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Post by Frenchy Faith on Jan 7, 2005 4:36:45 GMT -5
[glow=navy,2,900000] "It rains gently upon the city" - Arthur Rimbaud The author, Paul Verlaine. The Book, Lovesongs Without Words (1874).
There is weeping in my heart As it rains upon the city, What is this faintness (languor) Which penetrates my heart?
Oh gentle clatter of the rain Through ground and over the roofs! For a heart which is bored, Oh the song of the rain!
There is weeping without reason In this heart which is disgusted. What! no treason? This mourning is without reason.
It is good the worst pain Has no knowledge of why, Without love and without hate, My heart has so much from pain!
Source : www.annexed.net/box/verlaine/verlaine2.html [/glow]
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Post by Frenchy Faith on Mar 16, 2005 4:32:00 GMT -5
[glow=navy,2,9000000]A friend of mine sent me that, I find it really great (the dots are normally blank space but i couldn't make the blank space so ) : By Elizabeth Bishop
O'Breath Beneath that loved.... and celebrated breast silent,bored really .... blindly veined, grieves,maybe.....lives and lets live'passes ...... bets, something moving...... but invisibly, and with what clamor....... why restrained I cannot fathom ...... even a ripple. (See the thin flying ...... of nine black hairs four around one ...... five the other nipple, flying almost intolerably...... on your own breath.) Equivocal, but what we have in common's bound to be there, whatever we must own ...... equivalents for, something that maybe I ......could bargain with and make a separate peace ......beneath within...... if never with. [/glow]
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Post by Frenchy Faith on Mar 18, 2005 5:27:34 GMT -5
[glow=purple,2,900000]Anaphora by Elizabeth Bishop
Each day with so much ceremony begins, with birds, with bells, with whistles from a factory; such white-gold skies our eyes first open on, such brilliant walls that for a moment we wonder "Where is the music coming from, the energy? The day was meant for what ineffable creature we must have missed?" Oh promptly he appears and takes his earthly nature instantly, instantly falls victim of long intrigue, assuming memory and mortal mortal fatigue.
More slowly falling into sight and showering into stippled faces, darkening, condensing all his light; in spite of all the dreaming squandered upon him with that look, suffers our uses and abuses, sinks through the drift of bodies, sinks through the drift of vlasses to evening to the beggar in the park who, weary, without lamp or book prepares stupendous studies: the fiery event of every day in endless endless assent.[/glow]
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Post by Frenchy Faith on Mar 23, 2005 5:56:32 GMT -5
[glow=navy,2,900000]I have to write a commentary on this one we are studying & therefore I thought I would post it, because now that I've studied it into depths, I find it even more beautiful!
Ode on Melancholy by Keats 1.
NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 2.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 3.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. [/glow]
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Birdy
Senior Member
This is Me I like you I like sharp things They suggest you run from Me Why?
Posts: 177
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Post by Birdy on Apr 21, 2005 14:22:02 GMT -5
Your poems are beautilful !!! Here is one of W.B. Yeats ...
THE TRAVAIL OF PASSION When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide; When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay; Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream; We will bend down and loosen oura hair over you, That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew, Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.[/i]
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Birdy
Senior Member
This is Me I like you I like sharp things They suggest you run from Me Why?
Posts: 177
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Post by Birdy on Apr 21, 2005 14:30:47 GMT -5
Damn !!! The poem entitled If is simply beautiful or full of beauty !!!!!!!!
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Birdy
Senior Member
This is Me I like you I like sharp things They suggest you run from Me Why?
Posts: 177
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Post by Birdy on May 20, 2005 15:16:56 GMT -5
THE FISHERMAN
[...]
Maybe a twelvemonth since Suddenly I began, In scorn of this audience, Imagining a man, And his sun-freckled face, And grey connemare cloth, Climbing up to a place Where stone is dark under froth, And the down turn of his wrist When the flies drop in the stream; A man who does not exist, A man who is but a dream; And cried 'Before I am old I shall have written him one Poems maybe as cold And passionate as the dawn! William Buttler Yeats
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