my favourite poem...what's yours?

by ninja 47 Replies latest jw friends

• 

  tall penguin

  This has always brought a tear to my eye.
  
  At Sunrise
  Rosa Marinoni
  
  They pushed him straight against the wall
  the firing squad dropped in a row;
  and why he stood on tiptoes,
  those men shall never know.
  
  He wore a smile across his face
  as he stood primly there,
  the guns straight aiming at his heart,
  the sun upon his hair;
  
  For he remembered, in a flash
  those days beyond recall,
  when his proud mother took his height
  against the bedroom wall.
• 

  LoverOfTruth

  I learned this one in the sixth grade.

  By Ella Higginson

  I KNOW a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, 5 And one is for love, you know, And God put another in for luck,— If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong—and so. 10 If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
• 

  Illyrian

  Not exactly a poem but one of my favorite passages from Faust

  Let's plunge ourselves into the roar of time,
  the whirl of accident; may pain and pleasure,
  success and failure, shift as they will
  -- it's only action that can make a man.
  ~Goethe, Faust

  .. it sounds better in German lol
• 

  Terry

  God exploded in my mind

  and the endless furrows of time and space

  collapsed into these stars and silent planets.

  The wonder of my wound unwound my sanity

  in the freefall of unknowning the unremembered crash.

  Face to face a simple God and me

  in ecstacy together stare

  like mirror upon mirror in repetitions found

  within the lingering mushrooming clouds

  of devasting light

  which takes away the night

  and plunges us into the yawning death of our tomorrows.

  Drunk with power and cajoled by promised grace... that face--His face

  becomes our own reflected fearfulness

  too burdened by our prayers to worry that the lie is any less the beautiful.

  (From THE EXPLODED GOD by Terry Walstrom)
• 

  Quentin

  Anything by Vachel Lindsey..........................................

  'General William Booth Enters Heaven'

  
  
  
  (BASS DRUM BEATEN LOUDLY)
  
  Booth led boldly with his big bass drum-
  (Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?)
  The Saints smiled gravely, and they said, 'He's come.'
  (Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?)
  Walking lepers followed, rank on rank,
  Lurching bravos from the ditches dank,
  Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale-
  Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail;
  Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath,
  Unwashed legions with the ways of Death-
  (Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?)
  
  I
  
  (BANJOES)
  
  Every slum had sent its half-a-score
  The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.)
  Every banner that the wide world flies
  Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes.
  Big-voiced lassies made their banjoes bang;
  Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang-
  'Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?'
  Hallelujah! It was queer to see
  Bull-necked convicts with that land made free.
  Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare,
  On, on, upward through the golden air!
  (Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?)
  
  II
  
  (BASS DRUMS SLOWER AND SOFTER)
  
  Booth died blind, and still by faith he trod,
  Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God.
  Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief,
  Eagle countenance in sharp relief,
  Beard aflying, air of high command,
  Unabated in that holy land.
  
  (SWEET FLUTE MUSIC)
  
  Jesus came from out the court-house door,
  Stretched His hands above the passing poor.
  Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there,
  Round and round the mighty courthouse square.
  Then in an instant, all that blear review
  Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new,
  The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled,
  And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world.
  
  (BASS DRUMS LOUDER)
  
  Drabs and vixens in a feast made whole!
  Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl!
  Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean,
  Rulers of empire, and of forests green!
  
  (GRAND CHORUS OF ALL INSTRUMENTS. TAMBOURINES TO THE FOREGROUND)
  
  The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire!
  (Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?)
  But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir.
  (Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?)
  Oh, shout Salvation! It was good to see
  Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free.
  The banjoes rattled and the tambourines
  Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens.
  
  (REVERENTLY SUNG, NO INSTRUMENTS)
  
  And when Booth halted by the curb of prayer,
  He saw his Master through the flag-filled air.
  Christ came gently with a robe and crown
  For Booth the Soldier, while the throng knelt down.
  He saw King Jesus. They were face to face,
  And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.
  
  Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?
• 

  tijkmo

  SHOOT THE WOUNDED

  LYING AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, LIE’S A BROKEN MAN, BLEEDING FROM AN OPEN WOUND

  PRAYING FOR SOMEONE TO COME ALONG, TOO WEAK TO CRY FOR HELP, KNOWING DEATH IS COMING SOON

  SHOOT THE WOUNDED…SHOOT THE WOUNDED

  THEY’RE NOT OUR RESPONSIBILITY

  DON’T REALLY CARE IF THEY LIVE OR DIE

  JUST PUT THEM OUT OF OUR MISERY

  AND AS THE RAIN COMES DOWN, AND THE SKY TURNS BLACK, AND THE PAIN NOW GIVES WAY TO FEAR

  AND THE ABIDING NEED, IS FOR SOME HUMAN TOUCH, BUT THERE ARE NO GOOD SAMARITANS HERE

  SHOOT THE WOUNDED…SHOOT THE WOUNDED

  THEY’RE NOT OUR RESPONSIBILITY

  DON’T REALLY CARE IF THEY LIVE OR DIE

  JUST PUT US OUT OF THEIR MISERY

  AND WE HAVE NO TIME..TO CARE FOR THE ILL

  BUT WE’RE NOT UNKIND..WE WILL MERCY KILL

  BUT WE WILL NOT STAND BY YOUR FUNERAL PYRE

  IS THIS WHAT YOU CALL YOUR FRIENDLY FIRE

  SHOOT THE WOUNDEAD…SHOOT THE WOUNDEAD

  THEY’RE NOT OUR RESPONSIBILITY

  DON’T REALLY CARE IF THEY LIVE OR DIE

  SHOOT THE WOUNDED REMOVE THEM FROM OUR SIGHT
• 

  Gregor

  "IF".. by Rudyard Kipling. I keep it posted in my office.

  If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two imposters just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

  also...

  She jumped in bed

  and covered up her head

  and swore I couldn't find her..

  but I knew damn well

  that she lied like hell

  so I jumped right in behind her.
• 

  Illyrian

  The Raven
  by: Edgar Allen Poe
  

  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
  Only this, and nothing more."

  Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
  Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow
  From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --
  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore --
  Nameless here for evermore.

  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
  Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --
  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
  This it is, and nothing more,"

  Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
  And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
  That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; --
  Darkness there, and nothing more.

  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before;
  But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
  Merely this and nothing more.

  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
  Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
  Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
  Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; --
  'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
  In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
  Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
  Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven.
  Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
  Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
  Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
  Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
  Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
  With such name as "Nevermore."

  But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
  Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
  Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
  On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
  Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --
  Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
  Of 'Never-nevermore.'"

  But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
  What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
  Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
  On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
  She shall press, ah, nevermore!

  Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
  Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
  Respite - respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore!
  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
  Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --
  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
  On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
  Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
  Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

  "Prophet!' said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
  By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --
  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore --
  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?"
  Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

  "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting --
  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
  Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
  Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

  And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
  And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
  Shall be lifted -- nevermore.