[Benjamin]

To you I pledged my heart and soul,
I gave to you my unlearnt love.
I ran across water and under stars,
for you I slept awake.
I let my mother go and tears spill,
for you I sold my life.
I gave my attention, I gave my freedom,
for you I tore apart hands.
I cowered, and was scared for you,
I burnt my cross for you.
And when it was near an end,
I gave my last call and fight for you.
I did this for you, England.

[Ammi]

I love the poetry posted here, especially from Livia and ukturtle (was that last piece your, it was very, very good). What small value were and are put on the lives of all who have died so that we can go on living our day to day lives

[Miss Ivy Balls]

Goodbye Boy

Baby, baby, please come back.
My baby is gone and will never come back.
Broken into bits our family are, but let his sole
rest in our hearts. A tragic morning filled with
sadness, if only we could turn back the clock
of happiness.

In his coffin our little boy lay, laid to rest with
layers of hay.

Remembering the birth our little boy came, but never
forgetting the tragic day.

His soul is rested, but never afraid as mother and father
lead the way. In our dreams he'll always be, until the day
we see him free.

[Ammi]

Thomas C that is a lovely poem and beautifully written. As a mother of sons I really felt the emotion and sadness

[Kazanne]

NO MORE
No more footballs to kick
No more trains to choo
No more cheeky smiles
No more hugging you
No more telling you no
No more holding your hand
No more seaside trips
No more kicking in sand
No more beautiful smiles
No more cuddling so tight
No more sweet kisses goodnight
No more excited Christmas eves
No more birthday candles to blow
No more playing in Autumn leaves
No more can we tell you we love you so
No more life as it was with you
No more you at the end of day.

I wrote this for James Bulger................................

[Niamh.]

That's so sad Kazanne

[Ammi]

Originally Posted by kazanne

NO MORE
No more footballs to kick
No more trains to choo
No more cheeky smiles
No more hugging you
No more telling you no
No more holding your hand
No more seaside trips
No more kicking in sand
No more beautiful smiles
No more cuddling so tight
No more sweet kisses goodnight
No more excited Christmas eves
No more birthday candles to blow
No more playing in Autumn leaves
No more can we tell you we love you so
No more life as it was with you
No more you at the end of day.

very sad, I think we can all relate to it

[Benjamin]

Originally Posted by rhino

I love the poetry posted here, especially from Livia and ukturtle (was that last piece your, it was very, very good). What small value were and are put on the lives of all who have died so that we can go on living our day to day lives

Thank you, and yes that last piece was mine. It's not a very good one, I wrote it in 3 minutes, but it was on my mind so it's better to write it down than let it go forever


I'm liking your ones too, and glad you stumbled into this section

[Ammi]

Originally Posted by ukturtle

Thank you, and yes that last piece was mine. It's not a very good one, I wrote it in 3 minutes, but it was on my mind so it's better to write it down than let it go forever


I'm liking your ones too, and glad you stumbled into this section

3 minutes well spent it was very good. Yes sometimes the words seem to tumble out and you have to write them down quickly or else they do indeed disappear. I'm glad I found this section and am inspired by how well you all write. I hope the thread continues and more and more members post on it from time to time.

[Benjamin]

A Farewell to False Love
by Sir Walter Raleigh



Farewell false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose,
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.

A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,
A siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind,
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap,
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.

Sith* then thy trains my younger years betrayed, [since]
And for my faith ingratitude I find;
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed*, [revealed]
Whose course was ever contrary to kind*: [nature]
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu.
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

[Ammi]

ukturtle see thats why I'm enjoying this thread because I'm reading poetry I've never heard before and written by true masters, I could never write a poem like that but if it inspires you to write anything it doesn't matter how good it is. Its nice to just feel confident enough to do it

[Miss Ivy Balls]

Motivation is the key to success, but only
the motivated will confess to the quest.
The mental will wither only to come out
the other end in all of a blither.
Days will pass, months will go by and as
the years go on our lives will be fine.

We see the molecule of light, going 5 steps forward
and two back. One day we'll get closer and closer until
the two clash.

Nothing right, everything wrong, but we cope as
the strong days come along.

2 steps back but 7 forward we're coming to the time
when we can look forward.

[Angus]

Morning Song by Sylvia Plath

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.




Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[BB_Eye]

XXVIII. The Rabble.

Life is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all fountains are poisoned.

To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see the grinning mouths and the thirst of the unclean.

They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glanceth up to me their odious smile out of the fountain.

The holy water have they poisoned with their lustfulness; and when they called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words.

Indignant becometh the flame when they put their damp hearts to the fire; the spirit itself bubbleth and smoketh when the rabble approach the fire.

Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit in their hands: unsteady, and withered at the top, doth their look make the fruit-tree.

And many a one who hath turned away from life, hath only turned away from the rabble: he hated to share with them fountain, flame, and fruit.

And many a one who hath gone into the wilderness and suffered thirst with beasts of prey, disliked only to sit at the cistern with filthy camel- drivers.

And many a one who hath come along as a destroyer, and as a hailstorm to all cornfields, wanted merely to put his foot into the jaws of the rabble, and thus stop their throat.

And it is not the mouthful which hath most choked me, to know that life itself requireth enmity and death and torture-crosses:--

But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my question: What? is the rabble also NECESSARY for life?

Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking fires, and filthy dreams, and maggots in the bread of life?

Not my hatred, but my loathing, gnawed hungrily at my life! Ah, ofttimes became I weary of spirit, when I found even the rabble spiritual!

And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw what they now call ruling: to traffic and bargain for power--with the rabble!

Amongst peoples of a strange language did I dwell, with stopped ears: so that the language of their trafficking might remain strange unto me, and their bargaining for power.

And holding my nose, I went morosely through all yesterdays and to-days: verily, badly smell all yesterdays and to-days of the scribbling rabble!

Like a cripple become deaf, and blind, and dumb--thus have I lived long; that I might not live with the power-rabble, the scribe-rabble, and the pleasure-rabble.

Toilsomely did my spirit mount stairs, and cautiously; alms of delight were its refreshment; on the staff did life creep along with the blind one.

What hath happened unto me? How have I freed myself from loathing? Who hath rejuvenated mine eye? How have I flown to the height where no rabble any longer sit at the wells?

Did my loathing itself create for me wings and fountain-divining powers? Verily, to the loftiest height had I to fly, to find again the well of delight!

Oh, I have found it, my brethren! Here on the loftiest height bubbleth up for me the well of delight! And there is a life at whose waters none of the rabble drink with me!

Almost too violently dost thou flow for me, thou fountain of delight! And often emptiest thou the goblet again, in wanting to fill it!

And yet must I learn to approach thee more modestly: far too violently doth my heart still flow towards thee:--

My heart on which my summer burneth, my short, hot, melancholy, over-happy summer: how my summer heart longeth for thy coolness!

Past, the lingering distress of my spring! Past, the wickedness of my snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide!

A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissful stillness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become more blissful!

For this is OUR height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell for all uncleanly ones and their thirst.

Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! How could it become turbid thereby! It shall laugh back to you with ITS purity.

On the tree of the future build we our nest; eagles shall bring us lone ones food in their beaks!

Verily, no food of which the impure could be fellow-partakers! Fire, would they think they devoured, and burn their mouths!

Verily, no abodes do we here keep ready for the impure! An ice-cave to their bodies would our happiness be, and to their spirits!

And as strong winds will we live above them, neighbours to the eagles, neighbours to the snow, neighbours to the sun: thus live the strong winds.

And like a wind will I one day blow amongst them, and with my spirit, take the breath from their spirit: thus willeth my future.

Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low places; and this counsel counselleth he to his enemies, and to whatever spitteth and speweth: "Take care not to spit AGAINST the wind!"--

--Thus spake Zarathustra. --Friedrich Nietzsche

[Kazanne]

Originally Posted by rhino

very sad, I think we can all relate to it

I wrote that a few years ago and made myself cry,what am I like?

[Kazanne]

Originally Posted by Niamhxo

That's so sad Kazanne

Oh Lord,I know

[BB_Eye]

English translation of the 'Habanera' aria from Bizet's Carmen.
Libretto by Henri Meilhac

Love is a rebellious bird
that nobody can tame,
and you call him quite in vain
if it suits him not to come.

Nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer.
One man talks well, the other's mum;
it's the other one that I prefer.
He's silent but I like his looks.


Love! Love! Love! Love!


Love is a gypsy's child,
it has never, ever, known a law;
love me not, then I love you;
if I love you, you'd best beware! etc.


The bird you thought you had caught
beat its wings and flew away ...
love stays away, you wait and wait;
when least expected, there it is!


All around you, swift, so swift,
it comes, it goes, and then returns ...
you think you hold it fast, it flees
you think you're free, it holds you fast.


Love! Love! Love! Love!


Love is a gypsy's child,
it has never, ever, known a law;
love me not, then I love you;
if I love you, you'd best beware!

[Ammi]

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
By William Butler Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

[Ammi]

Originally Posted by kazanne

I wrote that a few years ago and made myself cry,what am I like?

thats the true definition of a poem from the heart

[MTVN]

Originally Posted by angus58

Morning Song by Sylvia Plath

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

I studied a lot of Plath for my AS levels last year; a lot of her work is very depressing

[MTVN]

Couple more from Blake:

The Lamb (Songs of Innocence)
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

And then a very contrasting poem

The Tyger (Songs of Experience)
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

[Kazanne]

Not quite a poem,but lovely words for all of us who have lost beloved pets.
RAINBOW BRIDGE
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

[Ammi]

Who am I?
Bright morphed wings across the sky
I’m not a bird but I can fly
Who am I?

Who am I?
Trampezing high wire through the trees
Conversing with the birds and bees
Who am I?

Who am I?
Agile form, a beast of speed
I wont harm unless to feed
Who am I?

Who am I?
Proud and glimmering in the mist
Pounding chest with mighty fist
Who am I?

Who am I?
The river forms a slippery cloak
A cricket chirp, a cheeky croak
Who am I?

And who are you?
Who are you to take my home
Leaving me nowhere to roam
who are you to tear me down,
To snap my bones to make your crown
Bull dozer me until I bleed
And crush me with your metal steed
Who are you to take my sheen,
Destroy it with your death machine
Who are you to pass the blame
You ought to hang your head in shame
You drank with me and sang a song
Then sunk in me your Satan’s prong
A king of men, superior race?
How can you even show your face
Gods Legacy to man did trust
You ground it down and made it dust
Once we were cared for two by two
God trusted you but who are you?

We must care for our planet more - lecture over

[InOne]

There once was a squrriel called Paul, who fell off the garden wall...

[MTVN]

Originally Posted by InOne

There once was a squrriel called Paul, who fell off the garden wall...

Beautiful, just beautiful