The Poem thread

[marval]

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.


Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.


You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.


Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann

 

[intet_at_tabe]

I Dreamed I Was Riding a Zebra

I woke up again in my bedroom,
and saw with relief and a laugh
I don't have a pink-headed zebra.
I guess I'll just ride the giraffe.

Kenn Nesbitt

:clap::clap::lol::lol::lol::lol:

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.


Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.


You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.


Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann

Now Ms. Margaret :tiphat::tiphat::tiphat::tiphat: you know what it means. The second time.

You´re not gonna believe this. This is my favourite poem of all poems. It´s my personal mantra in my life. I have this poem hanging on my wall beside the computer - in Danish though. It´s been there for the past 6 1/2 years after leaving the last of never again physical rehabilitation centers, since I got this new ground floor apartment of mine as an early pensionaire off work for good - at least for Brussels as a lobbyist. It used to hang on the wall at my office in Brussels. I used to read it, whenever I felt sick of the violent treacherous crazy world outside the windows...... mostly every day (lols).

I also had a copy of this poem in my briefcase, next to my Time Manager and the photographs of my children and wife traveling by train, airplane or my classy fancy dark silver blue BMW, which was stolen on an off ramp public parking in Belgium with a small rest room, next to the highway. So whenever booking myself into a hotel for a couple of nights in Stavanger, Norway - Madrid, Spain or Palermo, Italy etc.etc. looking for a politician connected to the EU parliament or a buisness manager from a huge corporation, I would always read it quietly and slowly before going to sleep, remembering myself on - no matter what would happen the next day, if I would succeed my search for someone or not, to get close enough to talk to my mark, to have his or her opinion, I knew the world would still exist and spinnin´ not because of me, but because certain things in all our lives just are...... and all I could do was always to be polite and carm and prepare myself the best way to do my very best, and if it wasn´t enough - so be it.

Some people might read the Bible on such traveling occations, or go to the local taverna, I would visit the local church to reach out to my personal mentor above, and always read this poem by Max Ehrmann before sleeping, because the words always made me feel relaxed, comfortable and at peace with myself.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:

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Max Ehrmann (September 26, 1872 - September 9, 1945), an attorney from Indiana, was best known for writing the prose poem "Desiderata" (Latin: "something desired as essential") in 1927.
Ehrmann, who was of German descent, received a degree in English from DePauw University, followed by a degree in Philosophy from Harvard University. He then returned to his hometown of Terre Haute, Indiana to practice law. Eventually this led him to work in his family's meatpacking business and in the overallsmanufacturing industry. Finally at the age of 41, Ehrmann decided to forget such work and become a writer. At the age of 55 he wrote Desiderata, which achieved fame only after his death.

 

[marval]

Hi Intet

I am so glad it is your favourite. You sound to have had times when words like that are very comforting.

I also have it at home, it is framed and hanging in the hall. So when I go out I can have a read, and walk with a calm heart and mind.


Margaret

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Hi Intet

I am so glad it is your favourite. You sound to have had times when words like that are very comforting.

I also have it at home, it is framed and hanging in the hall. So when I go out I can have a read, and walk with a calm heart and mind.

Margaret

Dear Ms. Margaret :tiphat: Group hugging:clap::clap::clap::clap:


This will be a bit longer than ordinary post from me in the poems thread, I ask for the patience of you and the moderators, I just need to get something off my chest about my Dad, whom I LOVED very much, who was the first person to introduce me to Max Ehrmann and this poem.

He was a labour union leader, a true believer in socialism, very powerful in the union, but not what most people thought at all about him. He had this "disability" in his own words, shortly before he passed away, he couldn´t stand to watch someone suffering. So my entire childhood, we always had people living with us, who had no other family or place to live and mostly without anything else than what they had on their bodies.

At one time in 1993 our company in Brussels had been invited by the Danish government to go to Nairobe, Kenya in Africa, because we had very good releations to the President in Kenya. It was on his recommandations to the Danish government, we got involved.

Both my partner in Briussels Niels and I knew how important this contract was both to Denmark and Kenya and to our company, while the Danish Danida company (Danish aid program for Third World contries) had a contract with Kenya on artificial water for the fields.

Two days into the Kenya contract, 120 miles north East of Nairobe I received at telegram from Denmark from my Mom, saying my father had been rushed to hospital. It was a matter of days perhaps hours. Please Lars come home, signed my Mom.

I knew, I had to go back to Denmark to be there with my Dad. I asked for a special audiance with the President of Kenya, and told him straight on, Sorry but my Dad is dying at a hospital in Copenhagen, I know I have set up this deal but I have to go home to be with him to ease his pain and to be with my family (I was crying at the time in front of the President).

So I left in 90 minutes after the meeting with the President, who had offered me his personal airplane to which I could not say No to, it would have meant arrogance.

Arriving at the hopital in Copenhagen, I had not seen my Dad for three months. He was pale in his face, much more skinny than I remembered him to be, very fragile. He had tubes in his arms and was at the Intensive Care Unit, having morphin injections every four hours to ease the pain of stomach cancer.

He was sad, and told me he had not been a good father to me, and a husband and lover to my Mom, always having other people to live with us, and a lot of other accusations towards himself. He was very afraid, he would not enter Paradise, but would be send to Hell. He was not a christian believer before, but here on the day he was.

I knew my only job there and then, was to make him understand and comprehend my words to him: Dad, I love you, you have always been my HERO, your wife my Mom loves you. Every one we have known for years LOVE you. You will enter Paradise.

I can remember his eyes, and his hand in mine, knowing it was the first time in his life, he realy profoundly understood how much we, my Mom and I loved him, and how much the both of us would have wanted for any of us to have been able to take his pain and insecurity of going to Hell instead of Paradise away from him. He was my HERO in my life always supportive always there when I needed him. He took a loan when Niels and I decided to start up in Brussels to help us out. He even came to our office with friends of his and painted the whole damn office for free.: This is my son Lars the lobbyist. like he said proudly. :grin:

On the 6th day after I returned from Kenya, I was sleeping in his bed. He lay with his back to me after having had a heart attack during the night, and he had passsed away, while I had fallen asleep beside him.

I my hand I found a small piece of paper, written with very shaky fingers: You gave my life importance Lars. Take care of my beloved wife, your Mom.

After we had put him to his final resting place, I received a letter from the Danish Prime minister at the time, asking me to follow him to Kenya due to a special invitation from the President of Kenya.

We talked on the airplane to Nairobe, and he told me that the contract between the Danish Danida and the Danish State in agrreence with the state of Kenya had been signed the very same day, I had left Kenya two weeks ago on the airplane sponsored by the President of Kenya.

He gave me a letter from the President of Kenya which said: A man and a friend of Kenya who can share his tears of his father dying in Denmark, is a man and a trusted friend forever more of Kenya.

So my beloved father was a part of this agreement, not knowing it and his love for great poets like Max Ehrmann and great storytellers like Rudyard Kipling he gave to me.

He once told me: Remember Lars in your own life, you can never live your own life according to your own wishes on behalf of what other people´s expectations of you or think on how you should live your life. Stay firm in your own believes, but never show arrogance towards oithers, because their opinions are as good as yours.

Thank you Ms. Margaret.

 

[marval]

Hi Intet

Thank you so much for sharing your very touching story. The very fact that your father was so kind and took in people who had nothing, was an entry into Paradise. He was very proud of you and you were proud of him, rightly so. I know how I felt when my father died a few years ago, I still miss him.

You had a good experience in Kenya, it is a lovely country. I was there in 1976 and met some lovely people, not the president though. I am sad when I read of the troubles there have been out there.

I think the poem is very true, whatever is out there, be yourself and despite all the troubles it is a beautiful word.


Margaret

 

[marval]

'Tis done---and shivering in the gale​

The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen---
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest---
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.

'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,'
Because I cannot love but one.

I go---but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe---
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.

And who that dear lov'd one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.

Stanzas to a lady on leaving England

Lord Byron

 

[intet_at_tabe]

The one and only true heavenly love, Ms. Margaret :tiphat:

The Romeo and Julie enheretence, that rare kind of love which burns and yet it is blessed.

"His home, his hope, his youth are gone.
Yet still he loves, and loves but one."

Awesome Ms. Margaret, and again a GRAND poet Lord Byron of such magnitude who can model the English language, like had it been clay in his hands and make us feel the profound heartbreaking emotion of - loves but one. Faithful and honest to the end, longing to hold - but the one.


John Keats, published in 1817:

To Some Ladies


WHAT though while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusiast’s friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale’s tender condoling,
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.

’Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
And now! ah, I see it - you just now are stooping
To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

Ithad not created a warmer emotion
han the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, ’tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Thank you Lord for creating this beautiful earth for us to live on.
Now the earth is hurting and I know that you hold it in the palm
of your hands. I see tears in your eyes because of what you see.
Please forgive us of what we do. I know that we do things that
you don't want us to do. I know that you are always with us.
You have blessed us with such beauty on this earth from the
tiniest flowers and creatures to the massive waterfalls. I thank
you for it.----Indian Prayer
judy tooley

AWESOME Ms. Judy :tiphat:


Again as we both know, indians had a completely different concept of the land, the creeks, the animals and the wild nature they had been given. "From the tiniest flowers and creatures to the massive waterfalls". Indians accepted everything they saw and were a part of. They had different Gods for hunting, for war, for victory, for birth, for death, the aim to survive the cold winters.

They looked at nature and the sky above as if nature itself was God.

Here is a prayor to the Great Spirit:

Grandfather Great Spirit

All over the world the faces
of living ones are alike.

With tenderness they have
come up out of the ground.
Look upon your children
that they may face the winds
And walk the good road to the Day of Quiet.

Grandfather Great Spirit
Fill us with the Light.

Give us the strength to understand,
And the eyes to see.
Teach us to walk the soft Earth
as relatives to all that live.

 

[marval]

Macavity: The Mystery Cat

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
`It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Thomas Stearns Eliot

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes (1902 - 1967):​

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

 

[marval]

That is a good one Intet.


Margaret

 

[marval]

For those of you who don't know Sweeney Todd, hewre is a little something.


http://www.pbs.org/kqed/demonbarber/penny/


Margaret

 

[marval]

Now here is a poem about Sweeney Todd the killer and Mrs Lovett who made the pies.
I hope it is not too awful for you.


Mrs. Lovett Improves Her Pies.

Sweeney was a barber
In Fleet Street near the Strand
Cocksure was his nature
And Cockney was his brand.

Lovett was his neighbour,
A cook from Cubitt Town,
Sharing half a cellar,
They both sought high renown.

Sweeney Todd loved Lovett,
But loved her money more;
Planned a treat, did Lovett
For Sweeney, her amore.

Hair-cuts were a penny
And pies brought half a bob
Meat was too expensive,
But Sweeney'd do the job.

Lovett said to Sweeney,
'Why don't you cut their throats?
Drop them in our cellar,
We'll even sell their coats.'

Sweeney thought about it
And set his barber's chair
High above a trap door
To catch the unaware.

Waiting for the razor,
Sedated, warmed and towelled,
Feeling safe, contented,
You don't expect a growled:

'Down yer go' as Sweeney
Is slicing through your throat,
Dropping to the cellar,
A knackered, billy goat.

Waiting in the coal-hole
Is Lovett dressed to kill,
Butcher's knives she sharpens,
She'll now reveal her skill.

Lovett loves to fillet,
But first removes the clothes,
They'll fetch a handsome profit
And losses Lovett loathes.

Pies are selling, ever
So well, and Lovett's store
Is booming, customers
Come back and ask for more

And queue-up outside Sweeney's
Where patrons wanting pies
Stand together chatting -
They're in for a surprise:

Meat containing toenails
And other human parts
Makes for much suspicion
And coppers come in carts.

Sweeney Todd and Lovett
In cellars filled with heat,
Fight about the profits
And teeth within the meat.

Lovett grabs a cleaver
And chops-off Sweeney's head,
Sweeney's eyes, show surprise,
His corpse is being shred.

Lovett's lost her lover,
Young Sweeney's now a pie,
Knowing not what to do
Poor Lovett starts to cry.

'ello, ello, ello',
A bobby's at the door,
He enters, being careful,
The floor's a mess of gore.

Wistful Mistress Lovett
No longer bakes, nor cries,
But runs a tiny shop
With cookbooks on meat pies.

Copyright; Fred Curtis

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Ms. Margaret :tiphat::clap:

Did you know there are more women using poison and chopping up men than the opposite?

It must have been my joke about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson losing a tent, that somehow drove your inner most to quite new horizons of blood dripping poetry :trp::trp::banana::banana::clap::clap::lol::lol::lol::lol:.

Well, I always new women wouldn´t stand back in creating new "blood dripping pastry".

Thank you, Ms. Margaret - AWESOME poem :tiphat::clap:It realy opened my dark side.

 

[marval]

Yes Intet

Women seem very good at using poison, putting it in their man's food.

What a horrible way to go.


Margaret

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Ms. Margaret :tiphat:

Well, you know what they say, which has been scientificly proven. Women actually have a brain, it´s bigger and better functional than the same jelly of men. One of the reasons you can always have polite intellectual constructive conversations with women, without talking about what kind of car you have or who has the bigger ....?





A poem, not that bloody, from a master of dreadful scary stories as well, which kept me awake while I was just a lad. There was one story in particular, I had to read almost masochisticly, knowing I wouldn´t close an eye during the night, because of the dark invisble corners of my bedroom with strange noices. It was called "The Revenge From The Past", perhaps not the proper English title, about this guy who performed chemical experiments hidden away in the basement, until one day it explodes into his face and he has to live on with his face and hands disfigured. Nasty story. At 54 years of age, I am still shivering.

Here´s the poem by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849):


The Bridal Ballad


The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satin and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell-
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.

But he spoke to re-assure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o'er me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"

And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Here is a ring, as token
That I am happy now!

Would God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how!
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,-
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.

 

[intet_at_tabe]

Here´s another poem by my favourite pianist and jazz musician Keith Jarrett, December 5, 1974:


Death And The Flower


We live between birth and death
Or so we convince ourselves conveniently
When in truth we are being born and
We are dying simultaneously
Every eternal instant of our lives

We should try to be more like a flower
Which every day experiences its birth and death
And who therefore is much more prepared
To live the life of a flower

So think of Death as a friend and advisor
Who allows us to be born and to bloom more radiantly
Because of our limits on Earth

Think of this until you realise Eternity
And cease to need the illusion of Death

But do not do this
Before you lose the first great illusion
The Illusion of Life

Because to do this
You must die many times
And live to know it

 

[marval]

Two nice poems there Intet

Thank you.


Margaret

 

[marval]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]A NAUGHTY LITTLE POEM[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]
Anonymous

[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]She whispered "Will it hurt me?"
"Of course not" answered he
"It's a very simple process,
You can rely on me." [/FONT]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]She said "I'm very frightened,
I've not had this before.
My friend has had it five times
And said it can be sore." [/FONT]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]It was growing rather painful
Tears formed in her eyes
It was hurting quite a bit now
It must have been a size. [/FONT]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]"Calm yourself" he whispered
"His face filled with a grin
"Try and open wider
So I can get it in." [/FONT]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]"It's coming now" he whispered
"I know" she cried in bliss
Feeling it deep within her now
She said "I am glad I'm having this." [/FONT]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]And with a final effort
She gave a frightened shout
He gripped it in anguish
And quickly pulled it out. [/FONT]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]She lay back quite contended
Sighed and gave a smile
She said "I'm glad I came now
You made it worth my while." [/FONT]

[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]Now if you read this carefully
The dentist you will find
Is not what you imagined
It's just your dirty mind!![/FONT]