The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: 'This glass is half full'. And then there are those who say: 'This glass is half empty'.
The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: 'What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!
Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When
Daddy Fell into the pond!
I LOVE that daddy fell into the pond one! It made me laugh out loud! Fantastic.
There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: 'This glass is half full'. And then there are those who say: 'This glass is half empty'.
The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: 'What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!
The Spirit is too Blunt an Instrument – Anne Stevenson
The spirit is too blunt an instrument
to have made this baby.
Nothing so unskilful as human passions
could have managed the intricate
exacting particulars: the tiny
blind bones with their manipulating tendons,
the knee and the knucklebones, the resilient
fine meshings of ganglia and vertebrae
in the chain of the difficult spine.
Observe the distinct eyelashes and sharp crescent
fingernails, the shell-like complexity
of the ear with its firm involutions
concentric in miniature to the minute
ossicles. Imagine the
infinitesimal capillaries, the flawless connections
of the lungs, the invisible neural filaments
through which the completed body
already answers to the brain.
Then name any passion or sentiment
possessed of the simplest accuracy.
No, no desire or affection could have done
with practice what habit
has done perfectly, indifferently,
through the body's ignorant precision.
It is left to the vagaries of the mind to invent
love and despair and anxiety
and their pain.
William Blake
The Angel that presided o’er my birth
Said ‘Little creature, form’d of joy and mirth,
Go, love without the help of anything on earth.’
Full Moon and Little Frieda – Ted Hughes
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark
and the clank of a bucket –
And you listening.
A spider’s web, tense for the dew’s touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming – mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the
hedges with their warm wreaths of breath –
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
‘Moon!’ you cry suddenly, ‘Moon! Moon!’
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing
amazed at a work
That points at him amazed
There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: 'This glass is half full'. And then there are those who say: 'This glass is half empty'.
The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: 'What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!
anything by Emily Bronte would have to be my favorite, but I especially love this one.
OPE Was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men. She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away! Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease. False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round; Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
I came across a poem last week that made me laugh my ass off, because it reminded me so much of the "Mass jokes" flying around Irish facebook pages at the time (eg. X likes "shouting ONE MORE TUNE when the hymns are over" and "getting shitfaced on the altar wine" and so on).
That poem is the original Mass joke: William Blake's The Little Vagabond.
Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.
But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.
Then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.
The kids who would rather spend their night with a bottle of coke & Patrick or Sonny playing on their headphones than go to some vomit-stained high school party.
Here’s to the kids whose 11:11 wish was wasted on one person who will never be there for them.
Here’s to the kids whose idea of a good night is sitting on the hood of a car, watching the stars.
Here’s to the kids who never were too good at life, but still were wicked cool.
Here’s to the kids who listened to Fall Out boy and Hawthorne Heights before they were on MTV…and blame MTV for ruining their life.
Here’s to the kids who care more about the music than the haircuts.
Here’s to the kids who have crushes on a stupid lush.
Here’s to the kids who hum “A Little Less 16 Candles, A Little More Touch Me” when they’re stuck home, dateless, on a Saturday night.
Here’s to the kids who have ever had a broken heart from someone who didn’t even know they existed.
Here’s to the kids who have read The Perks of Being a Wallflower & didn’t feel so alone after doing so.
Here’s to the kids who spend their days in photobooths with their best friend(s).
Here’s to the kids who are straight up smartasses & just don’t care.
Here’s to the kids who speak their mind.
Here’s to the kids who consider screamo their lullaby for going to sleep.
Here’s to the kids who second guess themselves on everything they do.
Here’s to the kids who will never have 100 percent confidence in anything they do, and to the kids who are okay with that.
Here’s to the kids.
This one’s not for the kids,
who always get what they want,
But for the ones who never had it at all.
It’s not for the ones who never got caught,
But for the ones who always try and fall.
This one’s for the kids who didnt make it,
We were the kids who never made it.
The Overcast girls and the Underdog Boys.
Not for the kids who had all their joys.
This one’s for the kids who never faked it.
We’re the kids who didn’t make it.
They say “Breaking hearts is what we do best,”
And, “We’ll make your heart be ripped of your chest”
The only heart that I broke was mine,
When I got My Hopes up too too high.
We were the kids who didnt make it.
We are the kids who never made it.”
- Peter Wentz
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!"
Thomas Parke D’Invilliers
Sorry if it has been put up before. This poem never fails to move me.
Funeral Blues W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Oh I do love that one, Lillie. Sad and true.
I've got too many favourites, but these are just a couple of them:
First Love by John Clare:
I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start --
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love's appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more
Leisure by W. H. Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
And it was hard to narrow it down to just those three :P
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way in which there is no I or you
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close
*-*be my everything and i will be your anything*-*
Freedom Fighter- Here's To The Kids is beautiful! Had never read that before.
Mikey- brilliant thread idea, is also a great/ inspiring distraction to read through!
I like... Larkin (know girls aren't meant to), Yeats, Blake, Plath, Sexton, Ted Hughes, and a load of spoken word poets. The one posted above is a favourite...
Larkin: Talking in Bed
Talking in bed ought to be easiest
Lying together there goes back so far
An emblem of two people being honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.
Outside the wind’s incomplete unrest
builds and disperses clouds about the sky.
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why
At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind
Or not untrue and not unkind.
Thanks for those dollpart, I especially loved the wheelbarrow one!
I love this thread. It's very old but I'm so glad people keep posting on it. I love to read poems
There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: 'This glass is half full'. And then there are those who say: 'This glass is half empty'.
The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: 'What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!
Ms. Anita Break, Executive Director
Core Center of Feeling
33 Bitter Dell Court
Reality, CO 11111
February 3, 2009
Mr. John Dont
13 Penitence Place
Apartment F
Incompetent, CO 00000
Dear Sir:
Regarding your gift of February 14, 2007, we at the Core Center of Feeling regret to inform you that your previous submission to the annual Color of Love contest has been ritualistically burned during a recent change of Center headquarters. We remind you that, while the applicant pool was exceedingly small (as you were actually the only participant), we haven't the time or staff to maintain rejections.
As you know, the guidelines stated that the object must be related to romance and incorporate the traditional color red (for your personal reference, previous winners have included gifts of roses, wine, jewelry, and choice pieces of clothing). Although your submission indeed took into consideration the required theme (we accepted your hue of choice, "scarlet," as a variation), your offering was rejected for the following reasons, both leading up to your entry, and for the submission itself:
It was found to be in poor taste to take on a girlfriend when you had yet to be divorced.
It was likewise found to be in poor taste to belatedly inform the girlfriend of your personal situation the evening before entering a contest of this caliber.
While perhaps thought of as an attempt at nervous/playful humor, inscribing your gift with the phrase, "I hope you enjoy Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, and be grateful we don't live in Puritan times!" was found to be a misguided message of moral incontinence.
Please do be more careful in future endeavors of this nature, and give our respect to your current wife.
Regards,
Ms. Break
Executive Director
Core Center of Feeling
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!"
Thomas Parke D’Invilliers
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
~JRR Tolkien
I've been around the block once or twice and this isn't my first rodeo...
OPE Was but a timid friend;
The one posted above is a favourite... 
