The poetry thread

[periodinstrumentfan]

There may already be a post of John Donne's Holy Sonnets...

I particularly like his 10th

*Below is taken from the manuscript version with all the original spelling and punctuations of the period ...

Holy Sonnet 10 (1635)


X.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, thē from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie
Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppy, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then,
One short sleep past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die.


~ John Donne 1572 - 1631

[Herzeleide]

I Donne.

[micrologus]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4W9p_...embedded#t=172

[lirica]

Originally Posted by stephen wainman

If

If your hand came, dead in the dead of night,
And touched my forehead, waking me to see
You standing dead there in the dead of night,
I who fear ghosts would have no fear at all.
I'd greet you with the tenderest hello
And you would smile, though sad. And then you'd go.

There would be nothing deathly in your death
For your love always was the laughing sort
That quickened life and would not die with death.
And when you'd gone, I would not want to weep --
That loving gaiety would still be there
Filling with its own peace the quickened air.

November 1972

Antonio Machado's wife died when she was very young. It is through his lifelong anguish over this loss that a kind of sacred spiritual yearning emerges.

He begins to see his dead wife as his divine beloved, ever present, ever calling to him, yet ever just out of reach so union can only be found in a mystical embrace. In this way, his unsatisfied romantic yearning was elevated to an experience of the sacred, similar to that sought by the troubadour mystics several centuries earlier.

[stephen w]

Song for the Rainy Season

Hidden, oh hidden
in the high fog
the house we live in,
beneath the magnetic rock,
rain-, rainbow-ridden,
where blood-black
bromelias, lichens,
owls, and the lint
of the waterfalls cling,
familiar, unbidden.

In a dim age
of water
the brook sings loud
from a rib cage
of giant fern; vapor
climbs up the thick growth
effortlessly, turns back,
holding them both,
house and rock,
in a private cloud.

At night, on the roof,
blind drops crawl
and the ordinary brown
owl gives us proof
he can count:
five times--always five--
he stamps and takes off
after the fat frogs that,
shrilling for love,
clamber and mount.

House, open house
to the white dew
and the milk-white sunrise
kind to the eyes,
to membership
of silver fish, mouse,
bookworms,
big moths; with a wall
for the mildew's
ignorant map;

darkened and tarnished
by the warm touch
of the warm breath,
maculate, cherished;
rejoice! For a later
era will differ.
(O difference that kills
or intimidates, much
of all our small shadowy
life!) Without water

the great rock will stare
unmagnetized, bare,
no longer wearing
rainbows or rain,
the forgiving air
and the high fog gone;
the owls will move on
and the several
waterfalls shrivel
in the steady sun.


Elizabeth Bishop

[periodinstrumentfan]

"Drummer Hodge" (1899)
by Thomas Hardy


I
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined - just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

II
Young Hodge the Drummer never knew -
Fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.

III
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.

[periodinstrumentfan]

"Casabianca" by Felicia Hemans (1793 - 1835)


The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on–he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud–'say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound–
The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!–

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

August 1826

[maureen]

good

[lirica]

Сasually I have come in two woman's sites about poetry: Spanish and Russian. My God, there are absolutely identical themes, despite of a difference in national characters: girl's love has inspired to their composition of verses, ..... but love "unfortunate" - the pain of the broken hearts.
And I have angered .
Poor girls, they do not know, that today there is a huge overweight in personal influences in collective unconscious. Certainly, force on the party of men.

And if the woman understands it, it is very simply to begin resistance to this primitive charm.
And thousand womans's hearts become free for a fine life and creativity, than to rotate by their thoughts around of any fools and narcissuses.
And still, the poetry - a dangerous thing, it possesses ability to immerse the person in the world of the uncontrollable feelings, even rational people cannot sometimes resist to this fascinating power.
Be careful! especially women.

[nahatsu]

Hello... I am offering a verse here ~ I hope you like it. I have written several verses....

-
A Compromise of Fate

What happened to my destiny
The path that I was on
It started out so well
And then somehow went so wrong!

Darkness sweeps across my mind
It takes me to a depth
My soul is lost
my heart is grim
Myself I have not met!

The Bleak and cold
Of the unknown
Chills me to the core
Closing off the view of life
Shifting views once more…

The game of life a compromise
Between destiny and fate
I was in such a hurry
And didn’t want to wait!


The path that I was on ~
That I once knew so well
Has dipped and curved and
changed its course
On this I cannot dwell!

My path is lost
To me I cannot find
Beginning nor end you see…
Of this great divine!

Caught up in the riddle
I seek a better view
And try to find the way back
To the path
That I once knew!
© 2009