imursecretbaby
Resident
Who’s the who? The other hand?
L
Lupine
Guest
So this Poem isn't mine and Its one come next Sunday I'll be saying at a reading. It's one of many where I won't need a prompt as I know the words off by heart. But I'll have them written down in case nerves strike..
In Flanders Fields, by John McRae
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, by John McRae
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.
P
Pistil
Guest
nice - memorial service?
L
Lupine
Guest
Indeed, Armistice Day.
P
Pistil
Guest
Portuguese and French?
L
Lupine
Guest
Clever, I struggle with one language so admire anyone who can use 2 or more..
L
Lupine
Guest
My Boy Jack, by Rudyard Kipling
"Have you news of my boy Jack?"
Not this tide.
"When d’you think that he’ll come back?"
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
Has any one else had word of him?"
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
"Have you news of my boy Jack?"
Not this tide.
"When d’you think that he’ll come back?"
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
Has any one else had word of him?"
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
L
Lupine
Guest
The Cenotaph, by Charlotte Mew
Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column's head.
And over the stairway, at the foot - oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, roses, and laurel with the small sweet twinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs
From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers
To lovers - to mothers
Here, too, lies he:
Under the purple, the green, the red,
It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither are the dead.
For this will stand in our Market-place -
Who'll sell, who'll buy
(Will you or I
Lie each to each with the better grace)?
While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face
As they drive their bargains, is the Face
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column's head.
And over the stairway, at the foot - oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, roses, and laurel with the small sweet twinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs
From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers
To lovers - to mothers
Here, too, lies he:
Under the purple, the green, the red,
It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither are the dead.
For this will stand in our Market-place -
Who'll sell, who'll buy
(Will you or I
Lie each to each with the better grace)?
While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face
As they drive their bargains, is the Face
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
P
Pistil
Guest
Sad
L
Lupine
Guest
Yeah, they are often very moving.
P
Pistil
Guest
Poetry
(Also posted orally in "Voice")
When the writing shifts into poetry mode
the words begin to hover slightly
not wanting to be bound
to the ruled line.
Then they want to breathe and begin branching
themselves into patterns and rhythms of
space that bud and bloom into
flower and fruit.
Sometimes a spider monkey comes
to haunch on a low limb
like a fig offering itself to a tree.
Sometimes a terrible fish stares below
the surface words daring you into reflection.
When a poem calls and you wake to listen
this type of thing starts to happen
which may not seem like much to many
but when it’s mostly all you’ve got
and it’s how the rose blooms
in your soul it can be
the better part of
everything.
You have to let it into the natural silence
in which it grows and brings
its berries to blossom:
rose berries—the juiciest kind—
once you’ve known the rose berries
you’ll always live in the wake of their fragrance.
You'll be a goner—always with the urge to pursue
in words like these that chase across such lines
trying to apprehend an essence which in fact
is themselves squeezed out by some poet.
(Also posted orally in "Voice")
When the writing shifts into poetry mode
the words begin to hover slightly
not wanting to be bound
to the ruled line.
Then they want to breathe and begin branching
themselves into patterns and rhythms of
space that bud and bloom into
flower and fruit.
Sometimes a spider monkey comes
to haunch on a low limb
like a fig offering itself to a tree.
Sometimes a terrible fish stares below
the surface words daring you into reflection.
When a poem calls and you wake to listen
this type of thing starts to happen
which may not seem like much to many
but when it’s mostly all you’ve got
and it’s how the rose blooms
in your soul it can be
the better part of
everything.
You have to let it into the natural silence
in which it grows and brings
its berries to blossom:
rose berries—the juiciest kind—
once you’ve known the rose berries
you’ll always live in the wake of their fragrance.
You'll be a goner—always with the urge to pursue
in words like these that chase across such lines
trying to apprehend an essence which in fact
is themselves squeezed out by some poet.
Last edited by a moderator:
El perdón
¿Qué fuerza más sanadora puede haber?
Que afrontar los errores
Callar al orgullo incesante
Tomar el valor inagotable
Y decir:
Perdón
Perdón a ti
A mí
Qué bello es el perdón
Liberarse de las penas
Quitarse de encima las condenas
El perdón es compasión
Es amarse y aceptarse
¿Qué fuerza más sanadora puede haber?
Que afrontar los errores
Callar al orgullo incesante
Tomar el valor inagotable
Y decir:
Perdón
Perdón a ti
A mí
Qué bello es el perdón
Liberarse de las penas
Quitarse de encima las condenas
El perdón es compasión
Es amarse y aceptarse
P
Pistil
Guest
Sweet
L
Lupine
Guest
Nice piece and welcome to the forum. Look forward too more of the same 
Starlady1
Member
Thank youNice piece and welcome to the forum. Look forward too more of the same
T
Thalassa
Guest
Lovely. And welcome from me as well.
Starlady1
Member
Thank you!