The Poem thread

[intet_at_tabe]

Hi Intet

Bill Dodds is an American, he comes from Seattle.


Margaret

Thanks, Ms. Margaret :tiphat:

Here´s a poem from one of my favourite American poets. Here the romantic Bob Dylan from 1974 on the album "Planet Waves":


"Wedding Song"


I love you more than ever, more than time and more than love
I love you more than money and more than the stars above
I love you more than madness, more than waves upon the sea
I love you more than life itself, you mean that much to me.

Ever since you walked right in the circle's been complete
I've said goodbye to haunted rooms and faces in the street
In the courtyard of the jester which is hidden from the sun
I love you more than ever and I haven't yet begun.

You breathed on me and made my life a richer one to live
When I was deep in powerty you taught me how to give
Dried the tears up from my dreams and pulled me from the hole
I love you more than ever and it binds me to this all.

You gave me babies, one, two, three, what is more, you saved my life
Eye for eye and tooth for tooth, your love cuts like a knife
My thoughts of you don't ever rest, they'd kill me if I lie
But I'd sacrifice the world for you and watch my senses die.

The tune that is yours and mine to play upon this earth
We'll play it out the best we know, whatever it is worth
What's lost is lost, we can't regain what went down in the flood
But happiness to me is you and I love you more than blood.

It's never been my duty to remake the world at large
Nor is it my intention to sound a battle charge
'Cause I love you more than all of that with a love that doesn't bend
And if there is eternity I'd love you there again.

Oh, can't you see that you were born to stand by my side
And I was born to be with you, you were born to be my bride
You're the other half of what I am, you're the missing piece
And I love you more than ever with that love that doesn't cease.

You turn the tide on me each day and teach my eyes to see
Just being next to you is a natural thing for me
And I could never let you go, no matter what goes on
'Cause I love you more than ever now that the past is gone.

 

[marval]

That's some nice words from Bob Dylan.


Margaret

 

[marval]

To A Lady, With A Guitar by Percy Bysshe Shelley​

Ariel to Miranda: -- Take
This slave of music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again
And, too intense, is turned to pain.
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon
In her interlunar swoon
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.
When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen Star of birth
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps and served your will.
Now in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
In a body like a grave --
From you he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile today, a song tomorrow.

The artist who this idol wrought
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree, --
O that such our death may be! --
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
And taught it justly to reply
To all who question skilfully
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
-- For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way:
-- All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The Spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest holiest tone
For one beloved Friend alone.

 

[methodistgirl]

That was a nice poem. The story would have to reverse for me.
However, I played for my guys.
judy tooley

 

[intet_at_tabe]

To A Lady, With A Guitar by Percy Bysshe Shelley​

Hats of everyone :tiphat::clap:and bend to Ms. Margaret​

What a beautiful, exciting and most intelligent poem. Here´s a poet Percy Bysshe Shelley (I haven´t heard of him before), who really has the English language in his palm, like had he invented the English language itself, like good old William S. and can do whatever he pleases using the language, whirling the reader into this fairytale spiritual like story, in excitement and heartfelt desire for what´s coming next.​

Profoundly grateful to you Ms. Margaret for this very beautiful and enlightning poem. :tiphat::tiphat::tiphat::tiphat:​

The first time as a regular at the MIMF, I credit 4 hats.​

 

[marval]

Hi Intet

Thank you, 4 hats, I feel very honoured.

I am glad people have liked it, there is some beautiful poetry out there.


Margaret

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Hi Intet

Thank you, 4 hats, I feel very honoured.

I am glad people have liked it, there is some beautiful poetry out there.


Margaret

Here´s a poem from someone ya all know:

A Cradle Song​

Sweet dreams form a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams​

Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.​

Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.​

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.​

Sleep sleep happy child,
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep.
While o'er thee thy mother weep​

Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee.
Thy maker lay and wept for me​

Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,​

Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are His own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles. ​

William Blake​

 

[methodistgirl]

Thank you Great Spirit(God) for creating this beautiful earth.
In many ways the earth is hurting and she needs your touch.
Be with us as we take this journey of a daytime and lay down
to sleep at sundown. Let the eagle soar as he flies overhead
to show that he is one of your messengers with his cry.
We worship you when the rain falls and when the jungle sings
with beauty and sound.-Mayan prayer.
judy tooley

 

[marval]

Yes, Intet William Blake, a lovely poem.

A nice Mayan prayer Judy.


Margaret

 

[marval]

OBERON'S FEAST.
by Robert Herrick


S[SIZE=-1]HAPCOT[/SIZE] ! to thee the fairy state
I, with discretion, dedicate.
Because thou prizest things that are
Curious and unfamiliar.
Take first the feast ; these dishes gone,
We'll see the fairy court anon.

A [SIZE=-1]LITTLE[/SIZE] mushroom table spread,
After short prayers, they set on bread ;
A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat,
With some small glittering grit to eat
His choice bits with ; then in a trice
They make a feast less great than nice.
But all this while his eye is serv'd,
We must not think his ear was sterv'd ;
But that there was in place to stir
His spleen, the chirring grasshopper,
The merry cricket, puling fly,
The piping gnat for minstrelsy.
And now we must imagine, first,
The elves present, to quench his thirst,
A pure seed-pearl of infant dew
Brought and besweetened in a blue
And pregnant violet ; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies
The horns of papery butterflies :
Of which he eats, and tastes a little
Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle.
A little fuzz-ball pudding stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands,
That was too coarse ; but then forthwith
He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagg
And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag :
Gladdening his pallet with some store
Of emmets' eggs ; what would he more ?
But beards of mice, a newt's stewed thigh,
A bloated earwig and a fly ;
With the red-capp'd worm that's shut
Within the concave of a nut,
Brown as his tooth. A little moth
Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth :
With withered cherries, mandrakes' ears,
Moles' eyes ; to these the slain stag's tears,
The unctuous dewlaps of a snail,
The broke-heart of a nightingale
O'ercome in music ; with a wine
Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine,
But gently press'd from the soft side
Of the most sweet and dainty bride,
Brought in a dainty daisy, which
He fully quaffs up to bewitch
His blood to height ; this done, commended
Grace by his priest ; the feast is ended.

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Thank you Great Spirit(God) for creating this beautiful earth.
In many ways the earth is hurting and she needs your touch.
Be with us as we take this journey of a daytime and lay down
to sleep at sundown. Let the eagle soar as he flies overhead
to show that he is one of your messengers with his cry.
We worship you when the rain falls and when the jungle sings
with beauty and sound.-Mayan prayer.
judy tooley

Well, well, well, Ms. Judy :tiphat::clap:

Close to nature, remembering that all that is, and all that is alive is because of the Great Spirit. We´re all ants.

It seems that I am in very pleasant company with fellow poetry lovers. Though I am quite new in this kind of reading.

I salute you Ms. Judy. But then the both of us have another idea of the native indians, than the ordinary edition.

Truth of the matter is, poetry and poets as a way of enjoying one self first and secondly to explore the language and express thoughts from way inside the poet, perhaps from some very deep place in him or her, who writes down these even dangerous at times, or a heartfelt wish for the one who left him or her, or the one and only who has become all there is, and what "I" grow on. All thoughts from a poet who dares to search for what evidently has to get out and down to that often scary peace of white paper or the fingers to the keyboard, while the paper basket get´s flooded.

Thanks to you guys, everyone of you with your incredible beautiful poems entered here, I have got a completely new interest in life, knowing poems need time to reach the bottom of me.

It is not always the most important thing in life to understand. Some times it is enough just to enjoy.

Respectfully,

 

[methodistgirl]

The Mayan came from my own heart. Really it's Methodist in a way.
I was just thinking like an Indian after seeing the galaxy in Corno's
thread. It was beautiful.
judy tooley

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Perfect Love, Perfect Friend:

"Because you are my love,
I know the joy that comes from
feeling closer to someone
than I've ever felt before.
Because you are my love,
I know the
to share everything I have,
everything I am with you
and only you.


Because you are my friend
I know that I can count on you
to hold my hand
through the rough times
and to be there
to share the good times, too.
Because you are my friend,
I'll always have someone
to make me smile;
just when I need it most,
to encourage me when I'm feeling
confused or doubtful.
And I know that I must be
one of the luckiest people
in the world
to have someone like you-
the perfect love,
the perfect friend.".

By Shynebrite

 

[marval]

That is a lovely poem Intet.

Thank you


Margaret

 

[marval]

Matilda

By Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)


Matilda told such dreadful lies
It made one gasp and stretch one's eyes
her aunt, who, from her earliest youth
Had kept a strict regard for truth
Attempted to believe Matilda
The effort ver nearly killed her
And would have done so, had not she
Discovered this infirmity.
For once, towards the close of day
Matilda, growing tired of play
And finding she was left alone
Went tiptoe to the telephone
And summoned the immediate aid
Of London's noble fire-brigade.
Within an hour the gallant band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow
With courage high and hearts-a-glow,
They galloped, roaring through the town
"Matilda's house is burning down!"
Inspired by British cheers and loud
Proceeding from the frenzied crowd
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the ball room floor
And took peculiar pains to souse
The pictures up and down the house
Until Matilda's aunt succeeded
in showing them they were not needed
And even then she had to pay
To get the men to go away.

It happened that a few weeks later
Her aunt was off to the theatre
To see that interesting play
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray
She had refused to take her niece
To hear this entertaining piece
A deprivation just and wise
To punish her for telling lies.
That night a fire did break out
You should have heard Matilda shout
You should have heard her scream and bawl
And throw the window up and call
To people passing in the street
The rapidly increasing heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidence---but all in vain
For every time she shouted "fire"
They only answered "Little Liar."
And therefore when her aunt returned
Matilda and the house were burned.

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Matilda

By Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953) Matilda told such dreadful lies.

Ms. Margaret :tiphat::clap:

That´s beutiful and a good teaching early in life. The morals, never to cry WOLF, when the WOLF is not there, because...............

Hilaire Belloc has a funny way of writing her poetry, I think, the way she uses the words to connect the rimes, I like it. I could visualise the whole story in front of me.

 

[marval]

Hi Intet

Yes, I agree the writing is well done.


Margaret

 

[methodistgirl]

I just wrote this in another thread. Somewhere my love.

Somewhere my love,
There will be songs to sing.
Although the snow,
Covers the hope of spring.
Till then my sweet,
Think of me now and then.
God speed my love,
Till you are mine again.

judy tooley

 

[Contratrombone64]

Judy your poetry is inspired, you go girl, impressive!!

 

[intet_at_tabe]

I just wrote this in another thread. Somewhere my love.

Somewhere my love,
There will be songs to sing.
Although the snow,
Covers the hope of spring.
Till then my sweet,
Think of me now and then.
God speed my love,
Till you are mine again.

judy tooley

Ms. Judy :tiphat:

Short, simple and shot = beautiful Ms. Judy.

Can I ask you directly? Did it come to you i seconds or what sort of method do you use when creating poems?