop all the Clocks, Cut off the Telephone

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message They Are Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

They were my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

By W. H. Auden

This will be the last of the funny poems:

I like this one, which has a few different versions. This is one:

(Don't know the name... :heh: )

I come before you, to stand behind you,
To tell you something I know nothing about.
Admission is free, so pay at the door;
Pull up a chair and sit on the floor:

Early this morning, late last night,
Two dead men rose up to fight.
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot one 'nother.

A stone-deaf sheriff heard the noise,
And came and killed those two dead boys.
The mute psychotic shrieked in fright,
With words of joy at this ghastly sight.

Now if you doubt this lie is true?
Ask the blind man; he saw it, too.


And another funny poem:

Ladies and gentlemen, uncles and aunts,
Cockeyed mosquitoes and bow-legged ants.
I come here before you to stand behind you
And tell you something I know nothing about.

Next Wednesday, which is Good Friday,
There's a ladies' meeting for men only.
No admission, pay at the door,
Pull up a chair and sit on the floor.

The Dreamers

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.


Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.


I see them in foul dugouts, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain.
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.

Siegfried Sassoon


This is my favorite poem--and as a soldier, I can tell you that many things have not changed. We all want to come back to "firelit homes, clean beds, and wives." This just hilites the bad side of my job, and shows what we go through for people we'll never meet, some of which fight us every step of the way.

P

I love this poem by Yeats.

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.



Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Im running not looking back
It follows slowing speed it lacks
Rushing in a frenzy i feel the silence come upon me
Abscence of people sucking a scheme as dawns sea
I quake in a stumble as i hear its dreadful song
Alighting with friends for far too long
Now theres no way for me to escape such fate
I have to live with the fact that for this class...I was late

The Walrus and The Carpenter
By: Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.


The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"


"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."


The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."


"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"


"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"


"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.


"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
--------------------------------
An oldie but a goodie ^_^. Most people are only familiar with the " 'The time has come' the walrus said..." part though.

Originally posted by Zucriy Amsuna@Mar 28 2005, 09:33 AM
"The Meehoo and the Exactlywatt" by Shel Silverstein.

-Knock knock!
-Who's there?
-Me!
-Me who?
-That's right!
-What's right?
-Meehoo!
-That's what I want to know!
-What's what you want to know?
-Me, who?
-Yes, exactly!
-Exactly what?
-Yes, I have an Exactlywatt on a chain!
-Exactly what on a chain?
-Yes!
-Yes what?
-No, Exactlywatt!
-That's what I want to know!
-I told you - Exactlywatt!
-Exactly what?
-Yes!
-Yes what?
-Yes, it's with me!
-What's with you?
-Exactlywatt - that's what's with me.
-Me who?
-Yes!
-Go away!
-Knock knock...

I just find it funny, and it reminds me of "Who's on First" by Abbot and Costello.
:lol:

This is a poem i wrote myself. Hope you like it!
She's not suicidal
You think i can never be depresed,
You think all my days are sunny and bright.
Well, i have news for you,
your dead wrong.
This choker i wear isn't for its beauty.
I wear it for the slight pressure on my neck.
It reminds me of the rope in my closet,
of the constant fight not to use it.
These bracelets aren't to tell you how i feel,
they're on my arms for the feeling they leave on my skin.
They remind me of the knife on my nightstand,
of my reasuring myself that i don't need it.
So you're finally starting to clue in.
What tipped you off?
The obvious scars on my arms?
The reddish brusies on my neck?
Or was it the fact that i told you cutting and strangling releaves stress?
i bet thats not why you know.
i bet you know because now i'm dead.

Wrong thread. This thread is for poetry written buy others. Try General Chat.

By: Holly Black (I think)
Valiant

One fine day
In the middle of the night,
Two dead boys
Got up to fight.

Back to back they faced each other,
Took out their swords and shot one another.
The deaf cop on the beat heard the noise
And came and shot the two dead boys.

Now that is a great poem!

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight, I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.


W.B.Yeats, 1865 - 1939

"The Fiddler of Dooney"
WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like a wave of the sea.
--W.B. Yeats

Ooh, so many great poems! ^_^

Here's one I like (it's a bit old, so it contains some references that are out of date [not to mention the spelling ;) ], and the references to "white = pure" are a bit overdone; but overall I love that poem, it's so sad...)

The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun
by Andrew Marvell

The wanton Troopers riding by
Have shot my Faun and it will dye.
Ungentle men! They cannot thrive
To kill thee. Thou neer didst alive
Them any harm: alas nor cou'd
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'me sure I never wisht them ill;
Nor do I for all this; nor will:
But, if my simple Pray'rs may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will Joyn my Tears
Rather then fail. But, O my fears!
It cannot dye so. Heavens King
Keeps register of every thing:
And nothing may we use in vain.
Ev'n Beasts must be with justice slain;
Else Men are made their Deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life blood, which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the Heart,
Yet could they not be clean: their Stain
Is dy'd in such a Purple Grain.
There is not such another in
The World, to offer for their Sin,
Unconstant Sylvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well)
Ty'd in this silver Chain and Bell,
Gave it to me: nay and I know
What he said then; I'm sure I do.
Said He, look how your Huntsman here
Hath taught a Faun to hunt his Dear.
But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd.
This waxed tame; while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my Smart,
Left me his Faun, but took his Heart.
Thenceforth I set my self to play
My solitary time away,
With this: and very well content,
Could so mine idle Life have spent.
For it was full of sport; and light
Of foot, and heart; and did invite,
Me to its game: it seem'd to bless
Its self in me. How could I less
Than love it? O I cannot be
Unkind, t' a Beast that loveth me.
Had it liv'd long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so
As Sylvio did: his Gifts might be
Perhaps as false or more than he.
But I am sure, for ought that I
Could in so short a time espie,
Thy Love was far more better then
The love of false and cruel men.
With sweetest milk, and sugar, first
I it at mine own fingers nurst.
And as it grew, so every day
It wax'd more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a Breath! And oft
I blusht to see its foot more soft,
And white, (shall I say then my hand?)
Nay any Ladies of the Land.
It is a wond'rous thing, how fleet
Twas on those little silver feet.
With what a pretty skipping grace,
It oft would callenge me the Race:
And when 'thad left me far away,
'T would stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than Hindes;
And trod, as on the four Winds.
I have a Garden of my own,
But so with Roses over grown,
And Lillies, that you would it guess
To be a little Wilderness.
And all the Spring time of the year
It onely loved to be there.
Among the beds of Lillyes, I
Have sought it oft, where it should lye;
Yet could not, till it self would rise,
Find it, although before mine Eyes.
For, in the flaxen Lillies shade,
It like a bank of Lillies laid.
Upon the Roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seem'd to bleed:
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those Roses on my Lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On Roses thus its self to fill:
And its pure virgin Limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of Lillies cold.
Had it liv'd long, it would have been
Lillies without, Roses within.
O help! O help! I see it faint:
And dye as calmely as a Saint.
See how it weeps. The Tears do come
Sad, slowly dropping like a Gumme.
So weeps the wounded Balsome: so
The holy Frankincense doth flow.
The brotherless Heliades
Melt in such Amber Tears as these.
I in a golden Vial will
Keep these two crystal Tears; and fill
It till it do o'reflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's Shrine.
Now my sweet Faun is vanish'd to
Whether the Swans and Turtles go
In fair Elizium to endure,
With milk-white Lambs, and Ermins pure.
O do not run too fast: for I
Will but bespeak thy Grave, and dye.
First my unhappy Statue shall
Be cut in Marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too: but there
Th' Engraver sure his Art may spare;
For I so truly thee bemoane,
That I shall weep though I be Stone:
Until my Tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest Alabaster made:
For I would have thine Image be
White as I can, though not as Thee.

WATER NIGHT

Night with the eyes of a horse that trembles in the night,
night with eyes of water in the field asleep
is in your eyes, a horse that trembles,
is in your eyes of a secret water.

Eyes of shadow-water,
eyes of well-water,
eyes of dream-water.

Silence and solitude,
two little animals moon-led,
drink in your eyes,
drink in those waters.

If you open your eyes,
night opens, doors of musk,
the secret kingdom of the water opens
flowing from the center of night.

And if you close your eyes,
a river fills you from within,
flows forward, darkens you:
night brings its wetness to beaches in your soul.

~ Octavio Paz

(Also featured in Eric Whitacre's Water Night)