Not Your Own Works

Post your poems here. If you post a poem by another author, which is fine, please give the author's name if you know it.
MixyIsNewToThis

Post by MixyIsNewToThis »

I have to say my favorite has always, and always will be Mr. Poe.


Part of the famous " Annabel Lee."

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
NightRose
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Post by NightRose »

Well, this poet is fairly unknown, but I stumbled across this poem about a year back after losing a friend very close to me, and it has always seemed to speak to me. So I thought I'd share:

"The Things I Meant To Say
by Thomas Beechey

It seems that lately all I have spinning 'round my head
Are all the itty bitty things I never ever said
So many times I wanted to and countless times I tried
But who knows why? It seems I kept them locked inside
Days turned to weeks then months and years soon a lifetime passed
And what remains are endless tears instead of smiles to last
Oh I'd give everything I had for another day
To hold you close and whisper those things I meant to say.

I meant to say "Good morning" each time you awoke;
I meant to say "How are you" whenever we spoke
I meant to say "You're special" when no one seemed to care;
I meant to say "I thank you" for being there
I meant to say "I'll help you" no matter what the task;
I meant to say "I'll listen" to each question you'd ask
I meant to say "You helped me" for answers you'd give;
I meant to say "Cause of you" for reasons that I live.

So many things I meant to say but something always got in the way
Now no one's here to hear a word and so these things will not be heard
But they echo daily in my mind and so I find myself resigned
To listen as my conscience sings these intended but unuttered things.

I meant to say "I'm sorry" when I was wrong;
I meant to say "Don't worry" when roads ahead seemed long
I meant to say "I'll lead you" when you couldn't find the road;
I meant to say "I'll take it" when you couldn't bear the load
I meant to say nothing at all each time I'd complain;
I meant to say "I'll shield you" from every drop of rain
I meant to say "Forgive me" for each tear you'd cry;
I meant to say "Give me one chance to tell you why."

So many things I meant to say but something always got in the way
Now no one's here to hear a word and so these things will not be heard
What was I thinking? Why'd I wait? I know it now but now's too late
My heart lies bare with broken strings atop a mound of voiceless things.

I meant to say "I'll find it" when all you sought was time;
I meant to say "I'll pull you" over each uphill climb
I meant to say "Take my hand" as each road began to slant;
I meant to say "Yes you can" when you said you can't
I meant to say "We did it" as we passed each test;
I meant to say "It's over" when we'd find time to rest
I meant to say "Here's the key" to secrets I keep;
I meant to say "Dream sweetly" as you closed your eyes to sleep.

So many things I meant to say but something always got in the way
Now no one's here to hear a word and so these things will not be heard
Except by me from the morning sun until the day is finally done
Yes now you're gone and each day brings to mind these never-spoken things.

It seems that lately all I have rolling through my brain
Are all the teeny weeny things I'll never say again
The things I should have said to the one I was with
And all those misspent moments that have faded into myth
So many things I meant to say but something always got in the way
Now no one's here to hear a word and so these things will not be heard
Sometimes at night your name I'll call to a faded frame on a shaded wall

I meant to say "I love you"
I meant to say "I love you"
I meant to say "I love you"...
And that one hurts the most of all."
Radiance
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I sing the chorus of this one to my son as a lullaby.

Post by Radiance »

My Heart's In The Highlands
by Robert Burns

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
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Fayneixx
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Edwin Markham

Post by Fayneixx »

He cast a circle that drew me out
Heretic Rebel a thing to flout
But Love and I had the wit to win
We drew a circle that called him in
Mikhael
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Post by Mikhael »

e.e. cummings

the great advantage of being alive
(instead of undying)is not so much
that mind no more can disprove than prove
what heart may feel and soul may touch
—the great(my darling)happens to be
that love are in we,that love are in we

and here is a secret they never will share
for whom create is less than have
or one times one than when times where—
that we are in love,that we are in love:
with us they've nothing times nothing to do
(for love are in we am in i are in you)

this world (as timorous itsters all
to call their cowardice quite agree)
shall never discover our touch and feel
—for love are in we are in love are in we;
for you are and i am and we are(above
and under all possible worlds)in love

a billion brains may coax undeath
from fancied fact and spaceful time—
no heart can leap,no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea.
For love are in you am in i are in we
Let me take you down cuz I'm going to.. strawberry fields.. nothing is real..

When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace-- Jimi Hendrix
unbreakablespirit

Re: Not Your Own Works.

Post by unbreakablespirit »

I kinda put up my own work before I saw this, im sorry.
Rosewolf

Re: Not Your Own Works.

Post by Rosewolf »

I So Liked Spring

I so liked Spring last year
Because you were here;-
The thrushes too-
Because it was these you so liked to hear-
I so liked you.

This year's a different thing,-
I'll not think of you.
But I'll like the Spring because it is simply spring
As the thrushes do.

Charlotte Mew
Solairis

Re: Not Your Own Works.

Post by Solairis »

One of my favorite poets of all time, and most of you will agree with me when I say this, is Edgar Allen Poe. The poem that strikes me as my favorite (and no it's not The Raven like so many others claim it but it's overly used) is The Conqueror Worm. It goes as follows


LO! 't is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe.

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And over each quivering form
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.


The reason this is my favorite poem is because it tells the allegorical history of mankind. that and it's one of the underdogs of Poes Poems. I bloody love this mans mind. I have 2 copies of his collective works another of my favorite poems by Sir Poe is For Annie. It is one of his longer poems, and the reason it is one of my favorites is because my mom used to read me to sleep with it. So here it is

For Annie

Thank Heaven! the crisis-
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last-
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length-
But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead-
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:-ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness-the nausea-
The pitiless pain-
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain-
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:-
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:-

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground-
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed-
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses-
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies-
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies-
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie-
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast-
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm-
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead-
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead-
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie-
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie-
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.


THE END
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Tasariel
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Location: Massachusetts

Re: Not Your Own Works.

Post by Tasariel »

Two of my favorite pieces ever include Emily Dickinson - If I can stop one heart from breaking

IF I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

And my second is Poe, of course. :3 Seems to be a theme right now. The poem is Israfel.

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings-
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty-
Where Love's a grown-up God-
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit-
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute-
Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely–flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
Raconteuse
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Re: Not Your Own Works.

Post by Raconteuse »

This is by far may favorite poem aside from the works of Edgar Allen Poe and the tale "Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner"

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
The Highwayman

PART ONE

I

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.



PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
DaughterofErebus
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Re: Not Your Own Works.

Post by DaughterofErebus »

To Earthward by Robert frost

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things
The flow of- was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle

I craved strong sweets, but not those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand

The hurt is not enough
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length

This is my favorite poem by Robert Frost :mrgreen:
Never let life kill your spark ~ Crown the Empire
Rose Wind

Re: Not Your Own Works.

Post by Rose Wind »

What a great idea to have all of these poems all in one place like this :) It's been great reading through all of them; I've found several new poems that I like a lot and a couple of old favorites that were wonderful to meet once again.

I love the sea and sailing (you might be able to guess from my name as wind rose is another name for compass rose; I just switched it around a little), so this is my favorite poem:


Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.


There's nothing like flying over the water in a sail boat... I think its even closer to true flying then when people fly planes or other things with engines.
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Kassandra
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Re: Between Two Unknowns

Post by Kassandra »

.


Between two unknowns, I live my life.
Between my mother’s hopes, older than I am
by coming before me, and my child’s wishes, older than I am
by outliving me. And what’s it like?


3 flowers.jpg


last stanza of "The Hammock" by Li-Young Lee




.
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seawitch
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Re: Not Your Own Works

Post by seawitch »

My favorite poem is The Moon by Emily Dickinson


The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago—
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below—

Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde—
Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn—
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known—

Her Lips of Amber never part—
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will—

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star—
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door—

Her Bonnet is the Firmament—
The Universe—Her Shoe—
The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt—
Her Dimities—of Blue—
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BabyBear
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Re: Not Your Own Works

Post by BabyBear »

Image

With my green pointy hat
sitting proudly atop my head
I remember the words
that my Grandmother once said
"Remember the Earth, child
always hold Her close
Treat her with kindness
and respect Her the most
For she is our Mother
and we are Her babes
And honoring Her brings us
closer to the Olde Ways"
So, give love to the Mother
this Ostara and on
And keep the Olde Ways alive
in our daughters and sons.
~ (c) Leandra 3/15/13
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