I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear.
How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every balck’ning church appals;
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.
But most through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
The road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom - and to the Transplant Ward.
I have absolutely no idea who wrote this, but it topped a BBC survey to find the Nation's Favourite Poem a few years back, and I think that it is very moving.
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the sweet uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
The road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom - and to the Transplant Ward.
I'm waiting for the man I hope to wed.
I've never seen him - that's the funny part.
I promised I would wear a rose of red,
Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,
So that he'd know me - a precaution wise,
Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,
And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .
So when we meet what will he think of me?
It's funny, but it has its sorry side;
I put an advert. in the evening Press:
"A lonely maiden fain would be a bride."
Oh it was shameless of me, I confess.
But I am thirty-nine and in despair,
Wanting a home and children ere too late,
And I forget I'm no more young and fair -
I'll hide my rose and run...No, no, I'll wait.
An hour has passed and I am waiting still.
I ought to feel relieved, but I'm so sad.
I would have liked to see him, just to thrill,
And sigh and say: "There goes my lovely lad!
My one romance!" Ah, Life's malign mishap!
"Garcon, a cafè creme." I'll stay till nine. . .
The cafè's empty, just an oldish chap
Who's sitting at the table next to mine. . .
He
I'm waiting for the girl I mean to wed.
She was to come at eight and now it's nine.
She'd pin upon her coat a rose of red,
And I would wear a marguerite in mine.
No sign of her I see...It's true my eyes
Need stronger glasses than the ones I wear,
But Oh I feel my heart would recognize
Her face without the rose - she is so fair.
Ah! what deceivers are we aging men!
What vanity keeps youthful hope aglow!
Poor girl! I sent a photo taken when
I was a student, twenty years ago.
(Hers is so Springlike, Oh so blossom sweet!)
How she will shudder when she sees me now!
I think I'd better hide that marguerite -
How can I age and ugliness avow?
She does not come. It's after nine o'clock.
What fools we fogeys are! I'll try to laugh;
(Garcon, you might bring me another bock)
Falling in love, just from a photograph.
Well, that's the end. I'll go home and forget,
Then realizing I am over ripe
I'll throw away this silly cigarette
And philosophically light my pipe.
* * * * *
The waiter brought the coffee and the beer,
And there they sat, so woe-begone a pair,
And seemed to think: "Why do we linger here?"
When suddenly they turned, to start and stare.
She spied a marguerite, he glimpsed a rose;
Their eyes were joined and in a flash they knew. . .
The sleepy waiter saw, when time to close,
The sweet romance of those deceiving two,
Whose lips were joined, their hearts, their future too.
I am like a slip of comet'
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
- I am like a slip of comet,
Scarce worth discovery, in some corner seen
Bridging the slender difference of two stars,
Come out of space, or suddenly engender'd
By heady elements, for no man knows;
But when she sights the sun she grows and sizes
And spins her skirts out, while her central star
Shakes its cocooning mists; and so she comes
To fields of light; millions of travelling rays
Pierce her; she hangs upon the flame-cased sun,
And sucks the light as full as Gideons's fleece:
But then her tether calls her; she falls off,
And as she dwindles shreds her smock of gold
Between the sistering planets, till she comes
To single Saturn, last and solitary;
And then she goes out into the cavernous dark.
So I go out: my little sweet is done:
I have drawn heat from this contagious sun:
To not ungentle death now forth I run.
There are some who can live without wild things and some who cannot. - Aldo Leopold
don't need no anger
to color your songs
you have all that you're needin'
you don't have to do wrong
you can run with the others
turn your words into fights
or you can stand and deliver
something so right
you have something special
i can hear when you sing
so you don't need to answer
when the trouble boys ring
you can swear like the others
with their four letter words
or you can stand and deliver
what they never could
(chorus)
and the coal dark of night calls the soul
come to me she says
it's better than you've been told
that sweet song of satan
fill you up with those lies...lies...lies
what do you know of heaven?
until you've been tried
don't need no suitcase
to get where you're goin'
if you ride with the bad man
that is all you'll be knowin'
you can be like the others
take a stance so tough
or you can stand and deliver
say enough is enough
(chorus)
and the coal dark of night calls the soul
come to me she says
it's better than you've been told
that sweet song of satan
fill you up with those lies...lies...lies
what do you know of heaven?
until you've been tried
when ancient history is painfully read
in come the cryptics with sin in their heads
trying in vain to restore the old sheen
that's been ripped to shreds by the faces they've been
warriors battled with nothing but words
intelligence settles for what could be heard
nothing could hasten or dampen their fall
now livith the cryptics backs up to the wall
and they can't save face or advantage
by griping of tactics they've used for themselves
they can't find faith in the tragic
the verdict is written
now please go to hell
when all these days are long over and done
who will cry for the cryptics when their race is run
sniping and gloating in their cryptic way
steeped in the bitterness that emptiness made
So, this isn't by Emily D,
)
So, this isn't by Emily D, but it makes me laugh.
So sue me....
Loss
by Wendy Cope
The day he moved out was terrible -
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasn't a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.
The road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom - and to the Transplant Ward.
In a less 'cheery'
)
In a less 'cheery' mode:
London
by William Blake
I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear.
How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every balck’ning church appals;
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.
But most through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
The road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom - and to the Transplant Ward.
I lurve this one: Stopping
)
I lurve this one:
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom - and to the Transplant Ward.
I have absolutely no idea who
)
I have absolutely no idea who wrote this, but it topped a BBC survey to find the Nation's Favourite Poem a few years back, and I think that it is very moving.
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the sweet uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
The road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom - and to the Transplant Ward.
I am loving the poems posted
)
I am loving the poems posted here. Thanks for posting them.
Physics is for gurls!
Café Comedy She I'm
)
Café Comedy
She
I'm waiting for the man I hope to wed.
I've never seen him - that's the funny part.
I promised I would wear a rose of red,
Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,
So that he'd know me - a precaution wise,
Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,
And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .
So when we meet what will he think of me?
It's funny, but it has its sorry side;
I put an advert. in the evening Press:
"A lonely maiden fain would be a bride."
Oh it was shameless of me, I confess.
But I am thirty-nine and in despair,
Wanting a home and children ere too late,
And I forget I'm no more young and fair -
I'll hide my rose and run...No, no, I'll wait.
An hour has passed and I am waiting still.
I ought to feel relieved, but I'm so sad.
I would have liked to see him, just to thrill,
And sigh and say: "There goes my lovely lad!
My one romance!" Ah, Life's malign mishap!
"Garcon, a cafè creme." I'll stay till nine. . .
The cafè's empty, just an oldish chap
Who's sitting at the table next to mine. . .
He
I'm waiting for the girl I mean to wed.
She was to come at eight and now it's nine.
She'd pin upon her coat a rose of red,
And I would wear a marguerite in mine.
No sign of her I see...It's true my eyes
Need stronger glasses than the ones I wear,
But Oh I feel my heart would recognize
Her face without the rose - she is so fair.
Ah! what deceivers are we aging men!
What vanity keeps youthful hope aglow!
Poor girl! I sent a photo taken when
I was a student, twenty years ago.
(Hers is so Springlike, Oh so blossom sweet!)
How she will shudder when she sees me now!
I think I'd better hide that marguerite -
How can I age and ugliness avow?
She does not come. It's after nine o'clock.
What fools we fogeys are! I'll try to laugh;
(Garcon, you might bring me another bock)
Falling in love, just from a photograph.
Well, that's the end. I'll go home and forget,
Then realizing I am over ripe
I'll throw away this silly cigarette
And philosophically light my pipe.
* * * * *
The waiter brought the coffee and the beer,
And there they sat, so woe-begone a pair,
And seemed to think: "Why do we linger here?"
When suddenly they turned, to start and stare.
She spied a marguerite, he glimpsed a rose;
Their eyes were joined and in a flash they knew. . .
The sleepy waiter saw, when time to close,
The sweet romance of those deceiving two,
Whose lips were joined, their hearts, their future too.
by Robert William Service
I am like a slip of comet' By
)
I am like a slip of comet'
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
- I am like a slip of comet,
Scarce worth discovery, in some corner seen
Bridging the slender difference of two stars,
Come out of space, or suddenly engender'd
By heady elements, for no man knows;
But when she sights the sun she grows and sizes
And spins her skirts out, while her central star
Shakes its cocooning mists; and so she comes
To fields of light; millions of travelling rays
Pierce her; she hangs upon the flame-cased sun,
And sucks the light as full as Gideons's fleece:
But then her tether calls her; she falls off,
And as she dwindles shreds her smock of gold
Between the sistering planets, till she comes
To single Saturn, last and solitary;
And then she goes out into the cavernous dark.
So I go out: my little sweet is done:
I have drawn heat from this contagious sun:
To not ungentle death now forth I run.
There are some who can live without wild things and some who cannot. - Aldo Leopold
"Stand and Deliver" don't
)
"Stand and Deliver"
don't need no anger
to color your songs
you have all that you're needin'
you don't have to do wrong
you can run with the others
turn your words into fights
or you can stand and deliver
something so right
you have something special
i can hear when you sing
so you don't need to answer
when the trouble boys ring
you can swear like the others
with their four letter words
or you can stand and deliver
what they never could
(chorus)
and the coal dark of night calls the soul
come to me she says
it's better than you've been told
that sweet song of satan
fill you up with those lies...lies...lies
what do you know of heaven?
until you've been tried
don't need no suitcase
to get where you're goin'
if you ride with the bad man
that is all you'll be knowin'
you can be like the others
take a stance so tough
or you can stand and deliver
say enough is enough
(chorus)
and the coal dark of night calls the soul
come to me she says
it's better than you've been told
that sweet song of satan
fill you up with those lies...lies...lies
what do you know of heaven?
until you've been tried
(2008 db michel)
Parting is all we know of
)
Parting is all we know of heaven
And all we need of hell
Emily Dickinson
"The Cryptics" when
)
"The Cryptics"
when ancient history is painfully read
in come the cryptics with sin in their heads
trying in vain to restore the old sheen
that's been ripped to shreds by the faces they've been
warriors battled with nothing but words
intelligence settles for what could be heard
nothing could hasten or dampen their fall
now livith the cryptics backs up to the wall
and they can't save face or advantage
by griping of tactics they've used for themselves
they can't find faith in the tragic
the verdict is written
now please go to hell
when all these days are long over and done
who will cry for the cryptics when their race is run
sniping and gloating in their cryptic way
steeped in the bitterness that emptiness made
(2008 db michel