Poems You Like Or Wrote

[99 Luftballons]

No I haven't seen the flowers yet
From the broken seeds I'd planted
But the ground is still too red
From the wickedness you did

Could you break my heart?
It's so easy you know
You did it all before
You know, you did it all before

Can you feel it?
Can you feel this moment?
If you could be me
The said would be left unsaid

Just refuse my heart
Don't abuse my heart
You did it all before
You know, you did it all before

Your pocket of schemes
Has split at the seams
I don't need to argue anymore
You're left exposed
Wearing yesterday's clothes
Now you've undone the stitches we've sewn

Your pocket of schemes
Has split at the seams
I don't need to argue anymore
You're left exposed
Wearing yesterday's clothes
Now you've undone the stitches we've sewn

Just refuse my heart
Don't abuse my heart
You did it all before
You know, you did it all before

Your pocket of schemes
Has split at the seams
I don't need to argue anymore
You're left exposed
Wearing yesterday's clothes
Now you've undone the stitches we've sewn

Your pocket of schemes
Has split at the seams
I don't need to argue anymore
You're left exposed
Wearing yesterday's clothes
Now you've undone the stitches we've sewn

Your pocket of schemes
Has split at the seams
I don't need to argue anymore
You're left exposed
Wearing yesterday's clothes
Now you've undone the stitches we've sewn

Your pocket of schemes
Has split at the seams
I don't need to argue anymore
You're left exposed
Wearing yesterday's clothes
Now you've undone the stitches we've sewn

Your pocket of schemes
Has split at the seams
I don't need to argue anymore
You're left exposed
Wearing yesterday's clothes
Now you've undone the stitches we've sewn

 

 

[99 Luftballons]

In the forest near the danube river,

There is a nightingale singing,

He sings to gather everyone from his family

In the forest near the danube river,

There is a bass vibrating and a fiddle crying,

I think of a place where my lovely one is strolling now

In the forest near the danube river,

I am sick with my loneliness,

Crying, I want to fly like a bird,

To where my lovely one is now.

(anonymous / traditional ukrainian folk song)

 

[Jewbacca]

Hey 99, are you going to be posting a syllabus anytime soon or what?!  /default_biggrin.png

Oh, and how many credit hours does this course offer? LOL

 

[kittykat]

Hey 99, are you going to be posting a syllabus anytime soon or what?!  /default_biggrin.png

Oh, and how many credit hours does this course offer? LOL

HAHA.....  It's great 99......

 

[99 Luftballons]

Hey 99, are you going to be posting a syllabus anytime soon or what?!  /default_biggrin.png

Oh, and how many credit hours does this course offer? LOL

Yes my friend...check back next Tuesday! Credits? well if for female things are negotiable! /default_smile.png as always!

 

[Denise]

   

    

‘And ask ye why these sad tears stream?’


‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’
OVID.

And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
I had a dream–a lovely dream,
Of her that in the grave is sleeping.

I saw her as ’twas yesterday,
The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
And round her play’d a golden ray,
And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.

With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were wreath’d with lambent fire
And amaranth was woven round it.

I saw her mid the realms of light,
In everlasting radiance gleaming;
Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.

I strove to reach her, when, behold,
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
Faded in air–a lovely vision!

And I awoke, but oh! to me
That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
Although so blest, and I so dreary.
Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

[Denise]

   Freedom


Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face -

Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-alter gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

[Denise]

   Tears, Idle Tears


Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

[Denise]

The Flower


Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went
Thro' my garden bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o'er the wall
Stole the seed by night.

Sow'd it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
"Splendid is the flower!"

Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.
Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

[Heisenberg / HNB]

The Rose that Grew from Concrete

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete? 
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, 
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

Tupac Shakur

 

[The Shattered Soldier]

More Dark Tower poetry for Denise:

Life's a fiction

The world's a lie

So put on some Credence

And let's get high

-Henry Dean

 

[Guest]

The Rose that Grew from Concrete

Did you hear about the rose that grew

from a crack in the concrete? 

Proving nature's law is wrong it

learned to walk with out having feet.

Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, 

it learned to breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete

when no one else ever cared.

Tupac Shakur

I have always loved this. I always thought his words were particularly beautiful.

 

[Heisenberg / HNB]

I have always loved this. I always thought his words were particularly beautiful.

Agreed on both counts.

 

[Denise]

    

       A Face


If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pure gold,
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's
Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,
How it should waver on the pale gold ground
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.
Robert Browning

 

 

[Denise]

     

A Woman's Last Word


I.

Let's contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
---Only sleep!

II.

What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!

III.

See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!

IV.

What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is
Shun the tree---

V.

Where the apple reddens
Never pry---
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.

VI.

Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!

VII.

Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought---

VIII.

Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.

IX.

That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:

X

---Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.
Robert Browning

 

[Denise]

 

A Song About Myself


I.
There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.

II.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry-
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm-
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north!

III.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good-
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little baby's
Little fingers-
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle-
A kettle
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle!

IV.
There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder'd.
John Keats

 

 

[Denise]

  Yes, it's official. I am a romantic at heart.  This has been one of my favorite poems since I was a young teenager..

How Do I Love Thee?


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 every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love 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.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
 
 
 
Interesting Biography of her at:   http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/152

.

 

[Denise]

  Many believe her sonnets - dedicated to her husband Robert Browning -  to be her finest work.

      IF THOU MUST LOVE ME

 If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love's sake only. Do not say

`I love her for her smile ... her look ... her way

Of speaking gently, ... for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love's sake, that evermore

Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

[Denise]

                        THE WORLD BELOW THE BRINE

                                       by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

  The world below the brine,

   Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,

   Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle openings, and pink turf.

   Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of light through the water,

   Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, bluten, grass, rushes, and the ailment of the swimmers.

   Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling close to the bottom.

   The sperm whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or disportng with his flukes.

   The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting-ray,

   Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in those ocean-depths, breathing that thick-breathing air, as

    so many do.

   The change thence to the sight here and to the subtle air breathed by beings like us who walk this sphere

   The change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.

 

[Denise]

   ALL IS TRUTH

    by  Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

O me, man of slack faith for so long,

Standing aloof, denying portions for so long,

Only aware to-day of compact all-diffused truth,

Discovering to-day there is no lie or form of lie, and can be none,

but grows as inevitably upon itself as the truth grows upon itself,

Or as any law upon the earth or any natural production of the earth does.

 (This is curious and may not be realized immediately, but it must be
realized,
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,
And that the universe does.)

Where has fail'd a perfect return indifferent of lies or the truth?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man?
or in the meat and blood?

Meditating among liars and retreating sternly into myself, I see
that there are really no liars or lies after all,
And that nothing fails its perfect return, and that what are called
lies are perfect returns,
And that each thing exactly represents itself and what has preceded it,
And that the truth includes all, and is compact just as much as
space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth--but
that all is truth without exception;
And henceforth I will go celebrate any thing I see or am,
And sing and laugh and deny nothing.