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Postby Foxandmoon » Fri Mar 03, 2017 7:32 am

I find lots of inspiration from poetry.

I was wondering if the writing block :lol: here at dagger has their favorites. I have poetry sent every Friday to my email. I thought I would share today's poem. If others would share their favorites or the inspiring poems? We could maybe be inspiring to others? :shrug:

Changing Everything

I was walking again
in the woods,
a yellow light
was sifting all I saw.

with a cold heart,
I took a stick,
lifted it to the opposite side
of the path.

There, I said to myself,
that's done now.
Brushing one hand against the other,
to clean them
of the tiny fragments of bark.

Jane Hirshfield
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Re: Poetry

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Postby Defyaugury » Fri Mar 03, 2017 12:07 pm

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

John Keats
Ode to nightingale
I have no idea what I'm doing... But it hasn't stopped me yet.
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Re: Poetry

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Postby repo2056 » Fri Mar 03, 2017 2:37 pm

I killed a spider
Not a muderous brown recluse
Nor even a black widow
And if the truth were told this
Was only a small
Sort of papery spider
Who should have run
When I picked up the book
But she didn’t
And she scared me
And I smashed her
I don’t think
I’m allowed
To kill something
Because I am
– Nikki Giovanni
I may be overthinking things...
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Re: Poetry

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Postby Foxandmoon » Fri Mar 10, 2017 7:28 am

The Heart's Counting Knows Only One
Jane Hirshfield

In Sung China,
two monks friends for sixty years
watched the geese pass.
Where are they going?
one tested the other, who couldn't say.

That moment's silence continues.

No one will study their friendship
in the koan-books of insight.
No one will remember their names.

I think of them sometimes,
standing, perplexed by sadness,
goose-down sewn into their quilted autumn robes.

Almost swallowed by the vastness of the mountains,
but not yet.

As the barely audible
geese are not yet swallowed;
as even we, my love, will not entirely be lost.

Jane Hirshfield
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Re: Poetry

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Postby Diogenese » Fri Mar 10, 2017 12:41 pm

If you'd like to write up a poetry contest I'll be glad to post it to the calendar for you. Poetry is one thing I am pretty terrible at. Really, really terrible actually...
A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five. :roll:

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Re: Poetry

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Postby Foxandmoon » Fri Mar 10, 2017 2:16 pm

That's sweet but I'm not very good at writing. Let alone a rhyming couplet. I'd rather be inspired by word smiths than be a word smith. However, I hope I can use your forum to inspire. :stare:
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Re: Poetry

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Postby Foxandmoon » Fri Mar 17, 2017 8:09 am

by Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day
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Re: Poetry

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Postby Foxandmoon » Fri Mar 24, 2017 7:37 am

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
Galway Kinnell 1927 - 2014

For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
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Re: Poetry

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Postby Foxandmoon » Fri Apr 07, 2017 7:33 am

A Dream of Trees
Mary Oliver
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?
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Re: Poetry

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Postby Foxandmoon » Fri Apr 21, 2017 8:01 am

Fat Southern Men in Summer Suits
Liam Rector, 1949 - 2007

Fat Southern men in their summer suits,
Usually with suspenders, love to sweat
Into and even through their coats,

Taking it as a matter of honor to do so,
Especially when the humidity gets as close
As it does each Southern summer.

Some think men could do better
By just going ahead and taking the damned
Coats off, but the summer code stays

Because summer is the time
For many men, no matter what their class,
To be Southern Gentlemen by keeping

Those coats on. So late in life here I am
Down here again, having run to fat
(As Southern men tend), visiting the farm

Where my grandfather deposited
So much of his own working sweat,
Where Granddaddy never bought into any

Of “that Southern Gentleman crap.”
Up north where I landed in the urban
Middle class I am seldom caught

Not wearing a coat of some kind. I love
The coats, and though I love them most
In the fall I still enact the summer code,

I suppose, because my father and I did buy
That code, even though I organized students
To strike down any dress code whatsoever

In the high school I attended (it was a matter
Of honor). And it still puts me in good humor
To abide with the many pockets, including

One for a flask. So whether it’s New York,
Vermont, or Virginia, the spectacle
Of the summer seersucker proceeds,

Suspenders and all, and I lean into the sweat
(Right down to where the weather really is)
Until it has entirely soaked through my jacket.

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