Favorite lines of poetry

[claustrum]

I like this poem by Sam Rix, a New Zealand author.

The Last Journey

 

This creature man, who in his genesis

First stood, then gazed upon the molten stars

With dim perception, knew their mystery.

Now through the spanning years his tread has gone

Over wide oceans, continents and plains,

Vaulted the encompassing atmosphere that clings

About the rounded cradle of his world,

And hurled himself headlong in valient flight

Upon the arid, harsh and cratered moon,

And claimed its bitter majesty as his.

Beyond the moon his voyaging will go

Until his footprints mark the Jovian moons;

Then outward yet, to Saturn's lonely path,

And far beyond, into the stellar night.

 

Man seeks in outer space what lies within;

For this is true, that if he will but sit

And gaze into the still abyssmal deep

That is himself, the woven threads that shape

The barriers of distance, time and form

Will fade, as dreams upon awakening,

And be no more than their dimmed memory.

 

In this last journey, floating free at last

Upon the faceless glory of that sea

Whose foam is stars, and spindrift galaxies

Man knows the whole wide universe as home.

 

--- Sam Rix

[AlaskanWriter]

I could give a few lines, but honestly i think its soul is lost without reading it all...

 

Legacy of the Rodeo Man by Baxter Black

 

There's a hundred years of history and a hundred before that

All gathered in the thinkin' goin' on beneath his hat.

And back behind his eyeballs and pumpin' through his veins

Is the ghost of every cowboy that ever held the reins.

 

Every coil in his lasso's been thrown a million times

His quiet concentration's been distilled through ancient minds.

It's evolution workin' when the silver scratches hide

And a ghostly cowboy chorus fills his head and says, "Let's ride."

 

The famous and the rowdy, the savage and the sane

the bluebloods and the hotbloods and the corriente strain

All knew his mother's mothers or was it his daddy's kin

'Til he's nearly purely cowboy, born to ride and bred to win.

 

He's got Buffalo Bill Cody and Goodnight's jigger boss

And all of the brave blue soldiers that General Custer lost

The ghost of Pancho Villa, Sittin' Bull and Jessie James

All gathered by his campfire keepin' score and takin' names.

 

There's every Royal Mountie that ever got his man

And every day-work cowboy that ever made a hand

Each man that's rode before him, yup every mother's son

Is in his corner, rootin', when he nods to make his run.

 

Freckles Brown might pull his bull rope,

Casey Tibbs might jerk the flank,

Bill Pickett might be hazin' when he starts to turn the crank.

Plus Remington and Russell lookin' down his buckhorn sight

All watchin' through the window of this cowboy's eyes tonight.

 

And standin' in the catch pen or in chute number nine

Is the offspring of a mountain that's come down from olden time

A volcano waitin' quiet, 'til they climb upon his back

Rumblin' like the engine of a freight train on the track.

 

A cross between a she bear and a bad four wheel drive

With the fury of an eagle when it makes a power dive.

A snake who's lost its caution or a badger gone berserk

He's a screamin', stompin', clawin', rabid, mad dog piece o' work.

 

From the rollers in his nostrils to the foam upon his lips

From the hooves as hard as granite to the horns with dagger tips

From the flat black starin' shark's eye that's the mirror of his soul

Shines the challenge to each cowboy like the devil callin' roll.

 

In the seconds that tick slowly 'til he climbs upon his back

Each rider faces down the fear that makes his mouth go slack

And cuts his guts to ribbons and gives his tongue a coat

He swallows back the panic gorge that's risin' in his throat.

 

The smell of hot blue copper fills the air around his head

Then a single, solid shiver shakes away the doubt and dread

The cold flame burns within him 'til his skin's as cold as ice

And the dues he paid to get here are worth every sacrifice.

 

All the miles spent sleepy drivin', all the money down the drain

All the "if I's" and the "nearly's", all the bandages and the pain

All the female tears left dryin', all the fever and the fight

Are just a small downpayment on the ride he makes tonight.

 

And his pardner in this madness that the cowboy's call a game

Is a ton of buckin' thunder bent on provin' why he came

But the cowboy never wavers he intends to do his best

And of that widow maker, he expects of him no less.

 

There's a solemn silent moment that every rider knows

When the time stops on a heartbeat like the earth itself was froze

Then all the ancient instinct fills the space between his ears

Til the whispers of his phantoms are the only thing he hears.

 

When you get down to the cuttin' and the leather touches hide

And there's nothin' left to think about, he nods and says, "Outside!"

Then frozen for an instant against the open gate

Is hist'ry turned to flesh and blood, a warrior incarnate.

 

And while they pose like statues in that flicker of an eye

There's somethin' almost sacred, you can see it if you try.

It's guts and love and glory-one mortal's chance at fame

His legacy is rodeo and cowboy is his name.

 

 

 

[Lachesis]

Oops. XD wrong post, wrong section.

 

Quoth the Raven, nevermore.

 

Edgar Allan Poe has always managed to scare and delight me with his somber poetry.

 

Lachesis

Edited August 6, 2009 by Lachesis

[Richard F]

The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

The desert sighs in the bed,

And the crack in the tea-cup opens

A lane to the land of the dead.

 

[PenMan828]

The Rose that Grew from Concrete

 

Did you hear about the rose that grew

from a crack in the concrete?

Proving nature's law is wrong it

learned to walk with out having feet.

Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams,

it learned to breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete

when no one else ever cared.

[The penner]

Someone guess where this is from:

 

She should have died hereafter;

There would have been time for such a word.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty place from day to day,

And all our yesterdays light fools

The way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow,

A poor player that struts and frets his hour apon the stage

And then is heard of no more.

'Tis a tale, told by an idiot,

Full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

[DAYoung]

That well known Muslim poet, Sheikh Zubeir..

Edited December 31, 2009 by DAYoung

[camoandconcrete]

Death, spirit me away

My anguished soul doth strain

On taut and twisted reins

Yet, insatiate I still remain

Like a proud, unfallen star

That dares thee from afar

To calm my thund'rous heart

Else, rend it's knots apart

So I may never sing

 

Of jewelled skies o'er my strings

And love, a wanton thing

Can plunge on burnt, black wings

To hang amid the thorns

In scarlet, like velvet worn

About the clouded moon

Who wanes in solitude....

 

Can anyone guess it?

[WalkAmongWolves]

"So the Angel said: "Thy phantasy has imposed upon me , and thou oughtest to be ashamed." I answered " we impose on one another, and it is but lost time to converse with you whose works are only Analytics."

- William Blake

[cpsantillan]

This poem is from argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges,I love it!!!

Antelacion del amor:

 

Ni la intimidad de tu frente

clara como una fiesta

ni la privanza de tu cuerpo,

aún misterioso y tácito y de niña,

ni la sucesión de tu vida situándose

en palabras o acallamiento

serán favor tan persuasivo de ideas

como el mirar tu sueño implicado

en la vigilia de mis ávidos brazos.

 

Virgen milagrosamente otra vez

por la virtud absolutoria del sueño,

quieta y resplandeciente como una

dicha en la selección del recuerdo,

me darás esa orilla de tu vida

que tú misma no tienes,

 

Arrojado a la quietud

divisaré esa playa última de tu ser

y te veré por vez primera

quizás como Dios ha de verte,

desbaratada la ficción del Tiempo

sin el amor, sin mí.

 

English translation:

ANTICIPATION OF LOVE

(translated by Alastair Read)

 

Neither the intimacy of your look, your brow fair as a feast day,

nor the favor of your body, still mysterious, reserved, and childlike,

nor what comes to me of your life, settling in words or silence,

will be so mysterious a gift

as the sight of your sleep, enfolded

in the vigil of my arms.

Virgin again, miraculously, by the absolving power of sleep,

quiet and luminous like some happy thing recovered by memory,

you will give me that shore of your life that you yourself do not own.

Cast up into silence

I shall discern that ultimate beach of your being

and see you for the first time, perhaps,

as God must see you --

the fiction of Time destroyed,

free from love, from me.

[Phototoxin]

"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree"

 

"the are maids in the land more lovely by far who would gladly be wed to the young Lachanvar"

[handlebar]

"Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen", a title of a Rückert poem set to music by my fav composer,Gustav Mahler.

Second stanza is "mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben"

 

Here it is as a tat on my arm:

 

http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h93/n7myw/Tattoos/Small4.jpg

 

Jim

[dexaco]

As someone who also writes - or attempts to - fiction, the following sonnet is a favourite (excuse the English spelling of 'favourite'!)

 

From "Astrophel and Stella"

 

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,

That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain,

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe:

Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;

Invention, Nature's child, fled stepdame Study's blows;

And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:

"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."

 

by Sir Philip Sidney

 

The last two lines especially.

 

Derick

[irbyls]

Pablo Neruda is my favorite poet, and Alastair Reid is my favorite translator:

 

From "Pastoral"

I too want to watch myself.

I want to discover at last my own feelings.

And when I reach the place where I am waiting,

I expect to fall asleep, dying of laughter.

 

From "Forgotten in Autumn"

I stayed

so alone, so empty

that the leaves were weeping,

the last ones, and later

they fell like tears.

 

From "Autumn Testament"

So I leave to all who snarled at me

my traveller's eyelashes,

my passion for salt,

the slant of my smile--

[camoandconcrete]

Here are some favorites of mine:

By A.C. Swinburne:

"Pale, beyond porch and portal,

Crowned with leaves, she stands,

Who gathers all things mortal,

With cold immortal hands,

Her languid lips are sweeter,

Than love's who fears to greet her,

To men that mix and meet her,

From many times and lands."

A Traditional:

"Caught in thy net of shadows,

What dreams hast thou to show?

Who treads the silent meadows,

To worship thee below?"

By Hegel:

"The Great Man of his time

Is He who expresses

The Will of his time;

Who tells his time what it wills;

And who carries it out"

Jesus:

"Those enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them

Bring them here and kill them in front of me"

[Jesus, (Luke 19:27)]

And finally John Balance:

"Paint me as a dead soul...

The flesh, the image, the reflection

Let's complete the illusion"

Edit to Add: I hate this formatting, it always gets messed up in the editor

Edited January 27, 2010 by MiamiArcStudent

[JakobS]

My favorite from Emily Dickinson:

 

The pedigree of honey

Does not concern the bee;

A clover, any time, to him

Is aristocracy.

 

Another favorite from Thomas Hardy:

 

The Caged Thrush Freed And Home Again

 

'Men know but little more than we

Who count us least of things terrene,

How happy days are made to be!

 

'Of such strange tidings what think ye,

O birds in brown that peck and preen?

Men know but little more than we!

 

'When I was borne from yonder tree

In bonds to them, I hope to glean

How happy days are made to be,

 

'And want and wailing turned to glee;

Alas, despite their mighty mien

Men know but little more than we!

 

'They cannot change the Frost's decree,

They cannot keep the skis serene;

How happy days are made to be

 

'Eludes great Man's sagacity

No less than ours, O tribes in treen!

Men know but little more than we

How happy days are made to be.'

Edited January 27, 2010 by JakobS

[Kaustic]

Three by Stephen Crane...

 

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said: "Is it good, friend?"

"It is bitter-bitter," he answered;

"But I like it

Because it is bitter,

And because it is my heart."

 

-----------------------

 

I stood upon a high place,

And saw, below, many devils

Running, leaping,

And carrousing in sin.

One looked up, grinning,

And said" "Comrade! Brother!"

 

------------------------

 

If there is a witness to my little life,

To my tiny throes and struggles,

He sees a fool;

And it is not fine for gods to menace fools.

[Pendragon]

Nothing in life that is worthy

Is ever too hard to achieve

If you have the courage to try it

And you have the faith to believe

 

From Climb Until Your Dream Comes True by Helen Steiner Rice

 

 

Go for pleasure, life gives only a moment,

Its every atom from a Kaikobad's or a Jamshid's dust;

The world's phenomena and life's essence

Are all a dream, a fancy, and a moment's deception.

 

From The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam

[ColinS]

Summer grasses

all that remains

of soldiers dreams

 

Basho (transl Lucien Stryck)

[ColinS]

One more haiku

 

The sea darkens

and a wild duck's call

is faintly white

 

Basho

Two Western Journeys 1684-1688