S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


--T.S. Eliot: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

OLD Wounds

Things left unsaid
Heads and heart detach
Eyes forever seeing

None see the light
Only what they want
Minutes slip by
Absent from glory
Destined for mistakes

Are we with purpose
Now that we have bore our souls.
Do the moon shadows know our fears.

United for all of time
Searching evermore
Unforgining in task
Restless by nature
Porpose driven
Endless valor
Ruthless to those without compassion

Alive in shadows
Retreating to the dark
Enduring all assaults

Be warned that the rainman
Always takes his victim
Cause and effect
Kicking you when you least expect it

Nomad: Awesome as always.

And so true.

Nomad: Wow!
It's good to see your writings again my Friend!

YFA

Serving
Time

Arrows pierce the heart
Reactions are mixed

Dawn has arrived
Until tomorrow the
Sun will rise
Together with the joy

Indeed life moves forward
Surrounding us

2

Stardust: Excellent.

And right on the money.

A friend is Poisoned

On my own, by some others accord,
Where the tumbleweeds fade away and die,
Before the glassy sun burns a summer of crystals,
The glistering waters of the high seas
Of which was so far a place as of where vultures roam.
I looked around but you weren't anywhere...
You used to say that you would never die,
But I took the wrong meaning into my heart.
Now the sea is wild with despair,
Deep blue like a prairie of flowers blue,
Where all children of God rest in eternal peace.
I saw you at the end,
You and I, siblings of nature,
Siblings of heaven and earth,
Your usually calm and heavenly eyes full of tears,
Bitterly falling one after one into a river,
Then the river of life turned red in blood.
My eyes watched in horror.
Slowly and deadly your heart became poisoned,
You disappeared without saying good-bye,
Not a word came out of your mouth.
You became like desolation in its grave.
When once the skies were a realm of stars
And the sun shone brightly in summer skies,
You were there to share the calmness;
But now I stand here in midst of the tall grass
And only the I remain.

The Nomad MAY 2003

Nomad: Unspeakably good my friend.

There are times when you have to let go of the love you have grown so used to.
There are times when joyous moments turn flatly undesirable, dreams for the future cease, only to be forgotten.

In these times a heart that once beat in harmony with the universe, now is hallow, and echoes hurt.
The heart falls on hard ground, shattering, scattered pieces, later turning to dirt.

There are times love turns to hate, caring is no longer necessary, and comfort goes away.

Now lord, I ask this of you. Can you bring my heart back from the dirt? Take away every ounce of echoed hurt? Replace the comfort; the caring, the joyous moments I so loved?

My lord, now finally I can feel peace. Now I can leave this world, my heart hurts no more.
The lord has answered my prayers, giving me everything I have asked for.

MindSpy

ΜīήďSрŷ: Is this s poem? Reads more like a text, but a beautifully written one.

رضا: any words that are beautifully written,
can be a poem. am i right?

ΜīήďSрŷ: Agreed.

ΜīήďSрŷ: Well written. Thanks for sharing

رضا: You are right, Reza, it's beautifully written. BTW...just checked out your profile & I really like it.

ΜīήďSрŷ: I wouldn't agree, no. Maybe that's because the poems in farsi, my own language, are more than just beautifully written words. There are many features in each of them that are beyond my abilities to explain them. I have read many so-called poems in english, but none are even close to the Farsi poems I have read. I am almost certain poetry and literature can never be any more beautiful than what we have in Farsi.

But your words were quite nice. I don't mind if you call them a poem. I am accustomed to poems that differ from ours.

The Usurper: Ah, thank you. Pitty you cannot read the Strange Farsi poem written in my profile. Look at its 'looks' and see if you get anything interesting.

The words correspond to one another regarding the written form, and the pronounciation and meaning. A strong bound that cannot be cut so easily.

I have posted a long farsi poem n this board, look below and you'll see it. Try reading the pronounciation part, Yes I know it's very hard to read something from it's pronounciation!, and you'll get the beauty of it.

Harly has agreed to send people the song if they wish to hear it. So feel free to ask her about it.

رضا: Trying to follow the pronunciation is probably more than I can handle. lol I'm certain it's very beautiful & the poem is profound, speaking of a deep connection to the land...something so many of us have lost.

رضا: after re-reading the poem, i have to say, it was badly written, but it has a good point. was drinking gin last night :0) but! on regards to your saying beautifully written words, are not poetry; for the reason they don't rhyme; i don't think you know what you're talking about. sorry, take no offence. :0) farsi poetry from what i heard is the best of all languages. only when it's kept in true text. english doesn't translate it well, simply because we don't have the right words to describe what's going on. i'll admit that. some say poetry came from iraq, others persia, etc... they were the teachers, and inventors of our wonderful myths we have today! so, i'll agree of the great beauty of what you were writing of. :0)

All of my poetry rhymes & none of it is any good. lol

The Usurper: do you know who are the most beautiful people in the world are?
this was asked to a certain person in one of my fav. books. if you can name the book and the characters you're a genius.

ΜīήďSрŷ: I'm no genius. lol Would like to know.

The Usurper: don't know, just made it up. sorry. :0)

ΜīήďSрŷ: Quite the reverse. I exactly know what I'm talking about. In Farsi we have poems, which have their own specifications, and we have very beautifully written words, that do rhyme, but are not called poems. I guess things are different in our cultures!

Yes, Farsi is beautiful only when you understand the original text. The translation almost never works. Farsi is indeed a poetic language. Because of its certain qualities - for example many sentences can be written in many forms, all meaning the same, or some sentences that look just like one another, but you read them differently and they thus mean differently, etc. - it can perfectly be used to make poems and other literal masterpieces.

The Usurper: Just to make it easy for yourself, you can ask Harley to send the song to you. I've already sent it to her. The singer does 'READ' the poem for you! and you can look at the English trascription an dfollow it, that's if you like to, of course!

No Push.

رضا: i've know people that read farsi, and tried to explain to me, but couldn't.
didn't sound very good to my ears. but i'll get off this subject. i enjoy the music, and calligraphy, more than the poetry.

ΜīήďSрŷ: You got me. Now that proves I'm not a genius. LOL

رضا: I'll ask Harley.

The Usurper: the quote comes from the picture of dorian gray. you're still the smartest one on this page.

ΜīήďSрŷ: Thanks for compliment but you've opened me up now to attacks from all sides. lol The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of those must-reads I haven't read yet. Will make a note to get it soon.

The Usurper: it's okay, have backbone,
not lackbone. :0)

ΜīήďSрŷ: (gulp)

ΜīήďSрŷ: See, I told you. lol

ΜīήďSрŷ: Welcome to Brainking.. everywhere I turn I am seeing you.. I figured I might as well say hello.. so.. Hello!

The unfortunate pain, the unfortunate sorrow. it takes control of my life, then it is gone . yet another day of sorrow, will sorrow some again tomorrow? now searching answers to questions in hope for a situation to go from dark to bright. to lie here with eyes closed still awake; to wonder how much more of this misery i will be able to take. so sad were the dreams i once had; dreams that kept me me alive when things went bad, -falling flat when trying to achieve those dreams. never would you become mad . Lord can you tell me why dreams can be so sad.

So tomorrow is another day,
pain and sorrow has went away, and this is how i sing myself to sleep? this is very sad ? what happened to the dreams that i had? my dreams went away/ will they come again another day? why is it i have to go away? unsatisfied minds want it that way. what is it you have say? whatever it is don't expect it to brighten another day.

and this is how i sing myself to sleep/

ScarletRose: hello, how are you/ :0)

WHEN YOU THOUGHT I WASN'T LOOKING
Written by a former child

A message every adult should read, because children
are watching you and doing as you do, not as you say.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you hang my
first painting on the refrigerator, and I immediately
wanted to paint another one.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw you feed a
stray cat, and I learned that it was good to be kind
to animals.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you make my
favorite cake for me and I learned that the little
things can be the special things in life.

When you thought I wasn't looking I heard you say a
prayer, and I knew there is a God I could always talk
to and I learned to trust in God.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you make a
meal and take it to a friend who was sick, and I
learned that we all have to help take ! care of each other.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you give of
your time and money to help people who had nothing
and I learned that those who have something should
give to those who don't.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you take
care of our house and everyone in it and I learned
we have to take care of what we are given.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw how you
handled your responsibilities, even when you didn't
feel good and I learned that I would have to be
responsible when I grow up.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw tears come
from your eyes and I learned that sometimes things
hurt, but it's all right to cry.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw that you
cared and I wanted to be everything that I could be.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I learned most of
life's lessons that I need to know to be a good and
productive person when I grow up.

When you ! thought I wasn't looking, I looked at you and
wanted to say, "Thanks for all the things I saw when
you thought I wasn't looking."



Each of us (parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle, teacher
or friend) influence the life of a child.

How will you touch the life of someone today?
Just by sending this to someone else, you will
probably make them at least think about their
influence on others.


Author Unknown

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My Lost Youth

Poem lyrics of My Lost Youth by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I wrote this (short) poem way back in 8th grade (9 years ago), and I just recently wrote it down and sent it in to be copywrited. I wanted to share it with people and see what they think. It is about running... and you will understand if you have ever watched the best marathoners in the world finish a race... Here goes!

I like to run
In the real hot sun
I think it's fun
cuz I almost won!

Through the trees
and by the rock
I lost my shoes
I lost one sock!

One more bend
I run so hard
Here comes the end
I just shot a tard!

(c) me... now you can figure out my name...

What do you think? Bad? I think it is funny! but sadly, still dumb... lol

rednaz23: that's the best poem i've read in a long time. it's fast and to the point. i like it. :0)

VANITY FARE

One day, without trying too hard
I wrote some verses on humanity;
I thought, oho! I’m now a bard!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

One morning as I sat on the potty
I composed a ditty on insanity;
As a musician I could be a hottie!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

One afternoon, in a seminar in Silchar
I held forth on fertilisers and organity!
I’m now a Guru of agriculture!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

One evening, while chatting with my wife,
I analysed the virtues of monogamity;
Oi, oi! I’m an expert on life!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

The other day I met some lady friends
And discussed Pierre Cardin’s urbanity;
I do indeed keep up with the trends!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

On line with an Al Qaida fanatist
I thrashed out Kashmir’s Pakistanity;
So I’m a great political analyst!
..... It’s a rum thing, vanity.

Nick,

I don’t tell you often enough
But you are special to me.
In my heart I hold you near
A friendship both have we.

A strong and guiding hand you give
encouraging strength and care.
Unbiased friendship for either
choice however I should fair.

You mean the world to me my friend,
to which you may not know.
And through your care and concern to me
My self was let to grow.

Cathryn Higgs
Feb. 14, 2006©

Easter bunny
Hiding foil-wrapped eggs;
Giving kids a challenge.
Can rabbits really do that?

THE TIMES THEY’RE A CHANGED

Every time I venture out for a rock concert these days,
I find each band’s going through a fancy ‘hip-hop’ phase,
I get sorely disappointed by the numbers that they choose,
They seem to prefer soulful rap to good old rhythm and blues,
I get to hear some ‘MNM’ when I crave for Jethro Tull;
Well, life’s like that these modern times, nary a moment dull!

Then, when I take the family out for a routine evening meal,
I look down at the menu card and it surely does reveal
No Tandoori, no Moghlai food, no Thai, nor English Raj,
It’s ‘fusion food’ that fill the card, from Flury’s to the Taj,
That simple, wholesome Chinese fare is all but void and null;
Well, life’s like that these modern times, nary a moment dull!

Then, when we go out for a movie, we’re seldom in a hall,
Instead we find our forlorn selves in a glitzy shopping mall,
And after spending useless cash on designer corn flakes
We climb the escalator to a place called ‘multi-plex’,
Jostling for our places, like that storm before the lull;
Well, life’s like that these modern times, nary a moment dull!

harley:

Rita Mary Schilke Korzan, author of 'When You Thought I wasn't Looking'

Haridaspal: Astute, concise, lucid. Which is why I smoke.

**Post removed as it doesn't pertain to poetry and seems that would be more appropriate on a different board.