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Old 10-12-2017, 12:03 PM   #1
Ram27
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Default ITT post beautiful poetry

The Soldier
Rupert Brooke, 1887 - 1915

If I should die, think only this of me:
That thereís some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of Englandís, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 12:26 PM   #2
FoolofaTook
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Only in silence the word,
Only in dark the light,
Only in dying life:
Bright the hawk's flight
On the empty sky.

—The Creation of …a

Ursula K. Le Guin

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 03:24 PM   #3
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my favorite poem by the legend himself, W.B. Yeats

"An Irish Airman Foresees His Death"

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 03:56 PM   #4
FoolofaTook
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Holy shit those last four lines.

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 05:38 PM   #5
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love is a sentimental heart
life is a sentimental way

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 07:59 PM   #6
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Originally Posted by FoolofaTook View Post
Holy shit those last four lines.
yeah bro I ALWAYS get chills when I read that even though I've read it hundreds of times. Obviously about WWI, just like the poem Ram posted up there.

Actually IIRC that dude Rupert Brooke is known for his idealized war poems.... he died of an infected mosquito bite while serving with the British navy in WWI and is buried in Greece

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 08:44 PM   #7
TuralyonW3
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The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
Randall Jarrell
1945

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 08:45 PM   #8
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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.

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 08:54 PM   #9
FoolofaTook
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Soak Corker wins?

 
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Old 10-12-2017, 09:01 PM   #10
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I've always been afraid to die but I think I'm more afraid to live

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 02:19 AM   #11
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Five Bells - Kenneth Slessor

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels
Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.
Between the double and the single bell
Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells
From the dark warship riding there below,
I have lived many lives, and this one life
Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

Deep and dissolving verticals of light
Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water
Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water.

Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve
These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought
Anchored in Time? You have gone from earth,
Gone even from the meaning of a name;
Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips
And hits and cries against the ports of space,
Beating their sides to make its fury heard.

Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face
In agonies of speech on speechless panes?
Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name!

But I hear nothing, nothing...only bells,
Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of Time.
Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life,
There's not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait -
Nothing except the memory of some bones
Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud;
And unimportant things you might have done,
Or once I thought you did; but you forgot,
And all have now forgotten - looks and words
And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off,
Your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales
Of Irish kings and English perfidy,
And dirtier perfidy of publicans
Groaning to God from Darlinghurst.
Five bells.

Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder
Tumble, and felt the talons of the rain
The night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark,
So dark you bore no body, had no face,
But a sheer voice that rattled out of air
(As now you'd cry if I could break the glass),
A voice that spoke beside me in the bush,
Loud for a breath or bitten off by wind,
Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man,
And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls
Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls
Are white and angry-tongued, or so you'd found.
But all I heard was words that didn't join
So Milton became melons, melons girls,
And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night,
And in each tree an Ear was bending down,
Or something that had just run, gone behind the grass,
When blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought,
The naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky,
Knifing the dark with deathly photographs.
There's not so many with so poor a purse
Or fierce a need, must fare by night like that,
Five miles in darkness on a country track,
But when you do, that's what you think.
Five bells.

In Melbourne, your appetite had gone,
Your angers too; they had been leeched away
By the soft archery of summer rains
And the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp
That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind,
And showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage,
The sodden ectasies of rectitude.
I thought of what you'd written in faint ink,
Your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind
With other things you left, all without use,
All without meaning now, except a sign
That someone had been living who now was dead:
"At Labassa. Room 6 x 8
On top of the tower; because of this, very dark
And cold in winter. Everything has been stowed
Into this room - 500 books all shapes
And colours, dealt across the floor
And over sills and on the laps of chairs;
Guns, photoes of many differant things
And differant curioes that I obtained..."

In Sydney, by the spent aquarium-flare
Of penny gaslight on pink wallpaper,
We argued about blowing up the world,
But you were living backward, so each night
You crept a moment closer to the breast,
And they were living, all of them, those frames
And shapes of flesh that had perplexed your youth,
And most your father, the old man gone blind,
With fingers always round a fiddle's neck,
That graveyard mason whose fair monuments
And tablets cut with dreams of piety
Rest on the bosoms of a thousand men
Staked bone by bone, in quiet astonishment
At cargoes they had never thought to bear,
These funeral-cakes of sweet and sculptured stone.

Where have you gone? The tide is over you,
The turn of midnight water's over you,
As Time is over you, and mystery,
And memory, the flood that does not flow.
You have no suburb, like those easier dead
In private berths of dissolution laid -
The tide goes over, the waves ride over you
And let their shadows down like shining hair,
But they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend
Like lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed;
And you are only part of an Idea.
I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in,
The night you died, I felt your eardrums crack,
And the short agony, the longer dream,
The Nothing that was neither long nor short;
But I was bound, and could not go that way,
But I was blind, and could not feel your hand.
If I could find an answer, could only find
Your meaning, or could say why you were here
Who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath
Or seized it back, might I not hear your voice?

I looked out my window in the dark
At waves with diamond quills and combs of light
That arched their mackerel-backs and smacked the sand
In the moon's drench, that straight enormous glaze,
And ships far off asleep, and Harbour-buoys
Tossing their fireballs wearily each to each,
And tried to hear your voice, but all I heard
Was a boat's whistle, and the scraping squeal
Of seabirds' voices far away, and bells,
Five bells. Five bells coldly ringing out.
Five bells.

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 07:11 AM   #12
Shallowed
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The German Guns
Private S. Baldrick, 1917

Boom, boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 08:18 AM   #13
FoolofaTook
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Racist.

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 12:49 PM   #14
cork_soaker
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Quote:
Originally Posted by FoolofaTook View Post
Soak Corker wins?
speaking of sentiment, i enjoy this one quite a lot. sweet, simple, sad.


Hoses

I love the hoses of summer
hanging in their green coils
from the sides of houses,
or slithering through lawns
on their way to the cool
meditations of sprinklers.

I think of my father, scotch
in one hand, the dripping hose
in the other, probing the dusk
with water, the world
around him falling apart,
marriage crumbling, booze
running the show.
Still, he liked to walk out
after dinner and water the lawn,
fiddling with the nozzle,
misting this, showering that.

Sometimes, in the hot twilight,
my sisters and I would run
in our swimsuits through the yard
while he followed us
with a cold beam of water.

And once, when my mother
came out to watch, he turned
the hose on her, the two of them
laughing in a way we'd never heard,
a laughter that must have brought them
back to the beginning.

-George Bilgere

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 03:00 PM   #15
myosis
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Quote:
Originally Posted by TuralyonW3 View Post
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 soundís 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.
is this about taking a nice relieving whizz against a tree?

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 03:16 PM   #16
TuralyonW3
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Quote:
Originally Posted by myosis View Post
is this about taking a nice relieving whizz against a tree?
it's about death

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 03:24 PM   #17
FoolofaTook
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Memento Mori Ė Billy Collins

There is no need for me to keep a skull on my desk,
to stand with one foot up on the ruins of Rome,
or wear a locket with the sliver of a saintís bone.

It is enough to realize that every common object
in this sunny little room will outlive me
-the carpet, radio, bookstand and rocker.

Not one of these things will attend my burial,
not even this dented goosenecked lamp
with its steady benediction of light,

though I could put worse things in my mind
than the image of it waddling across the cemetery
like an old servant, dragging the tail of its cord
, the small circle of mourners parting to make room.

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 03:46 PM   #18
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Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.

-Naomi Shihab Nye

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 03:48 PM   #19
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My lovely friends

How could I change
towards you who
are so beautiful?

- Sappho

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 03:49 PM   #20
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The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.

- Philip Larkin

 
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Old 10-13-2017, 03:54 PM   #21
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it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be-
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

- e e cummings

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 02:16 PM   #22
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And Iluvatar spoke to Ulmo, and said, "Seest thou not how here in this little realm in the Deeps of Time Melkor hath made war upon thy province? He hath bethought him of bitter cold immoderate, and yet hath not destroyed the beauty of thy fountains, nor of thy clear pools. Behold the snow, and the cunning work of frost! Melkor hath devised heats and fire without restraint, and hath not dried up thy desire nor utterly quelled the music of the sea. Behold rather the height and glory of the clouds, and the ever changing mists; and listen to the fall of rain upon the Earth! And in these clouds thou art drawn nearer to Manwe, thy friend, whom thou lovest."

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 02:21 PM   #23
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Then Ulmo answered, "Truly, Water is become now fairer than my heart imagined, neither had my secret thought concieved the snowflake, nor in all my music was contained the falling of the rain. I will seek Manwe, that he and I may make melodies forever to thy delight!" And Manwe and Ulmo have from the beginning been allied, and in all things have served most faithfully the purpose of Iluvatar.

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 02:22 PM   #24
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-Ainulindale

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 02:24 PM   #25
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Nature loves courage. You make the commitment and nature will respond to that commitment by removing impossible obstacles. Dream the impossible dream and the world will not grind you under, it will lift you up. This is the trick. This is what all these teachers and philosophers who really counted, who really touched the alchemical gold, this is what they understood. This is the shamanic dance in the waterfall. This is how magic is done. By hurling yourself into the abyss and discovering it's a feather bed.

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 04:19 PM   #26
yo soy el mejor
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Shallowed View Post
The German Guns
Private S. Baldrick, 1917

Boom, boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom
LET ME HEAR YOU SAY WAY-OOH

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 04:45 PM   #27
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my name is dog
i am new mom
i luv my pups
so pls stay calm
don't be surprised
wen i tell u
my pups don't bark
they all say moo

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 04:47 PM   #28
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Location: Now, I'm not a professional psychologist, but I am an amateur psychologist. And I think that your spontaneous eye-watering may have something to do with your father.
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follow up:

they look at me
with furrowed brow
they say a dog
can't have a cow
but i ignore
as we curl up
i kiss each face
i lik the pup

 
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Old 11-11-2017, 11:52 PM   #29
teh b0lly!!1
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blue m&m
red m&m
they all wind up the same colour in
the end

 
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Old 11-12-2017, 12:14 AM   #30
FoolofaTook
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I am eating peanut butter nutella sandwiches with milk.

Better than drugs. Better than sex. Better than God.

 
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