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poetry360

New Member
I am a new member on this forum and interested in hearing your poems, original or favourites.
Here is one of mine and you can also see more along with photos on my blog.
http://poetry360.wordpress.com

VARIATION

They are
as different

as the
secret
geometry

washing
the sky

and
shining
the sundial

ticking
in the
rain

but none
is exactly
the same.
 

Okay, I'll jump first.
Penned this long ago after a 'bush dinner' tour there, and yes, it really is spooky after dark in there. (and we all heard it, not just me okay? )



220px-Aerial_Kata_Tjuta_olgas4799.jpg
The Olgas - Katajuta.


Walk through Katajuta when the moon begins to climb.
You'll hear the ghost Coroboree that whispers down through time.
The wind is said to cause the sounds of voices still so near.
Yet not a leaf is stirring, while the chanting is so clear.

What explains the power guarding points not to be passed,
preventing one step further with a force that holds you fast?
That ancient place of wonder, so picturesque by day,
at night belongs to the Spirit World, and it bids you stay away!

'Di'
 
One of my favorite poets...

Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a ******* fire, transformed by delight,
slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.

Pablo Neruda
 

I blame Dylan! Bob that is. It seems the precinct now of those with time to spare due to unemployment making simple things as obscure as they can manage in order to indicate their higher plane of perceptions. We poor drongos must sit in wonderment that they appear to have 'nailed' what we couldn't quite envisage because we just see it as it really is.
Sorry, I fail to appreciate the 'new' poetry, if that's even what it is. All to wanky for me.

...yours sincerely Thes. A. La'Saurus.
 
Diwundrin said:
I blame Dylan! Bob that is. It seems the precinct now of those with time to spare due to unemployment making simple things as obscure as they can manage in order to indicate their higher plane of perceptions. We poor drongos must sit in wonderment that they appear to have 'nailed' what we couldn't quite envisage because we just see it as it really is.
Sorry, I fail to appreciate the 'new' poetry, if that's even what it is. All to wanky for me.

...yours sincerely Thes. A. La'Saurus.
Click to expand...

I don't understand the riddles and mystery of modern poetry either. But for others that do, and enjoy it, more power to ya....

I did (do?) love Dylan though, even though I can't say I understood much of what he sang.
 
LIVING
To Touch the cup with eager lips and taste, not drain it;
To woo and tempt and court a bliss -- and not attain it;
To fondle and caress a joy, yet hold it lightly,
Lest it become necessity and cling too tightly;
To watch the sun set in the west without regretting;
To hail its advent in the east -- the night forgetting;
To smother care in happiness and grief in laughter;
To hold the present close -- not questioning hereafter;
To have enough to share -- to know the joy of giving;
To thrill with all the sweets of life -- is living ~ Anonymous
 
Seamus O'Leary from Dublin
On St. Patrick's Day had brew bubblin'.
People looked for his gold
Where he led them was cold
And no rainbow, which many found troublin'.
 
Said The Rose

I am weary of the Garden
I am weary of the Garden,
Said the Rose;
For the winter winds are sighing,
All my playmates round me dying,
And my leaves will soon be lying
'Neath the snows.

But I hear my Mistress coming,
Said the Rose;
She will take me to her chamber,
Where the honeysuckles clamber,
And I'll bloom there all December
Spite the snows.

Sweeter fell her lily finger
Than the bee!
Ah, how feebly I resisted,
Smoothed my thorns, and e'en assisted
As all blushing I was twisted
Off my tree.

And she fixed me in her bosom
Like a star;
And I flashed there all the morning,
Jasmin, honeysuckle scorning
Parasites forever fawning
That they are.

And when evening came she set me
In a vase
All of rare and radiant metal,
And I felt her red lips settle
On my leaves til each proud petal
Touched her face.

And I shone about her slumbers
Like a light
And, I said, instead of weeping,
In the garden vigil keeping,
Here I'll watch my Mistress sleeping
Every night.

But when morning with its sunbeams
Softly shone,
In the mirror where she braided
Her brown hair I saw how jaded,
Old and colorless and faded,
I had grown.

Not a drop of dew was on me,
Never one;
From my leaves no odors started,
All my perfume had departed,
I lay pale and broken-hearted
In the sun.

Still I said, her smile is better
Than the rain;
Though my fragrance may forsake me,
To her bosom she will take me,
And with crimson kisses make me
Young again.

So she took me . . . gazed a second . . .
Half a sigh . . .
Then, alas, can hearts so harden?
Without ever asking pardon,
Threw me back into the garden,
There to die.

How the jealous garden gloried
In my fall!
How the honeysuckle chid me,
How the sneering jasmins bid me
Light the long gray grass that hid me
Like a pall.

There I lay beneath her window
In a swoon,
Till the earthworm o'er me trailing
Woke me just at twilight's failing,
As the whip-poor-will was wailing
To the moon

But I hear the storm-winds stirring
In their lair;
And I know they soon will lift me
In their giant arms and sift me
Into ashes as they drift me
Through the air.

So I pray them in their mercy
Just to take
From my heart of hearts, or near it,
The last living leaf, and bear it
To her feet, and bid her wear it
For my sake.

- George H. Miles

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Henry_Miles

a6a3umet.jpg
 
Well that's a hard act to follow! ...great piece.




A couple of Omar's verses have always held meaning for me. Or at least the English translation of them has. Singly they a beautifully written advice, together they formed a whole new philosophy on life.



The moving finger writes, and having writ,
Moves on.
Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a single word of it.

..........

Come fill the cup!
And in the fires of Spring,
the Winter garment of repentance fling!
The bird of time has but a little way to fly,
And Lo! the bird is on the wing!

from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam'.

 
The Single Rose

The morning dew that had settled on my petals
Was quickly disappearing
'Neath the sun

The other flowers 'round me
Lifted from their stems so proudly
To the day that for the world
Had just begun

This day shall be for me
The apex of my majesty
The day that I have blossomed
To my peak
To my mistress I will give
This glorious day I live
So into her tender hands
Will I seek

In silent cheer I saw her
Coming near
And ever more I stood upon my height
Oh! The thought was such delight
That I blushed with all my might
Of the moment she would notice
I was here

With sweetened fragrance I exuded
I too reached to be included
As she gathered up the roses
In her arms
And like the others I bestowed her
All my radiance and color
Longing for her favor
And her charms

I called for her! As roses do...
With everything within me
But alas! She passed -
And did not glance
My beauty I possess,
With each moment
Dwindles less

I'm left alone
To darkened tones
Yet unknown,
To face my death

I'm left alone,
Now night has grown
And covered me in a shroud
My stalk is stooped
I cannot stand
As once I was so proud

I'm full of sorrow...
There's no tomorrow
For the rose that was forgotten
No glory for a single rose...
The one left in the garden

The night was long...
Seemed not to end...
But finally came the dawn
Again I rose upon my stem,
Alone yet strangely calm

And then I saw her coming to me,
I, the one rose that was left...
With her tender touch she did rend,
And drew me to her breast...

She brought me to a table
And set me in a vase
I bloomed as only I was able,
Giving fragrance with my grace

Alone was I in splendor..
Alone to tell the story
Forlorn within the garden
To the Centerpiece of glory

-JR
(Inspiration from George H. Miles
 
The Marital Bed.

I too was brought up in the era when poems rhymed and cant get my head round a lot of that written today. I have had poem books published with all proceeds going to my local http://www.rainbows.co.uk/
and this one is among them. It was read out over the radio and it was quite surprising how many rang in to say it sounded just like them -meaning husband and wife. I write true tales and put them into rhyme.
Anyway here is

[h=2]The Marital Bed[/h]
For Gawds sake move over and let me get in
Its not very warm and my nightie’s quite thin
Panting and pushing to get him over the line
I only want half the bed the part I call mine.

I’m just dozing off to sleep when my calves go in a clamp
I jump out very quickly because I have the ruddy cramp
I can hear my other half snoring well in the ‘land of nod’
While I’m limping up and down thinking ‘you are a lucky sod’.

The cramp is slowly subsiding so I try my luck once again
More pushing shoving and heaving he really is a pain.
I close my eyes and let my mind drift like a rowing boat
When suddenly I’m choking with an elbow in my throat.

After being rudely awakened I settle down once more
Oh strewth! its started up again that never ending snore.
I bury my head in the pillow with the cover over my head
I’ve had this nightly torture since the first day that we wed.

I give him a dig to make him stop and turn the other way
Oh blow me down! here we go! he’s taken the whole duvet.
I pull it back with very much force, I have to be quite tough
So he turns over with it and puts his knees right up my duff.

I settle down once more to sleep the rest of the night through
When suddenly the bedclothes go back he has to visit the loo.
I turn to look at the clock, the hands say half past three
“Oh Lord!” I pray “let me get some rest, please be good to me”.

My other half gets back into bed shaking me back to life
I think I deserve a medal for being an understanding wife.
I hear the clock chime four o’clock I guess God never heard
I may as well get out of bed and do yesterdays crossword​

[h=6]Copyright © - Maisie Walker 2001 - All rights reserved[/h]
 
That's a slice of life Maywalk.

JR your rose poem is lovely too, they've reminded me of the one, just one memorable, rose that was special where I lived in Singleton.
Mum was mad on roses, I just fought with them. We'd planted a few, it was drought time and the soil was rubbish but they struggled on and produced poor litlle roses except one that I thought was quietly dying. One day it produced the most beautiful, perfect huge pink rose. We didn't have the heart to cut it so I photographed it. We did cut it eventually of course but I thought it lost something in a vase.
I blew up the photo and framed it. She chose that as one of the few pictures she wanted to take with her to the aged hostel. She never tired of looking at that rose. The bush survived but it never threw another one as good as that again.

I still have the picture in a box somewhere so one rose at least was immortalized after a fashion.
 
Something I scribbled down after a Tarot card reading at a Renaissance fair ...

A Reading at the Faire

He feels aloof from the commoner’s cries
And for those whom he’s been played the Foole
Not normally this way, not by night or by day
But to get by he’ll soon break the rule


Transforming his thoughts by the moment
The mystical laws will be changed
The Tarotic Mistress turns over his cards
His life and his soul rearranged


The Magician in him is quite skillful
The Five of Cups mourns what is lost
The Sun in the Sky gives a false Triumph sense
But The Tower soon shows him the cost


The World truly is filled with beauty
But The Hanged Man is turned on his head
The Three Swords do try to confirm his weak heart
And The Devil will soon see him dead


The Lovers, once joined, now are lonely
And Strength shows its Courage and Zest
While Temperance practices Moderation
Ten Daggers do pierce his proud breast


Pentacles Five shows our Hardship
And Four Cups appear in a Dream
Her hand turns over Penultimate Death
He strangles on his lifeless scream


But the last card to turn is the Jester
The Foole whose Extravagance plays
His Folly is Fatal, determined pre-natal
And will stay with him all of his days
 
jrfromafar said:
Thank you ! My mother was crazy about roses too - she gave us a few rose plants which produce incredible roses year after year - we also had some starts from her own garden - here is a vase full of 'em!

pa2uhypu.jpg
Click to expand...
Those are so pretty! I love roses and tney do so well in Fresno. On the first anniversary of my husbands death and since he was cremated I had nowhere to take flowers, so I bought a tiny little teacup rose and planted it out front...it is huge and is still going strong!
 

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