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The Arrow and the Song
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.
Listen... Ogden Nash
There is a knocking in the skull, An endless silent shout Of something beating on a wall, And crying, “Let me out!”
That solitary prisoner Will never hear reply. No comrade in eternity Can hear the frantic cry.
No heart can share the terror That haunts his monstrous dark. The light that filters through the chinks No other eye can mark.
When flesh is linked with eager flesh, And words run warm and full, I think that he is loneliest then, The captive in the skull.
Caught in a mesh of living veins, In cell of padded bone, He loneliest is when he pretends That he is not alone.
We’d free the incarcerate race of man That such a doom endures Could only you unlock my skull, Or I creep into yours.
Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Hey @checkingthings Mi old cuddle mucker (friend). You are not living up to your name today. If you can checked back into the Forum back catalogue of Discussion topics, even as short a time as 10 days ago, you would have seen that I have tried to float a couple of CC Poetry based threads (inc most recently "Cuddling Creativity Corner") with minimal success. I hope you have more luck.
CUDDLES FROM CHAOS
My life's in a muddle My home is a mess About whether I live or die People couldn't care less
However one thing has come to me In my hour of need And in my old noggin has planted a seed
What if there could be something in this cuddling lark And in my old broken heart it has planted a spark Perhaps hugging others is one way off the shelf
For by cuddling others We also cuddle ourself!
By Henry Shires
WE PLAY THE ROOM AS IT IS DEALT by Henry Shires
We play the room as it is dealt Without any of the protection of professional security Or public liability indemnity
Often with no tricks left up our sleeves Which hide our tattoos Testaments to our wrong decisions, failed schemes, failed dreams Or the track marks of our tears
We play the room for all it’s worth, which is often less and less From birth through all those little deaths of sex and hope We play our hand With luck we learn and win a trick or two
We play the room/life as it lies As it so often does We play the game until The bar is closed in doom and gloom
And, often without any applause, we crumple and discard our rifled Tickets to existence Shuffle of this stage of fools
And, if we are lucky Die on our feet
Ode to a Goldfish
By Ogden Nash
Oh wet pet.
This is from a young (when we were chums) lady who was a fellow student and who entrusted me to help edit her poems when we were undergrads. This one has always been my favorite and was anthologized in several books. Her name is Carolyn Creedon and her pic on her Wikipedia page doesn’t really show how tiny of a lady she is. She was a bit of a pixie when we hung, less than five feet tall and weighing maybe 80 lbs. She is immensely talented—and like those who really do have talent, reticent to show it. I recommend this book from her—it contains many of the poems she let me opine on that were scribbled lines in various stages when we were two competitive undergrads. I would also encourage anyone to look up a very challenging poem to write—a sestina—and look up her poem “A Sestina For You Honey....” that came out of her almost perfectly in one of our classes together. That one and this one are the ones I had the most input on, but they are wonderfully Carolyn’s creations. Ladies she should appeal to you—she is brilliant.
https://www.amazon.com/Wet-Wick-Poetry-First-Book/dp/1606351508
Litany BY CAROLYN CREEDON Tom, will you let me love you in your restaurant? I will let you make me a sandwich of your invention and I will eat it and call it a carolyn sandwich. Then you will kiss my lips and taste the mayonnaise and that is how you shall love me in my restaurant
Tom, will you come to my empty beige apartment and help me set up my daybed? Yes, and I will put the screws in loosely so that when we move on it, later, it will rock like a cradle and then you will know you are my baby
Tom, I am sitting on my dirt bike on the deck. Will you come out from the kitchen and watch the people with me? Yes, and then we will race to your bedroom. I will win and we will tangle up on your comforter while the sweat rains from our stomachs and foreheads
Tom, the stars are sitting in tonight like gumball gems in a little girl’s jewelry box. Later can we walk to the duck pond? Yes, and we can even go the long way past the jungle gym. I will push you on the swing, but promise me you’ll hold tight. If you fall I might disappear
Tom, can we make a baby together? I want to be a big pregnant woman with a loved face and give you a squalling red daughter. No, but I will come inside you and you will be my daughter
Tom, will you stay the night with me and sleep so close that we are one person? No, but I will lie down on your sheets and taste you. There will be feathers of you on my tongue and then I will never forget you
Tom, when we are in line at the convenience store can I put my hands in your back pockets and my lips and nose in your baseball shirt and feel the crook of your shoulder blade? No, but later you can lie against me and almost touch me and when I go I will leave my shirt for you to sleep in so that always at night you will be pressed up against the thought of me
Tom, if I weep and want to wait until you need me will you promise that someday you will need me? No, but I will sit in silence while you rage, you can knock the chairs down any mountain. I will always be the same and you will always wait
Tom, will you climb on top of the dumpster and steal the sun for me? It’s just hanging there and I want it. No, it will burn my fingers. No one can have the sun: it’s on loan from God. But I will draw a picture of it and send it to you from Richmond and then you can smooth out the paper and you will have a piece of me as well as the sun
Tom, it’s so hot here, and I think I’m being born. Will you come back from Richmond and baptise me with sex and cool water? I will come back from Richmond. I will smooth the damp spiky hairs from the back of your neck and then I will lick the salt off it. Then I will leave
Tom, Richmond is so far away. How will I know how you love me? I have left you. That is how you will know
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.
Morning Song from "Senlin" by Conrad Aiken
It's long, it's my sentiment for this Friday, so if you choose to read it, it's here:
IT is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do. Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, And I myself on swiftly tilting planet Stand before a glass and tie my tie. Vine-leaves tap my window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones. It is morning. I stand by the mirror And tie my tie once more. While waves far off in a pale rose twilight Crash on a white sand shore. I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: How small and white my face!— The green earth tilts through a sphere of air And bathes in a flame of space. There are houses hanging above the stars And stars hung under a sea... And a sun far off in a shell of silence Dapples my walls for me.... It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning Should I not pause in the light to remember God? Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable, He is immense and lonely as a cloud. I will dedicate this moment before my mirror To him alone, for him I will comb my hair. Accept these humble offerings, clouds of silence! I will think of you as I descend the stair. Vine-leaves tap my window, The snail-track shines on the stones; Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree Repeating two clear tones. It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep. The walls are about me still as in the evening, I am the same, and the same name still I keep. The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion, The stars pale silently in a coral sky. In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, Unconcerned, and tie my tie. There are horses neighing on far-off hills Tossing their long white manes, And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, Their shoulders black with rains.... It is morning, I stand by the mirror And surprise my soul once more; The blue air rushes above my ceiling, There are suns beneath my floor.... ...It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness And depart on the winds of space for I know not where; My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, And a god among the stars; and I will go Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak And humming a tune I know.... Vine-leaves tap at the window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three dear tones.
The Bells
By EDGAR ALLAN POE
Part I
Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
“How to Be a Cowgirl in a Studio Apartment” by Carolyn Creedon
HOW TO BE A COWGIRL IN A STUDIO APARTMENT
Paint the ceiling blue and let it dry. See pamphlet “How to Paint a Ceiling.” Chalk a large circle to represent the sun. A light bulb will do as well. Start close to the sun and trace Mercury. Trace each planet. Finish with Pluto. Pour each color into a plastic container. Paint each planet and the sun. —from anonymous pamphlet, “How to Paint the Solar System on Your Ceiling”
Don’t let the people at Ace Hardware tell you you need a man. Do pick one up anyway, if he looks red and ripe. A cowgirl needs nourishment, and some nights, to lie on her back and let something bloom above her, looming like the stars. A cowgirl’s hardware is indispensable—big-spurred boots, canteen, and a saddle to go— useful, but always that soft underbelly she won’t be revealing. No need for the little black dress: a flannel shirt, jeans, a steaming pan of wieners, and some bourbon. And him, over there. “Hey You!” He’ll come over. He’ll have to. You’re a renegade, a rough ride, a rogue feeling. Paint the ceiling blue and let it dry. See pamphlet “How to Paint a Ceiling.” Get him there. Rein him in a little; don’t let him roam too much. You’re well-schooled in herding. Circle him, if you must, with a lasso, then lead him—carry him, if you must, over one shoulder—over his objections, over a bottle of wine, to the bed. Make him docile. Hum like a whittled banjo. It helps if you know how to pet a wild animal, or how to rub two sticks together with your hands, or shell peanuts husk by husk—cowgirl skills that will come in handy when rustling up blades of grass to whistle on, or handling unpredictable forces that scare so easily. Undo his fly. Make him rise and swell. Chalk a large circle to represent the sun. A light bulb will do as well. Remember, he’s borrowed, cowgirl; you don’t buy things, the stars you ride under slide over you like yellow peanuts, the big sky just a rented ceiling, the big sun a borrowed bulb, a giant library card from God. The planets unmoored are not your marbles, and the warm man you rolled with, rode and sweated with, will go back to his natural habitat, glistening wet. This is your rule: the cowgirl’s status quo. Bowls are only good for what they hold, branches for the scratch they itch, stones for chalking circles of the light. Even your rope just rings out the moon, your banjo mouth twangs out a temporary tempo. Start close to the sun and trace Mercury. Trace each planet. Finish with Pluto.
What We Once Were We Become Again
I knew that I was dreaming.
Walking through the dark hallways. A small child sitting on the foot of my mother’s bed. Her hair blonde. Her teeth crooked and black.
My mother asleep on her side, but shivering, but trembling, afraid of the avatar. That simply sat and watched.
When I walked into that room and grabbed the small thing.
Demanding she speak her name and tell me her purpose.
Tell me why and how she stole all the light into the crazy smile of her black teeth.
Shaking her by the shoulders. Trying desperately to turn around the drowning terror I felt, to hold it in my hands and scream it back into this small blonde golem of mortality.
And the more I shook, the more I screamed, the blacker my teeth became.
Waking up brought no warmth, no comfort.
Only the knowledge that I was not dreaming.
Only the feeling of anger in my mouth.
Only the heaviness of grief in my hands.
Well that probably created a couple more alcoholics in the world.
A Poison Tree William Blake
I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water’d it in fears, Night & morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night. Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole, When the night had veil’d the pole; In the morning glad I see; My foe outstretch’d beneath the tree.
The To-be-forgotten by Thomas Hardy
I heard a small sad sound, And stood awhile among the tombs around: "Wherefore, old friends," said I, "are you distrest, Now, screened from life's unrest?"
O not at being here; But that our future second death is near; When, with the living, memory of us numbs, And blank oblivion comes!
These, our sped ancestry, Lie here embraced by deeper death than we; Nor shape nor thought of theirs can you descry With keenest backward eye.
They count as quite forgot; They are as men who have existed not; Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath; It is the second death.
We here, as yet, each day Are blest with dear recall; as yet, can say We hold in some soul loved continuance Of shape and voice and glance.
But what has been will be — First memory, then oblivion's swallowing sea; Like men foregone, shall we merge into those Whose story no one knows.
For which of us could hope To show in life that world-awakening scope Granted the few whose memory none lets die, But all men magnify?
We were but Fortune's sport; Things true, things lovely, things of good report We neither shunned nor sought ... We see our bourne, And seeing it we mourn.
listen beloved i dreamed it appeared that you thought to escape me and became a great lily atilt on insolent waters but i was aware of fragrance and i came riding upon a horse of porphyry into the waters i rode down the red horse shrieking from splintering foam caught you clutched you upon my mouth listen beloved i dreamed in my dream you had desire to thwart me and became a little bird and hid in a tree of tall marble from a great way i distinguished singing and i came riding upon a scarlet sunset trampling the night easily from the shocked impossible tower i caught you strained you broke you upon my blood listen beloved i dreamed i thought you would have deceived me and became a star in the kingdom of heaven through day and space i saw you close your eyes and i came riding upon a thousand crimson years arched with agony i reined them in tottering before the throne and as they shied at the automaton moon from the transplendant hand of sombre god i picked you as an apple is picked by the little peasants for their girls
ee cummings
@biancalovecraft
I have about a dozen favorite poems by e e cummings, and now I have one more, thank you.
I adore his unapologetic, unflinching, and sincere romanticism.
Here is one of my dozens of favorites.
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain
The Bells part II
Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Ah, Estlin, everyone’s favorite supporter of Joseph McCarthy.
(From) THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE by Alfred Lord Tennyson
“Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.
(Posted prophetically on the day of the Australian Election)
Diving Into The Wreck Adrienne Rich
First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone.
There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment.
I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin.
First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed
the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters.
This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.
More Than Myself Anne Sexton
Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me . . . I tapped my own head; it was glass, an inverted bowl. It’s small thing to rage inside your own bowl. At first it was private. Then it was more than myself.
The Motes, by Clark Ashton Smith
I saw a universe today: Through a disclosing bar of light The motes were whirled in gleaming flight That briefly dawned and sank away.
Each had its swift and tiny noon; In orbit-streams I marked them flit, Successively revealed and lit. The sunlight paled and shifted soon.
The Bells part III
Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now—now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
The Bells (part IV)
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people—ah, the people— They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone— They are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor human— They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells— Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells— Bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Outtake from a larger important work:
There once was a man from Nantucket
There was a young man From Cork who got limericks And haikus confused
Life........
When your feeling low and really down Don't frown. Instead lift up your head. Because in life there is going to be tials And tributations. Just try your best to keep your feet On solid foundation! Because You can make it if You really try Just don't sit there and watch your Whole life pass you by!
By @hotmoca37
Crowded Tub.
There are too many kids in this tub There are too many elbows to scrub I just washed a behind that I'm sure wasn't mine There are too many kids in this tub.