LibriumArcana.Games

Well, what poem currently resonates with you now? Here's mine (I found it here):

Forbidden Love by faerieraven182.

i love her more than life
she's my everything
fuck those stupid rules
that say that we can't be

she's my lover and my friend
i'd do anything for her
i hate that we can only be
together secretly

i want to scream out loud
my love that burns so strong
but no one would understand
they'd all say that it was wrong

so i keep our love a secret
and no one will ever see
but no matter what, she'll always be
the only one for me

Moved to appropiate forum.

Um, actually the poem is not originally mine. I found it on the net, and it just vibrates with me right now.

So what poem actually fits right with you,?

Kreshna Aryaguna Nurzaman wrote:Um, actually the poem is not originally mine. I found it on the net, and it just vibrates with me right now.

Well, works of creativity belong here, friend.

So what poem actually fits right with you,?

I have no inclinations towards poems myself, actually.

Robert Walper wrote:

Kreshna Aryaguna Nurzaman wrote:Um, actually the poem is not originally mine. I found it on the net, and it just vibrates with me right now.

Well, works of creativity belong here, friend.

That's why I edited the OP and title... It's not my poem, just a poem that vibrates with my situation.. Analogue with those song lyrics.

Favourite poem ever?

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

-- "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

-- "Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen

Note: The phrase "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" is Latin for "It is sweet and beautiful to die for one's country."

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost "Fire and Ice"

If you like John Donne's sonnets, check out "The Computation" as well as any of his works inspired by Sarah Moore.

(This is a song more so than a poem...but I like anyhow )

Well I got home, and the door was locked,
and I tried to ring the bell.
I found little bitty note that she had wrote,
telling me to go to hell.

I crawled in the window, I got inside,
she kicked me in the balls, and then I cried.
Called me a name, said I lied.
Kicked me again, and thought I died.

Took my clothes, set em fire,
and hit me with her curling iron.
I tried to block it, with my watch,
and then she kicked me in the crotch...again.

Yeah the day's the day my wife met my girlfriend.

Well I tried to tell her but she didn't care,
things weren't what they seemed.
She had a pan on the stove full of boiling water,
and my nads would soon be steamed.

I tried run, screamed for help,
she hit me in the nerts with the rinestone belt.
It was like nothing that I ever felt,
I thank god I wasn't wearing a kilt.

She grabbed a bat from beneath the bed,
she swung it once and then she missed my head.
She reared back, swung it again,
then she hit me in the twins again.

Yeah the day's the day my wife met my girlfriend.
Yeah the day's that aweful day, ain't my boy's won't be the same,
Yeah the day's the day my wife met my girlfriend.

I saw this one on an mural honouring the old UVF (AKA the 36th Ulster Division), most of whom died on the fields of the Somme.

Ye Grim Faced Ghouls With Kindling Eye
Who Laugh And Cheer As Soldier Lads Match By
Skulk Home And Pray You'll Never Know
The Place Where Youth And Laughter Go

Lord Pounder wrote:I saw this one on an mural honouring the old UVF (AKA the 36th Ulster Division), most of whom died on the fields of the Somme.

Ye Grim Faced Ghouls With Kindling Eye
Who Laugh And Cheer As Soldier Lads Match By
Skulk Home And Pray You'll Never Know
The Place Where Youth And Laughter Go

Oh my God.

I love you for posting that.

I just finished reading Philip Orr's "The Road to the Somme."

That mural chilled me when I was a kid. I loved reading about the Ulster Volunteers...

Falling in love is like owning a dog
an epithalamion by Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

First of all, it's a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?

On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breaths
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.

Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Somethimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don't you ever do that again!

Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.


What Teachers Make, or
You can always go to law school if things don't work out
By Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about
teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you¹re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (brains)
then you follow this (heart) and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a goddamn difference! What about you?

Alone
by Edgar Allen Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
and looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim
because it was grassy and wanted wear;
though as for that, the passing there
had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
in leaves no feet had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less travelled by,
and that has made all the difference

-R. Frost

I once was here,
but now I'm gone.
I left my name to carry on.
Those who know me,
know me well.
And those who don't,
can burn in Hell.