Poet's Passion [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
~Poetry & Melancholy~

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The Stone [Apr. 20th, 2011|07:20 pm]
purplesugi
My life is set in stone.
Will it ever change?
What have I missed?
What could have been?

All the paths not taken,
All the roads not travelled.
What waited for me,
Had I chosen them instead?

Am I happy as I am?
Like stagnant water,
Never moving.
Always the same.

Or am I just wishing?
Wishing for things that will never be?
Can I change the stone now?
Dare I change it now?

Do I really want to change what’s written?
All these questions shall remain unanswered.
For fear keeps me stagnant.
Fear of change, fear of life. Fear of myself.

AJL 4-3-11
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Hold me again, i'll do anything for it. [Jan. 17th, 2011|01:54 am]
nova_23
[mood | depressed]

I sleep as long as I can,
It feels better to be in the darkness.
I sleep ever chance I get,
It's better than living with myself.

I figure sleep will be my dark sanctuary.
It's until I dream of you I think it's safe.
I slept to escape my fuck up,
and then I dream of you smiling with someone else.

Baby, I need you,I love you,
I'm dying to hear you tell me "I love you"
Baby, I'm sorry, I'll do anything for you.
I want to be with you,
I want nothing more but for you to hold me again.
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friends, or so I thought [Jan. 13th, 2011|10:21 pm]
nova_23
[mood | enraged]

When I needed a hug the most,
No one was there.
When I needed a friend the most,
They were busy.
When I needed someone to come to my rescue,
They ALL let me FALL!

I know, I’m alone.
I have no friends,
So if they want help me now,
They are too late.
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"The Children's Hour" [Sep. 11th, 2010|08:46 pm]

monk111
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour.


I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.


From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall-stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.


A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.


A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!


They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.


They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!


Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old moustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?


I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeons
In the round-tower of my heart.


And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!


-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Mourning Sammy (my cat) [Aug. 28th, 2010|03:25 pm]

monk111
This is as close as I can come to writing poetry, having no real sense of rhythm and rhyme, but if there are no objections, I might contribute original stuff like this every once in a while.

~~~~~~~~~

An amusing, if aggravating, thought:

If I had a sort of bird's eye/God's eye view,
I could look down and spot Sammy,
perhaps just a few blocks from me,
wandering dazedly and lost,
and I could go and pick him up
and take him back home with me,

but I don't have that view,
and it's like a needle in a haystack,
and there's no hope of finding it,
though I can feel the prick and sting of it.

Of course, this assumes Sammy is only lost,
that it's not worse,
that he hasn't been mangled by a dog
or by sadistic boys.

If it's worse,
one can only hope it was a quick death,
much quicker than what Willy suffered.

I shouldn't muse so much like this,
like a little boy
whose pet is the biggest most special thing in the world,
but such is the emptiness of my life
that my pets are my greatest loves.

Well, at least I mused as much over losing Mother,
and I had a lot more mixed feelings about her, heh.
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Spell Checkers [Aug. 27th, 2010|05:18 pm]

meganekko
[Tags|]

Ever been told "at least use spell check!" or some such before you submit writing? Ways that can go wrong...

A Little Poem Regarding Computer Spell Checkers...

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.


I couldn't find out who this poem had been written by but it's definitely amusing ♥

ETA: possibly by Jerrold H. Zar. Longer version here.
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A New Emily Dickinson Biography [Aug. 13th, 2010|09:08 pm]

monk111
"Lives Like Loaded Guns," Lyndall Gordon's book about Emily Dickinson and the fury that surrounded the publication of her poems, reads like a fabulous detective story, replete with hidden treasure, diabolical adversaries and a curse from one generation to the next. Very few of Dickinson's poems were published during her lifetime, and they might have remained closeted forever had it not been for the fevered devotion of her sister and Mabel Loomis Todd, her brother's mistress. There were others involved, too: her volcanic sister-in-law, Susan Gilbert Dickinson; Susan's daughter; Mabel's daughter; and Thomas Wentworth Higginson, one of Dickinson's mentors.

-- The Washington Post

I haven't read much from Emily Dickinson, and I'm surprised to learn that she was barely discovered, which is the kind of literary romance that most touches me, and perhaps a lot of bloggers, heh, the great writer writing away in obscurity.
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To live each day as if it might be the last [Aug. 8th, 2010|07:50 pm]

monk111
To live each day as if it might be the last

Is an injunction that Marcus Aurelius

Inscribes in his journal to remind himself

That he, too, however privileged, is mortal,

That whatever bounty is destined to reach him

Has reached him already, many times.

But if you take his maxim too literally

And devote your mornings to tinkering with your will,

Your afternoons and evenings to saying farewell

To friends and family, you’ll come to regret it.

Soon your lawyer won’t fit you into his schedule.

Soon your dear ones will hide in a closet

When they hear your heavy step on the porch.

And then your house will slide into disrepair.

If this is my last day, you’ll say to yourself,

Why waste time sealing drafts in the window frames

Or cleaning gutters or patching the driveway?

If you don’t want your heirs to curse the day

You first opened Marcus’s journals,

Take him simply to mean you should find an hour

Each day to pay a debt or forgive one,

Or write a letter of thanks or apology.

No shame in leaving behind some evidence

You were hoping to live beyond the moment.

No shame in a ticket to a concert seven months off,

Or, better yet, two tickets, as if you were hoping

To meet by then someone who’d love to join you,

Two seats near the front so you catch each note.


-- "A Maxim" by Carl Dennis
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"How To Be Alone" [Jul. 31st, 2010|07:44 pm]

monk111
Andrew Sullivan posted this video presentation of the poem, written and performed by Tanya Davis, and I thought it would be okay to share it here.

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Alice in Wonderland [Jul. 14th, 2010|08:09 pm]

monk111
Quaint child, old-fashioned Alice, lend your dream:
I would be done with modern story-spinners,
Follow with you the laughter and the gleam:
Weary am I, this night, of saints and sinners.
We have been friends since Lewis and old Tenniel
Housed you immortally in red and gold.
Come! Your naivete is a spring perennial:
Let me be young again before I am old.

You are a glass of youth: this night I choose
Deep in your magic labyrinths to stray,
Where rants the Red Queen in her splendid hues
And the White Rabbit hurries on his way.
Let us once more adventure, hand it hand:
Give me belief again - in Wonderland!


-- "Alice Where Art Thou" by Vincent Starrett

I just started reading Lewis Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" for the first time, and I thought I'd share this tribute poem.
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[Jul. 6th, 2010|02:26 am]
nova_23
[mood | creative]

Looking into the night sky,
You wish upon that first star,
And hope that your wish comes true.

There’s only one way to make your wish come true,
And honey, it sure ain’t by wishin’ on a star.
You have to work for your dreams and your wishes.

You gotta hope that you have what it takes,
To make those wishes and dreams come true,
Nobody can grant your wishes but you.

So stand up from your spot in the grass,
Stand up and think about that wish you have,
Now go, work hard, stand tall, and make yourself proud.

Show everyone that wishes can come true,
That all you have to do,
Is and make it come true.
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Erase it all [Jun. 21st, 2010|10:14 pm]
nova_23
Erase it all,
It’s want I want to do,
I want to leave,
I want to see the sun guiding me,

Away from this mess,
Away from those sad days
Away from that anger,
Away from you,

I want to erase you,
And me,
And everything that was between us.
Hit the reset on my heart.

My heart squirms and cries,
My mind is torn,
My Chest is heavy,
My strength is leaving me

I’m tired of having this open wound,
Tired of trying to be with you,
Tired of trying to act happy around you,
I’m tired of you.
_____________________________________________

It's been a while since I've been on, might as well post something fresh
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Eternal Trinity [Jun. 15th, 2010|03:38 pm]

monk111
Eternal Trinity, you are a deep sea,
into which the more I enter the more I find,
and the more I find the more I seek.
The soul ever hungers in your abyss, Eternal Trinity,
longing to see you with the light of your light,
and as the deer yearns for the springs of water,
so my soul yearns to see you in truth.


-- St. Catherine of Siena (1347 - 1380)

This is from "The Book of a Thousand Prayers" compiled by Angela Ashwin, and I thought it might be nice to post a few of the more poetic ones in this community. :)
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National Poetry Month [Apr. 9th, 2010|04:21 pm]

meganekko
[Tags|]
[mood | cheerful]

Hi everyone! I just wanted to inform everyone that April is National Poetry Month in Canada and the United States. I hope this inspires everyone to write some poetry or at least enjoy your favorite poets!

Happy National Poetry Month everyone! ^-^
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Sonnet: A Haunted Heart [Jan. 22nd, 2010|12:26 pm]
nova_23
[Tags|]
[music |Ghost of Love by The Rasmus]

A Haunted Heart

There are days of sweet bliss
Days where we just love and kiss
Then there are days I'm haunted 
I always wonder why,
but I just cry.
It's so hard to go undaunted.
make my heart stop hurting,
Break this curse, do something that is diverting
Lift this weight off my chest.
If only you knew,
Just how much I love you
Please save my heart from being so stressed.
Please help my heart let this pain free,
And please don't ever leave me

Nova_23
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening [Jan. 16th, 2010|01:24 pm]
blindstrings
[Tags|]
[music |Fireflies, Owl City]

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost
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I Sit and Think, by J.R,R, Tolkien [Jan. 16th, 2010|12:45 am]

meganekko
[Tags|, ]

I Sit and Think


I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall never see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

-John Ronald Reuel Tolkien


Sad, but beautiful, like most of Tolkien's poems. Except for the Bath-Song. That's just pure good fun ^-^
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"The best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees, I want money" [Dec. 9th, 2009|01:22 am]

ryan_e_f
[music |needle in the hay / elliott smith]

*song lyric by the Flying Lizards
poem below inspired by...well, it is obvious.


someone sang, long ago, that
"all you need is LOVE"
but he's long dead and in the ground;
John can't see what we've become

our lives beat green, veins of cash
sit back, and watch them flow:
the dollar, the yen, the euro, the pound
can make those feelings go

some men have it, some men don't,
so get it while you can, man
nothin' that can't be bought or sold
but if you're broke then hit that road

and when night falls and health is gone
we hope you've saved enough;
life's too short, but can be longer
if you have the dough

'cuz all you need is cash, fast
all you need is cash, at the last
all you need is cash, you ass,
cash is all you need, cash is all you need
cw,ref,2009
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haiku [Dec. 6th, 2009|09:47 pm]

ryan_e_f
[mood | cold]
[music |Hold on, I'm coming // BB King & Eric Clapton]

snow, lightly falling
but yet, storm advisory...
dump it from the sky!

cover the cars
freeze the homes and roads
trapped blissfully

snowdance for freedom
from responsibility
...to be young again

~cw,ref,2009
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[Nov. 15th, 2009|10:01 pm]

meganekko
[Tags|, ]
[mood | chipper]

As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed, by Jack Prelutsky

As soon as Fred gets out of bed,
his underwear goes on his head.
His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,
a head's no place for underwear!"
But near his ears, above his brains,
is where Fred's underwear remains.

At night when Fred goes back to bed,
he deftly plucks it off his head.
His mother switches off the light
and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"
And then, for reasons no one knows,
Fred's underwear goes on his toes.
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