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Post a poem that fits your mood The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S'io credesse chc mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa Gamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno viva 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 etherized 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!) Is it 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 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. :OjitheFanKeybumpersticker: | |
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For Alcop0p (my EX-wife!!)
Married Blues by Kenneth Rexroth I didn’t want it, you wanted it. Now you’ve got it you don’t like it. You can’t get out of it now. Pork and beans, diapers to wash, Too poor for the movies, too tired to love. There’s nothing we can do. Hot stenographers on the subway. The grocery boy’s got a big one. We can’t do anything about it. You’re only young once. You’ve got to go when your time comes. That’s how it is. Nobody can change it. Guys in big cars whistle. Freight trains moan in the night. We can’t get away with it. That’s the way life is. Everybody’s in the same fix. It will never be any different. Lost lines: Now give me back my tractor you bitch!! | |
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for 2the9s my EX husband
Hate Poem Julie Sheehan I hate you truly. Truly I do. Everything about me hates everything about you. The flick of my wrist hates you. The way I hold my pencil hates you. The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped in the jaws of a moray eel hates you. Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you. Look out! Fore! I hate you. The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging from under by third toenail, left foot, hates you. The history of this keychain hates you. My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases hates you. The goldfish of my genius hates you. My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors. A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious symbol of how I hate you. My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate. My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate. My pleasant “good morning”: hate. You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head under your arm? Hate. The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit practices it. My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning to night hate you. Layers of hate, a parfait. Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate, I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one individually and at leisure. My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity of my hate, which can never have enough of you, Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine. lost lines: Fuck off the tractors mine | |
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Alcop0p said: My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.
Kenneth Rexroth and Julie Sheehan on the same thread. Not bad. I bet most people will post Frost! | |
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e.e. cummings
somewhere I never travelled somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands VOTE....EARLY | |
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"i carry your heart"
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) ~by e.e. cummings, of course. | |
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WHEN I CAME LAST TO LUDLOW
by: A.E. Housman (1860-1936) HEN I came last to Ludlow Amidst the moonlight pale, Two friends kept step beside me, Two honest lads and hale. Now Dick lies long in the churchyard, And Ned lies long in jail, And I come home to Ludlow Amidst the moonlight pale. :OjitheFanKeybumpersticker: | |
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If you find someone you love hold on to
Them as long as you can. The love of your life only comes around once in a Lifetime. If that someone doesn't know than tell them because you never know When you'll be too late. And if that some you love doesn't love you back Than it was never really love at all. And if you think love will never find you than you're wrong, love finds Everyone. Don't look for love because it will come to you when you least Expect it. [Edited 5/6/05 19:20pm] | |
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How do I say goodbye to someone I never
had? Why do tears fall for someone who was never mine? Why is it that I miss someone I was never with? And I'll ask why I love someone whose love was never mine. | |
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Undesigned
By Elaine (AcuteNpetiteGrl) My life so undesigned, so simple and complex to the mind. I am the undesiganted feature of your dreams. And I am my worst own enemy. I feel the fear of my bones creeping over my skin. And I try so hard to not let it win. But I dont know why my designed body lets it take over me once more. Lets me cry, lets me fall, lets all these feelings in through the door. I want to let you know how I feel in side but my designation keeps me away. Keeps me tattered, keeps me torn, keeps me astray. What a design I have. So unique, so odd, so bad. A defective one am I. The one with a tatterd button, a tattered soul, a broken eye. Tempted feeling is destroyed and impulsiveness has taken over my soul. That is what makes my desigantion whole. A decent aroma a decent fair. A decent feeling is not what I am aware. An unsecure life, an unsecure heart. A feeling that I have longed so hard to find a part. A part in this undesigned play. Please let me be one to play. A doll on a string. A lonely girl on a swing. My design, my code is all but one. A feeling of all but fun. A fear of anger and a resentment to the mind. Oh and how hated is this terrible fearful design. A porcelien face, A hollow soul A heart full of personal turmoil. An object of desire. An object of love. A girl with neither nor one or the other. A design is what life is. Something that I don't have, something that I have long missed. | |
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AcutenPetiteGrl said: Undesigned
By Elaine (AcuteNpetiteGrl) My life so undesigned, so simple and complex to the mind. I am the undesiganted feature of your dreams. And I am my worst own enemy. I feel the fear of my bones creeping over my skin. And I try so hard to not let it win. But I dont know why my designed body lets it take over me once more. Lets me cry, lets me fall, lets all these feelings in through the door. I want to let you know how I feel in side but my designation keeps me away. Keeps me tattered, keeps me torn, keeps me astray. What a design I have. So unique, so odd, so bad. A defective one am I. The one with a tatterd button, a tattered soul, a broken eye. Tempted feeling is destroyed and impulsiveness has taken over my soul. That is what makes my desigantion whole. A decent aroma a decent fair. A decent feeling is not what I am aware. An unsecure life, an unsecure heart. A feeling that I have longed so hard to find a part. A part in this undesigned play. Please let me be one to play. A doll on a string. A lonely girl on a swing. My design, my code is all but one. A feeling of all but fun. A fear of anger and a resentment to the mind. Oh and how hated is this terrible fearful design. A porcelien face, A hollow soul A heart full of personal turmoil. An object of desire. An object of love. A girl with neither nor one or the other. A design is what life is. Something that I don't have, something that I have long missed. Nice writing, A defective one am I Good line If this is your mood, I hope you feel better [Edited 5/6/05 19:19pm] :OjitheFanKeybumpersticker: | |
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Thank you | |
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Her lover's flesh asleep with dreams,between two silken sheets
She watches on with adoring eyes,inside she feels complete By the window in the still of night,the moon shines on her skin As cascading hair softly flows,so does the love within Tempted by the tender memories,fresh within her mind Her senses come alive again,arousal's silhouette defined Against the wall so cool,she leans and licks her lips As the taste of him unfolds again,remnants of his kiss Thoughts begin to stray, as she turns her face into the night Gazing out the window,at the stars and moon so bright She traces a painted nail,slowly over an ivory breast Pondering sensuous ways,she could touch her lover next There within the stillness,as the wind howls a tune for lovers Silently he breathes her in,her fragrant scent upon the covers Awoken by the missing,of her warmth and nakedness He rises with an aching need,to feel her soft caress His footsteps on the wooden floor,brings to life her dreamy eyes Still she gazes to the night,yet her breath now comes in sighs She senses his very nearness,his quiet love that holds her tight Now together their bodies are moulded,to each in the moonlight His arms are wrapped around her,hands finding that special place That takes her oh so far away and paints desire on her face They snuggle against the darkness,resisting arousal's rush As the night folds velvet arms,around these lovers of sensual touch | |
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noonblueapples said: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S'io credesse chc mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa Gamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno viva 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 etherized 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!) Is it 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 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. So err we're studying this for my exam, is there anything you can tell me about it? Form, structure and language would be great No Freestyling. | |
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A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day
Being the Shortest Day by John Donne Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes, Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes, The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes; The worlds whole sap is sunke: The generall balme th' hydroptique earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the beds-feet, life is shrunk, Dead and enterr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with mee, who am their Epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers bee At the next world, that is, at the next Spring: For I am every dead thing, In whom love wrought new Alchimie. For his art did expresse A quintessence even from nothingnesse, From dull privations, and leane emptinesse: He ruin'd mee, and I am re-begot Of absence, darknesse, death; things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have; I, by loves limbecke, am the grave Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood Have wee two wept, and so Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two Chaosses, when we did show Care to ought else; and often absences Withdrew our soules, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown; Were I a man, that I were one, I needs must know; I should preferre, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; All, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light, and body must be here. But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew. You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sunne At this time to the Goat is runne To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since shee enjoyes her long nights festivall, Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call This houre her Vigill, and her Eve, since this Bothe the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is. | |
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A Burnt Ship
John Donne Out of a fired ship, which by no way But drowning could be rescued from the flame, Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay ; So all were lost, which in the ship were found, They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drowned | |
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And i couldn't love you
any more than i do right now and The Furies that i feared were Eumenides to lead me here here i linger and the cadences we hear may grow different in coming years still I'll tell you that I couldn't love you any more than I do right now and if you should ever leave then I would love you for what you need I could still tell you that I couldn't love you any more than I do right now Insatiable taught me everything I know about balls.
"I was born dancing! I came dancing out of my mom's vagina! Moonwalking and stuff..." - Number23 on the telphone. | |
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Wordsworth "Ode Intimations of Immortality" - Verse X
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts today Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. VOTE....EARLY | |
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2the9s said: Donne
Donne's my favourite poet. Thank you for doing as i wish, slave. | |
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