The Poetry Corner

This topic has 15 replies, 1 voice, and was last updated 6 years, 3 months ago by Argentrose.

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    • #29124

      Sometimes a thousand words can’t even begin to describe the things you want to say. They walk you around in circles until you’re almost certain there’s some level of crazy that you are. But then there are those moments when a thought will crystallize into something sublime–a pattern, a form, a rhyme. It’s something so much more than the words on the page; it conjures things in a way those other thousand words never could. And it makes you think–makes you ask questions. It offers you a moment’s comfort in the insanity of your thoughts, because somehow those words have written you–that perfect moment of encapsulated thought that you could never seem to find until then.

      And I thought, perhaps, it was time this place had a room for those moments.

      It can be a song, or lyrics, or a picture, or a poem, but please, if it helps you in some small way to navigate this “thing” we’re all a part of, …plant your own seeds.

      • This topic was modified 6 years, 3 months ago by Argentrose. Reason: sometimes those words get lost and ya gots ta add them
      • This topic was modified 6 years, 3 months ago by Argentrose. Reason: yes yes...I can be a song...pffft
    • #29125

      I’ll start.

      Last night, was one of those weird nights where I found myself walking in circles–falling apart in a way that I felt was pointless. It reminded me of the turning and turning in the widening gyre…and how the center cannot hold. It reminded me of the Beast slouching toward Bethlehem…and while I know those words were meant for something else, I still found them in the night, and it brought me clarity.

      And so….

      The Second Coming
      by: William Butler Yeats
      written in 1919, first published in 1920

      Turning and turning in the widening gyre
      The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
      Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
      Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
      The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
      The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
      The best lack all conviction, while the worst
      Are full of passionate intensity.

      Surely some revelation is at hand;
      Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
      The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
      When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
      Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
      A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
      A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
      Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
      Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
      The darkness drops again; but now I know
      That twenty centuries of stony sleep
      Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
      And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
      Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

    • #29151

      I saw the story in the stars–
      The songs that came to be;
      I saw the painting in the sky;
      It was reflected in the sea.
      I saw the scripture of the hours
      In the halls of moonlit spires,
      I saw the shifting of the scales,
      Felt the judgement of their fires.

      I’ve seen the flood that filled the earth;
      I’ve watched the final star in flight;
      I’ve dreamed the forest of rebirth
      And walked the long, eternal night;
      I’ve held the last of dying flowers,
      Watched their petals fade to dust;
      I’ve seen the coming of the towers
      And their fall, as fall, they must.

      I see the eye that seeks the center,
      Touch the hand that holds the sword;
      I feel the heart that leads them forward,
      See the cliff they’re walking toward.
      I sense the summons of hounds;
      I hear their barking in the mist;
      I know the rising of the Serpent–
      Taste its poison on my lips.

      We weave the symbols with our words;
      We write the ritual that bleeds;
      We hold a candle to the darkness,

      And we light it with our deeds.

      ~~ AR

    • #29266
    • #29285

      That Which Endures
      For Phillip and A

      We never really knew you (how could we?)
      And yet, somehow, you made us believe;
      You gave us answers in your way,
      A time before, a wish that hope was real.

      And then we watched you die, die for wishes
      Made in sands that time and stars will never see;
      And in that moment, A, …in that moment,
      You were real to me.

      Love resonates beyond all things,
      And yours was the purest love.
      For you and Phillip, I will envision a happier ending–
      A wish granted where hope gave life to the love you shared.

      These tears are for the loss of you…
      The loss of wishes and hopes unfulfilled;
      May you find some peace in this:
      That your love will never be forgotten.

      ~~ Argentrose ~~

    • #29287

      For all those who want to regain their voice….

      Burn It Down

    • #29297

      The Sound of Silence

      From dust to dust…

    • #29298

      Can’t Help Falling in Love

      This one goes out to A and Phillip….

      Today’s song has older origins, based on the melody for Plaisir d’amour. It’s an interesting read, the poem’s history, and you can find it here: Plaisir d’amour

      And for the original of the poem:
      by Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian (1755–1794)

      Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,
      chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.

      J’ai tout quitté pour l’ingrate Sylvie,
      Elle me quitte et prend un autre amant.
      Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,
      chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.

      “Tant que cette eau coulera doucement
      vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie,
      je t’aimerai”, me répétait Sylvie,
      l’eau coule encor, elle a changé pourtant.

      Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,
      chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.

      The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
      The grief of love lasts a lifetime.

      I gave up everything for ungrateful Sylvia,
      She is leaving me for another lover.
      The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
      The grief of love lasts a lifetime.

      “As long as this water will run gently
      Towards this brook which borders the meadow,
      I will love you”, Sylvia told me repeatedly.
      The water still runs, but she has changed.

      The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
      The grief of love lasts a lifetime.

      • This reply was modified 6 years, 3 months ago by Argentrose. Reason: origin stories, bro!
      • This reply was modified 6 years, 3 months ago by Argentrose. Reason: makin' it pretty
    • #29329

      Pure Imagination

      Pure Imagination

    • #29343


      We seek to “see”–
      To find the key
      To all the little, misplaced words;
      Each passioned speech,
      Each turn of phrase,
      Leaves us wondering for days,
      And restless nights
      Give way to day;
      Though, we still leave on the lights.
      And so you smile,
      Old crocodile,
      With false tears,…another meal.

      I bare the shame;
      I’ve played the game,
      Fallen victim to your whiles;
      I traced the lines
      Of distant shores–
      Knocked at windows, then at doors;
      I’ve plied the sages
      For their wisdom,
      Counted hours, numbered phases;
      Sacred symbols have I signed,
      Only to find
      Their time was done.

      But even so,
      This much I know–
      Even now facades are fading;
      The more you hide,
      The more we see
      What we are truly meant to be.
      So, laugh while you may;
      Even ants can kill a wasp,
      And you’ve tasked the ants to play;
      A fractured truth
      Is still a truth,
      And we are ready; we are waiting.

      You Have No Power Over Me

      • This reply was modified 6 years, 3 months ago by Argentrose. Reason: My tags needed trimming
    • #29409

      Are we not wise enough…?

      Lamb — Wise Enough

    • #29444

      In Flanders Fields

      In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
      That mark our place; and in the sky
      The larks, still bravely singing, fly
      Scarce heard amid the guns below.

      We are the Dead. Short days ago
      We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
      Loved and were loved, and now we lie
      In Flanders fields.

      Take up our quarrel with the foe:
      To you from failing hands we throw
      The torch; be yours to hold it high.
      If ye break faith with us who die
      We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
      In Flanders fields.

      “In Flanders Fields” is a war poem in the form of a rondeau, written during the First World War by Canadian physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae. He was inspired to write it on May 3, 1915, after presiding over the funeral of friend and fellow soldier Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, who died in the Second Battle of Ypres. According to legend, fellow soldiers retrieved the poem after McCrae, initially dissatisfied with his work, discarded it. “In Flanders Fields” was first published on December 8 of that year in the London magazine Punch.

      In Flanders Fields

    • #29445

      And though I posted this in Slack, I think it’s suited to this place, too. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone.

      Dropkick Murphys – The Green Fields of France

    • #29479

      This song goes out to all those of you leaving…. Come and dance with me some time. You’ll be sorely missed.

      The Speakeasy Three – When I Get Low, I Get High – ( Official Video )

    • #29494

      Messages for those willing to listen:

      I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor (1978)

    • #29495

      For some reason this speaks to me today:

      by: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

      HERE stands an ancient castle
      On yonder mountain height,
      Where, fenced with door and portal,
      Once tarried steed and knight.

      But gone are door and portal,
      And all is hushed and still;
      O’er ruined wall and rafter
      I clamber as I will.

      A cellar with many a vintage
      Once lay in yonder nook;
      Where now are the cellarer’s flagons
      And where is his jovial look?

      No more he sets the beakers
      For the guests at the wassail feast;
      Nor fills a flask from the oldest cask
      For the duties of the priest.

      No more he gives on the staircase
      The stoup to the thirsty squires,
      And a hurried thanks for the hurried gift
      Receives, nor more requires.

      For burned are roof and rafter,
      And they hang begrimed and black;
      And stair, and hall, and chapel,
      Are turned to dust and wrack.

      Yet, as with song and cittern,
      One day when the sun was bright,
      I saw my love ascending
      The slopes of yon rocky height;

      From the hush and the desolation
      Sweet fancies did unfold,
      And it seemed as they had come back again,
      The jovial days of old.

      As if the stateliest chambers
      For noble guests were spread,
      And out from the prime of that glorious time
      A youth a maiden led.

      And, standing in the chapel,
      The good old priest did say,
      “Will ye wed with one another?”
      And we smiled and answered “Yea!”

      We sung, and our hearts they bounded
      To the thrilling lays we sung,
      And every note was doubled
      By the echo’s catching tongue.

      And when, as eve descended,
      The hush grew deep and still,
      And the setting sun looked upward
      On that great castled hill;

      Then far and wide, like lord and bride,
      In the radiant light we shone —
      It sank; and again the ruins
      Stood desolate and alone.

      John Storer Cobb’s English translation of ‘The Castle on the Mountain’ was first published in Goethe: Poetical Works, vol. 1. Boston: Francis A Niccolls & Company, 1902.

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