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Poetry & Marathon Month - I'm cutting you a deal...
**helen**
Deactivated Posts: 9,235 Supreme Poster
:wave:
This month on 21st April quite a few members of this community (members and mods) will be running the London Marathon. Lots of you have gathered by now - YouthNet (home of TheSite) is charity of the year, alongside Age UK. So we're in a bit of a fundraising frenzy at the moment. :hyper:
It's also National Poetry Writing Month - a great opportunity for you to either write a poem, recognise your favourite poets or even discover some news ones.
So, here's the deal. For every poem posted in this thread - whether it be your own work, that of someone else you like (A credit is essential if this is the case - and it must already be in the public domain) or a review/recommendation of a poet you like - I will donate £3 to this page to help our runners reach their target.
Look forward to seeing what you guys can bring to the table. :thumb:
This month on 21st April quite a few members of this community (members and mods) will be running the London Marathon. Lots of you have gathered by now - YouthNet (home of TheSite) is charity of the year, alongside Age UK. So we're in a bit of a fundraising frenzy at the moment. :hyper:
It's also National Poetry Writing Month - a great opportunity for you to either write a poem, recognise your favourite poets or even discover some news ones.
So, here's the deal. For every poem posted in this thread - whether it be your own work, that of someone else you like (A credit is essential if this is the case - and it must already be in the public domain) or a review/recommendation of a poet you like - I will donate £3 to this page to help our runners reach their target.
Look forward to seeing what you guys can bring to the table. :thumb:
0
Comments
To not know of it is a sin
It's home to a place called TheSite
The advice given is nearly always right
There's debating
And a little bit of creating
Plus the chats
Where you can get sympathetic pats
If you have a bad day
TheSite is just a click away
So thank you for being here
I'm giving you a virtual cheer
good post there ella :-)
Sent from my GT-S5830 using Tapatalk 2
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 impostors 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 worn-out 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 breathe 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!
- Kipling
I am a veggie table
A table made of veg,
There’s so much fruit upon me
All living on the edge,
Life is hard
But so are plates
And tea can be quite hot,
And vegetarian poets
Make me nervous quite a lot.
Benjamin Zephaniah
That Kipling is a beauty too - as is the ella original
Keep em coming guys - that's £9 in the pot so far!
The Queen, and
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid:
“Could we have some butter for
The Royal slice of bread?”
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid,
The Dairymaid
Said, “Certainly,
I’ll go and tell
The cow
Now
Before she goes to bed.”
The Dairymaid
She curtsied,
And went and told
The Alderney:
“Don’t forget the butter for
The Royal slice of bread.”
The Alderney
Said sleepily:
“You’d better tell
His Majesty
That many people nowadays
Like marmalade
Instead.”
The Dairymaid
Said, “Fancy!”
And went to
Her Majesty.
She curtsied to the Queen, and
She turned a little red:
“Excuse me,
Your Majesty,
For taking of
The liberty,
But marmalade is tasty, if
It’s very
Thickly
Spread.”
The Queen said
“Oh!”
And went to
His Majesty:
“Talking of the butter for
The Royal slice of bread,
Many people
Think that
Marmalade
Is nicer.
Would you like to try a little
Marmalade
Instead?”
The King said,
“Bother!”
And then he said,
“Oh, dear me!”
The King sobbed, “Oh, deary me!”
And went back to bed.
“Nobody,”
He whimpered,
“Could call me
A fussy man;
I only want
A little bit
Of butter for
My bread!”
The Queen said,
“There, there!”
And went to
The Dairymaid.
The Dairymaid
Said, “There, there!”
And went to the shed.
The cow said,
“There, there!
I didn’t really
Mean it;
Here’s milk for his porringer
And butter for his bread.”
The Queen took
The butter
And brought it to
His Majesty;
The King said,
“Butter, eh?”
And bounced out of bed.
“Nobody,” he said,
As he kissed her
Tenderly,
“Nobody,” he said,
As he slid down
The banisters,
“Nobody,
My darling,
Could call me
A fussy man—
BUT
I do like a little bit of butter to my bread!”
- A A Milne (Via Piccolo)
“you wanna be peter pan.
you wanna be that fairy-dusted disaster that conquers hook and slays pirates because that’s what strong boys do.
but they gave you… a dress, and a name to match, and a lot of pink stuff you’d never play with.
you loved action figures just as much as dolls (yeah you love dolls, don’t lie)
you don’t walk like a lady though.
you flunked ballet class.
you can’t go, it’s boys only,
don’t wear swimming trunks wear a bathing suit
you’re too old to be a tomboy GROW UP.
you can’t fly, you never will.
even days when you’re wearing the perfect clothes
people will stare and say “is that a girl or a boy?”
and you smile to yourself because today,
maybe you might just pass,
but then you see their eyes register no facial hair,
no knot in your throat, no bulge in your pants, they say it again. louder, tauntingly, “IS THAT A GIRL OR A BOY?”
this time they know and they just wanna see you squirm
and you do and they snicker and give you that look that says, “you aren’t human here.”
you’re stuck with the body you’ve got and the gender you don’t
there’s no fairy dust
no flying away
no childhood dreams
so you’re doing the best you can.
you rock your indecisive parts proudly,
but there are days when you can be shattered by a quick tongue,
days when men argue about the lines of your body and then one says, “it’s got tits.”
IT,
because you’re not worthy of any other title.
days when girls will hate you for what you are
whatever you are
you aren’t human here.
but i’ve got tits.
so on that day when he said to me,
“i don’t care if you’re gay i’d still fuck the shit out of you”
i should’ve been willing, right?
but i wasn’t,
so i walked faster trying to escape his leering face,
the look of malice in his eyes that i’ve seen in so many other men
“i’ll fuck you straight, girl.”
i don’t know how much of a girl
i am but at that moment i wished i had the knuckle strength of men…
but i don’t so i left my pride in this throat,
i would try to glue myself back together for tomorrow
because there are always gonna be days like this.
days when you have to carry your somber heart like a coffin,
days when you pass until you slip and let your words fall from your mouth carried by a feminine voice and they know again.
know that you’re not a him, or a her, but something in between, not human to them.
what an abomination. what a monster.
why can’t you be normal with your dress, your boyfriend, your virginity?
they wanna paint you the color of smashed hymens.
they want you to know that naked, you will always be soft like a woman;
naked, you will always have the parts of a woman,
you, IT, your telltale breasts
you will NEVER be one of those strong boys.
you are far from peter pan but learn to hold your back like a flagpole,
it’s all you’ve got out there.
there’s no neverland.”
IT by Kavindu “Kavi” Ade
I thought that I could not be hurt;
I thought that I must surely be
impervious to suffering-
immune to pain
or agony.
My world was warm with April sun
my thoughts were spangled green and gold;
my soul filled up with joy, yet
felt the sharp, sweet pain that only joy
can hold.
My spirit soared above the gulls
that, swooping breathlessly so high
o'erhead, now seem to to brush their whir-
ring wings against the blue roof of
the sky.
(How frail the human heart must be-
a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing-
a fragile, shining instrument
of crystal, which can either weep,
or sing.)
Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
and darkness wiped aside my joy.
A dull and aching void was left
where careless hands had reached out to
destroy
my silver web of happiness.
The hands then stopped in wonderment,
for, loving me, they wept to see
the tattered ruins of my firma-
ment
(How frail the human heart must be-
a mirrored pool of thought. So deep
and tremulous an instrument
of glass that it can either sing,
or weep).
Sylvia
I keep my paint brush with me
wherever I may go,
in case I need to cover up,
So the real me doesn't show.
I'm so afraid to show you me,
afraid of what you'll do,
that you may laugh or say mean things,
I'm afraid I might lose you.
I'd like to remove all my paint coats
to show you the real, true me,
But I want you to try and understand,
I need you to accept what you see.
So if you'll be patient and close your eyes,
I'll strip off all my coats real slow.
Please understand how much it hurts
to let the real me show.
Now my coats are all stripped off,
I feel naked, bare and cold.
And if you still love me with all that you see,
you are my friend, as pure as gold.
I need to save my paint brush, though,
and hold it in my hand.
I want to keep it handy
in case somebody doesn't understand.
So please protect me, my dear friend
and thanks for loving me true.
But please let me keep my paint brush with me
Until I love me, too.
My attempt:
In nineteen days we'll be going round,
A long old course through London town,
Our nerves will build, our feet will pound,
26.2 miles... the distance has to go down!!!
We're all running for YouthNet (and AgeUK),
A cause we keep close to our hearts,
Sometimes we need it just to get through the day,
I'll remember this at the start!
I think Helen's idea is more than great,
But if we spend all her pay that really would suck!
I must stop now... *yawn* it's getting late,
But to my fellow runners two last words: GOOD LUCK!!
Not the best but I wrote it quickly! Maybe I can edit it later
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
E E Cummings
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
William Butler Yeats
One of my favourite poems ever.
:thumb: Nice one! Don't worry about my pay though, it's a very worthy project and I'm loving seeing all these poems.
I love this poem
What is right
What is wrong
Which way to turn
I feel so alone
There's no reason to what I feel
It's just this black hole in my head
It's making me sick and disturbing my dreams
And tearing apart all my self worth and control
Maybe at this rate I won't have a soul
But what do I do to placate the monster in me, in me ?
I'm sick and tired of myself
Of wresting with a long dead ghost
I'm bored of trying and lacking hope
Of my own put downs and of my own jokes
It's just this black hole inside of my head
It's eating me whole it's willing me dead
But I can't let it win or let it suck me dry
Because there's still the will that I will arise
From my ashes, firebird from flames
I need this so badly I cannot explain
I want this for myself but to become for everyone
To give something back from all thats begone
To live a life free from fear and pain
To love a life outside again
Outside of my mind where i am trapped and chained
tortured by memories time and again
Where i am just a number in a system without a name, without cause, without blame
As I blame myself for all that goes wrong
For the milk going off
For the loss of my song
For not moving on from all that I have
And not being the best girlfriend you'll ever have
For the fact that I hurt from wounds caused by others
For the fact that I'm not nice to my mother
For the fact that I've hurt you when you just tried for the best
For the fact that I would fail every damn test
Because even if I made 100% I would have said it was easy and not worth attempt
Because I can't stand my own reflection sometimes because I see him in my eyes
Because i was told for far too long that I was ugly, hateful and wrong.
I just want to be like most my age embarking upon adventures unknown. Not stuck in my room waiting for news
Waiting until I have strength again
so I can stop hiding and withering away
So I can jump and laugh and smile and sing and be the person I was born to be.
Sharing poetry to raise money for the marathon
I
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Wrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W B Yeats
I love this
I posted this earlier, lovely poem
When I was little I had a little picture of a woman walking on some gold cloth with this poem underneath, and my mum used to read it to me sometimes before I went to bed. I remember falling asleep with my head all a muddle with cloths and dreams and gold and light all mixed together.
BY CHARLOTTE MEW
Three summers since I chose a maid,
Too young maybe—but more’s to do
At harvest-time than bide and woo.
When us was wed she turned afraid
Of love and me and all things human;
Like the shut of a winter’s day
Her smile went out, and ’twadn’t a woman—
More like a little frightened fay.
One night, in the Fall, she runned away.
“Out ’mong the sheep, her be,” they said,
’Should properly have been abed;
But sure enough she wadn’t there
Lying awake with her wide brown stare.
So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down
We chased her, flying like a hare
Before out lanterns. To Church-Town
All in a shiver and a scare
We caught her, fetched her home at last
And turned the key upon her, fast.
She does the work about the house
As well as most, but like a mouse:
Happy enough to chat and play
With birds and rabbits and such as they,
So long as men-folk keep away.
“Not near, not near!” her eyes beseech
When one of us comes within reach.
The women say that beasts in stall
Look round like children at her call.
I’ve hardly heard her speak at all.
Shy as a leveret, swift as he,
Straight and slight as a young larch tree,
Sweet as the first wild violets, she,
To her wild self. But what to me?
The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,
The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,
One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,
A magpie’s spotted feathers lie
On the black earth spread white with rime,
The berries redden up to Christmas-time.
What’s Christmas-time without there be
Some other in the house than we!
She sleeps up in the attic there
Alone, poor maid. ’Tis but a stair
Betwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,
The soft young down of her, the brown,
The brown of her—her eyes, her hair, her hair!
A favourite
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong
The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…. 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . . . .
110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. 125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
William Shakespeare
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.
Edgar Allan Poe
Last part of Ulysses. A favourite of mine.