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Poetry is Emotion Put into Measure

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    Poetry is Emotion Put into Measure

    This is a thread for poems that speak to you. Post 'em up

    Dark August by Derek Walcott

    So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
    of this black August. My sister, the sun,
    broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

    Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
    like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
    she will not rise and turn off the rain.

    She is in her room, fondling old things,
    my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
    like a crash of plates from the sky,

    she does not come out.
    Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
    at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

    to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
    the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
    and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

    so that when you emerge, my sister,
    parting the beads of the rain,
    with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

    all will not be as it was, but it will be true
    (you see they will not let me love
    as I want), because, my sister, then

    I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
    The black rain, the white hills, when once
    I loved only my happiness and you.
    Last edited by Meliai; 08-21-2020, 03:59 PM.


      Its very rare that i find a poem that speaks to me. I have a hard time understanding peoples poetry. But this poem definitely speaks to me. Love it.

      No Self is True Self

      The man in whom Tao acts without impediment
      Does not bother with his own interests
      And does not despise others who do

      He does not struggle to make money
      And does not make a virtue of poverty.

      He goes his way without relying on others
      And does not pride himself on walking alone.

      While he does not follow the crowd
      He won't complain of those who do.

      Rank and reward make no appeal to him;
      Disgrace and shame do not deter him.

      He is not always looking for right and wrong
      Always deciding "yes" and "no."

      The ancients said, therefore:
      "The man of Tao remains unknown.
      Perfect virtue produces nothing
      No-Self Is True-Self
      And the greatest man is nobody"

      Chuang Tzu


        My junior year HS teacher used to recite this when he saw one of us wasting time.

        Just A Minute, Dr. Benjamin E. Mays

        I have only just a minute,
        Only sixty seconds in it.
        Forced upon me, can’t refuse it.
        Didn’t seek it, didn’t choose it.
        But it’s up to me to use it.
        I must suffer if I lose it.
        Give account if I abuse it.
        Just a tiny little minute,
        but eternity is in it.


          Keeping Quiet
          by Pablo Neruda

          Now we will count to twelve
          and we will all keep still
          for once on the face of the earth,
          let's not speak in any language;
          let's stop for a second,
          and not move our arms so much.

          It would be an exotic moment
          without rush, without engines;
          we would all be together
          in a sudden strangeness.

          Fishermen in the cold sea
          would not harm whales
          and the man gathering salt
          would not look at his hurt hands.

          Those who prepare green wars,
          wars with gas, wars with fire,
          victories with no survivors,
          would put on clean clothes
          and walk about with their brothers
          in the shade, doing nothing.

          What I want should not be confused
          with total inactivity.

          Life is what it is about...

          If we were not so single-minded
          about keeping our lives moving,
          and for once could do nothing,
          perhaps a huge silence
          might interrupt this sadness
          of never understanding ourselves
          and of threatening ourselves with

          Now I'll count up to twelve
          and you keep quiet and I will go.


            THE ENCOUNTER
            enchanted by this strange proximity

            Longing, and mystery, and delight…
            as if from the swaying blackness
            of some slow-motion masquerade
            onto the dim bridge you came.

            And night flowed, and silent there floated
            into its satin streams
            that black mask’s wolf-like profile
            and those tender lips of yours.

            And under the chestnuts, along the canal
            you passed, luring me askance.
            What did my heart discern in you,
            how did you move me so?

            In your momentary tenderness,
            or in the changing contour of your shoulders,
            did I experience a dim sketch
            of other — irrevocable — encounters?

            Perhaps romantic pity
            led you to understand
            what had set trembling that arrow
            now piercing through my verse?

            I know nothing. Strangely
            the verse vibrates, and in it, an arrow…
            Perhaps you, still nameless, were
            the genuine, the awaited one?

            But sorrow not yet quite cried out
            perturbed our starry hour.
            Into the night returned the double fissure
            of your eyes, eyes not yet illumed.

            For long? For ever? Far off
            I wander, and strain to hear
            the movement of the stars above our encounter
            and what if you are to be my fate…

            Longing, and mystery, and delight,
            and like a distant supplication….
            My heart must travel on.
            But if you are to be my fate…

            Vladimir Nabokov

            Nabokov wrote this poem within hours of his first encounter with the woman who would later become his wife of over 50 years. That's pretty fucking romantic - most people probably write off the first chance encounter with the person they later fall in love with as a passing lust or mild interest, but not Nabokov! He was brave enough, or foolish enough depending on your perspective, to question if it was fate.


              What moment in the gradual decay
              does resurrection choose? What year? What day?
              Who has the stopwatch? Who rewinds the tape?
              are some less lucky, or do all escape?
              a syllogism: other men die, but I
              Am not another, therefore I'll not die.
              Space is swarming in the eyes; and time
              a singing in the ears. In this hive I'm
              Locked up. Yet, if prior to the life we had
              Been able to imagine life, what mad,
              Impossible, unalterable weird,
              Wonderful nonsense might have appeared!



                - Dorothy Parker
                Last edited by PacificDude; 12-26-2020, 04:24 PM.


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                  • Meliai
                    Meliai commented
                    Editing a comment
                    Love William Carlos Williams. He says so much with so little

                  Meliai I totally agree. And he somehow makes it all look so easy...


                    [Verse 1]
                    Give me, give me, chicken tendies
                    Be they crispy, or from Wendy's
                    Spend my hard-earned good boy points
                    On Kid's Meal ball pit burger joints

                    [Verse 2]
                    Mommy lifts me to the car
                    To find me tendies near and far
                    Enjoy my tasty tendie treats
                    In comfy big boy booster seats

                    [Verse 3]
                    McDonald's, Hardee's, Popeye's, Cane's
                    But of my tendies none remains
                    She tries to make me take a nappy
                    But sleeping doesn't make me happy

                    [Verse 4]
                    Tendies are the only food
                    That puts me in the napping mood
                    I'll scream, I'll shout, I'll make a fuss
                    I'll scratch, I'll bite, I'll even cuss!

                    [Verse 5]
                    Tendies are my heart's desire
                    Fueled by raging, hungry fire
                    Mommy sobs, and wails, and cries
                    But tears aren't tendies, nugs or fries

                    [Verse 6]
                    My good boy points were fairly earned
                    To buy the tendies that I've yearned
                    But there's no tendies on my plate
                    Did mommy think that I'd just ate?!

                    [Verse 7]
                    Tendies, tendies, get them now!
                    You fat, ungrateful, sluggish sow!


                      Apparently I really like ol' Pablo. This one is good to keep in mind when living one's life

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                          Touching. I'm not depressed but much of it i can still very much relate to.


                            Freedom by Rabindranath Tagore

                            Freedom from fear is the freedom
                            I claim for you my motherland!
                            Freedom from the burden of the ages, bending your head,
                            breaking your back, blinding your eyes to the beckoning
                            call of the future;
                            Freedom from the shackles of slumber wherewith
                            you fasten yourself in night's stillness,
                            mistrusting the star that speaks of truth's adventurous paths;
                            freedom from the anarchy of destiny
                            whole sails are weakly yielded to the blind uncertain winds,
                            and the helm to a hand ever rigid and cold as death.
                            Freedom from the insult of dwelling in a puppet's world,
                            where movements are started through brainless wires,
                            repeated through mindless habits,
                            where figures wait with patience and obedience for the
                            master of show,
                            to be stirred into a mimicry of life.