http://www.words-myth.com/page43.html
Rated • 2 reviews • poetry • words-myth.com
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bric9/poetry
Last seen: 10 days ago
Bri is a 55 year old woman from Kingston, Ontario, Canada
"Appreciation is a wonderful thing; it makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well." ~~~Voltaire Quotes | On Hotlinking | SU blogging tips | Musical nepotism
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Mersey - Liverpool poems from the Mersey Mouth
Rated • 1 review • poetry, writing, arts, river, liverpool • liverpooltales.com
One of John's poems from his Liverpool Tales site
- Mersey- river of change
- Oh, this river is a two faced whore!
- By day, she sluggishly
- meanders
- past grimy shores,
- stained with the rusting wounds
- of long drowned ships.
- Iron grey,
- flecked with white,
- like tresses on an ancient mare,
- she lingers,
- sullenly,
- under bridges, and lock gates
- praying the arrival of a high-roller,
- fresh breaking from a rough Atlantic crossing.
- By night, she glides
- past darkened quays
- slipping silkily
- into her nocturnal role
- as bands of brassy lamps cluster
- at the water's edge
- splashing amber light
- upon her restless undulations
- enticing the shivering shore to nuzzle
- closer to her lava like glow,
- her quivering shimmering lurex flow.
- Oh, this river is a two faced whore, yet I love her!
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Archive of postings to Panhala -- July 2008 to Present
Rated • 13 reviews • poetry • panhala.net
An archive page filled with poetry selections ... very nice and beautifully presented. The following was copied from one of the selections:
LOUSY AT MATH
Once a group of thieves stole a rare diamond
Larger than a goose egg.
Its value could have easily bought
One thousand horses
And two thousand acres
Of the most fertile land in Shiraz.
The thieves got drunk that night
To celebrate their great haul,
But during the course of the evening
The effects of the liquor
And their mistrust of each other grew to such
An extent
They decided to divide the stone into pieces.
Of course then the Priceless became lost.
Most everyone is lousy at math
And does that to God -
Dissects the Indivisible One,
By thinking, saying,
"This is my Beloved, he looks like this
And acts like that,
How could that moron over there
Really
Be
God."
~ Hafiz ~
(The Gift -- versions of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky)
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Dub Poets Collective
Rated • 1 review • culture, poetry, arts • dubpoetscollective.com
This week in Kingston: Reloading the Can[n]on
From Wikipedia: "Dub Poetry is a form of performance poetry consisting of spoken word over reggae rhythms, that originated in Jamaica in the 1970s. "
Hoping to catch Michael doing his thing at Coffee & Co.!
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LallaHabibas review - StumbleUpon
Rated • 1 review • stumblers, poetry • stumbleupon.com
I simply love this poem I just spotted in LallaHabiba's pages; had to steal it!:
- maggie and milly and molly and may
- went down to the beach(to play one day)
- and maggie discovered a shell that sang
- so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and
- milly befriended a stranded star
- whose rays five languid fingers were;
- and molly was chased by a horrible thing
- which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and
- may came home with a smooth round stone
- as small as a world and as large as alone.
- For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
- it's always ourselves we find in the sea
- e.e.cummings
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Online Reader - Project Gutenberg
Rated • 1 review • dogs, literature, ebooks, poetry, books • gutenberg.org
from The Dog's Book of Verse at the Gutenberg project
- BETH GELERT
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn:
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer:
"Come, Gelert! Why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"
In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John,
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as over rocks and dells,
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And small and scant the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to meet.
But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood.
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gelert, too,
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent.
He called the child--no voice replied;
He searched, with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! He found on every side,
But nowhere found the child!
"Hell-hound! By thee my child's devoured!"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart,
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell
To hear his infant cry!
Concealed beneath a mangled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub-boy he kissed.
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead--
Tremendous still in death.
Ah! What was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue!"
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked,
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved!
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.
- BETH GELERT
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poetrymagazines.org.uk
Rated • 13 reviews • poetry • poetrymagazines.org.uk
From the site: "This is a free access site to the full-text digital library of 20th and 21st century UK poetry magazines from the Poetry Library collection."
Oh, there are treasures in here. The site is searchable.
This is the one that abbynormal92243 posted, from Modern Poetry in Translation, ew Series No. 20 - 2002:Negar Hasan-zadeh
Forgive me that I opened your door silently
Forgive me that I opened your door silently,
without knocking entered your fate,
that I lit the fire but then turned cool,
that I searched but did not find.
Forgive me that I trusted, did not know shame,
that I charmed you with my boldness.
Forgive me that I became now and forever
an indelible scar on your soul.
Forgive me for laughter, forgive me for tears,
forgive me for sincerity that you didn't accept.
Forgive me, my dear, for rosy dreams,
for your never understanding me.
Forgive everything in the present,
forgive everything in the past
which by chance followed on your heels,
for my once opening your door,
well, now I'll slam it behind me.
Translated by Richard McKane
From Fabric No 4 - November 2002:Maureen McManus
Unfinished Poem
In the candlelight
the long thing leaves
of flowers beside my bed
point spindly fingers
at me,
poking at my guilt.
Nighttime gladioli ghosts
fingering me for what
I fear I am.
Tendrils touching,
from the shadowy dark
the fear and fright,
which surfaces;
wakes me in the night
and makes me
light a candle
to write.
from Modern Poetry in Translation,Series 3 Number 2 Diaspora :Carmen Bugan
Fortune-telling poem
1.
She wheeled her pleated
And frilled skirt
Right through
The wooden gates.
Red-orange-blue
Dervish-woman.
She had the lips
Of one who lies
For happiness.
A red ribbon
And silver coins were woven
In her braids.
Her beauty was her wealth
And she charmed me.
2.
After she told my fortune
She said to the wind, `unbraid my hair,
Loosen the coins from my head,
Free me from telling lies to those who need them.'
So the wind wound her in his arms
As he does with the willows
And a pile of coins sounded on the ground like bells.
Poor prophetess without her lies,
She ran along the river.
I followed her
With a good-luck coin pressed in my palm:
As we crossed the water
I could not remember the fortune she told me
And without illusions, tears
Fell to the ground like bells.
suggested by maggles; first seen in abbynormal92243's reviews
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Index of /
Rated • 1 review • poetry, writing, design • indagator.co.uk
I love this website for the design; what a beautiful way to present one's favourite works.
Youth and Age
MUCH did I rage when young,
Being by the world oppressed,
But now with flattering tongue
It speeds the parting guest.
By W.B. Yeats
first seen in darktanis's reviews
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Artview Consulting - Homage to Leonard Cohen
Rated • 1 review • poetry, art, music • artviewconsulting.ca
Homage to Leonard Cohen
A celebration of paintings by Elizabeth Laishley inspired by Leonard Cohen songs
The artist: "Over the last 30 years, the Poetry and Music of Leonard Cohen has given me pleasure and artistic inspiration. Therefore I decided to initiate a series of paintings with which I presume to interpret the songs of Leonard Cohen onto canvas. Just as the writing and music of Leonard Cohen, the paintings are suffused with symbolism, spiritualism, mystery and erotic sensuality. I have tried to bestow Cohen's intense mood and ethereal expression, but still show a glimpse of his macabre humour."
