The Poem thread

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
[SIZE=+1]SONGS OF INNOCENCE[/SIZE]
[SIZE=-1]by: William Blake (1757-1827)[/SIZE]

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IPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of peasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he, laughing, said to me:

'Pipe a song about a lamb!'
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that song again;'
So I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.'
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
 

marval

New member
How doth the little crocodile
Lewis Carroll

How doth the little crocdile
Improve his shining tail
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale

How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spread his claws
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws.
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
More William Blake. thank you Intet.

He is a good poet.


Margaret

Ms. Margaret :tiphat:

There are some Danish poets, I would like for you to have read, but it would be difficult because of the language barrier. Blake however moves something in me, he always has. And then I like he is from a former century long ago, where the english language was not quite the same as today, but he certainly knows how to write.
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
"Ode For Memorial Day", by Paul Laurence Dunbar.


DONE are the toils and the wearisome marches,
Done is the summons of bugle and drum.
Softly and sweetly the sky overarches,
Shelt'ring a land where Rebellion is dumb.
Dark were the days of the country's derangement,
Sad were the hours when the conflict was on,
But through the gloom of fraternal estrangement
God sent his light, and we welcome the dawn.
O'er the expanse of our mighty dominions,
Sweeping away to the uttermost parts,
Peace, the wide-flying, on untiring pinions,
Bringeth her message of joy to our hearts.

Ah, but this joy which our minds cannot measure,
What did it cost for our fathers to gain!
Bought at the price of the heart's dearest treasure,
Born out of travail and sorrow and pain;
Born in the battle where fleet Death was flying,
Slaying with sabre-stroke bloody and fell;
Born where the heroes and martyrs were dying,
Torn by the fury of bullet and shell.
Ah, but the day is past: silent the rattle,
And the confusion that followed the fight.
Peace to the heroes who died in the battle,
Martyrs to truth and the crowning of Right!

Out of the blood of a conflict fraternal,
Out of the dust and the dimness of death,
Burst into blossoms of glory eternal
Flowers that sweeten the world with their breath.
Flowers of charity, peace, and devotion
Bloom in the hearts that are empty of strife;
Love that is boundless and broad as the ocean
Leaps into beauty and fulness of life.
So, with the singing of paeans and chorals,
And with the flag flashing high in the sun,
Place on the graves of our heroes the laurels
Which their unfaltering valor has won!
 

C5Says

New member
3018

Been away for 35 years
3018 messages greeted me
As I logged in with cheers :cheers::cheers::cheers:
Being back makes me happy. ;)
 

Hawk Henries

New member
On my recording of solo Native Flute, Keeping the Fire, I wrote about the songs in somewhat of a poetic fashion. Here are a couple.

Thanksgiving:

Awake - Breathe in the Gift
Arise and allow the Gift to Nourish
Listen, all around our Relations, the Birds, Insects, Animals of Land, Sky, Water
Sing and Dance in gratitude of the Gift
The Trees - Stones and those who appear to have no voice
Loudly rejoice at recieving the Gift
Then It is given away with Love
Recieve Life and give Thanks for the Gift

********************


Dance of the Seasons


Spring the time when our Mother is laden with young waiting to burst forth into
Summers warmth, light, gathering strength, experience in preparation for
Fall when journeys will begin, layers shed, others added to keep warm when
Winter brings a blanket, needed rest anticipating
Spring the time when our Mother is....
 

marval

New member
The Quangle Wangle's Hat

On the top of the Crumpetty tree
The Quangle Wangle sat
But his face you could not see
On account of his beaver hat
For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide
With ribbons and bibbons on every side
So that nobody ever could see the face
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

The Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty tree
Jam, and Jelly and bread
Are the best food for me
But the longer I live on this Crumpetty tree
The plainer than ever it seems to me
That very few people come this way
And that life on the whole is far from gay
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

But there came to the Crumpetty tree
Mr and Mrs Canary
And they said did you ever see
Any spot so charmingly airy?
May we build a nest on your lovely hat?
Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that
O please let us come and build a nest
Of whatever material suits you best
Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee.

And besides, to the Crumpetty tree
Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl
The Snail and the Bumble Bee
The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl
The Fimble Fowl with a corkscrew leg
And all of them said, we humbly beg
We may build our homes on your lovely hat
Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that
Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee.

And the Golden Grouse came there
And the Pobble who has no toes
And the small Olympian Bear
And the Dong with a luminous nose
And the Blue Baboon, who played the flute
And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute
And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat
All came and built on the lovely hat
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

And the Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty tree
When all these creatures move
What a wonderful noise there'll be
And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon
They danced to the flute of the Blue Baboon
On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty tree
And all were as happy as happy could be
With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

Edward Lear
 
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intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
History Is A Weapon - A collection of poetry by African American´s:


"America", by James Monroe Whitfield (1853):



AMERICA, it is to thee,
Thou boasted land of liberty, ---
It is to thee I raise my song,
Thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong.
It is to thee, my native land,
From whence has issued many a band
To tear the black man from his soil,
And force him here to delve and toil;
Chained on your blood-bemoistened sod,
Cringing beneath a tyrant's rod,
Stripped of those rights which Nature's God
Bequeathed to all the human race,
Bound to a petty tyrant's nod,
Because he wears a paler face.


Was it for this, that freedom's fires
Were kindled by your patriot sires?
Was it for this, they shed their blood,
On hill and plain, on field and flood?
Was it for this, that wealth and life
Were staked upon that desperate strife,
Which drenched this land for seven long years
With blood of men, and women's tears?
When black and white fought side by side,
Upon the well-contested field, ---
Turned back the fierce opposing tide,
And made the proud invader yield ---
When, wounded, side by side they lay,
And heard with joy the proud hurrah
From their victorious comrades say
That they had waged successful war,
The thought ne'er entered in their brains
That they endured those toils and pains,
To forge fresh fetters, heavier chains
For their own children, in whose veins
Should flow that patriotic blood,
So freely shed on field and flood.


Oh no; they fought, as they believed,
For the inherent rights of man;
But mark, how they have been deceived
By slavery's accursed plan.
They never thought, when thus they shed
Their heart's best blood, in freedom's cause
That their own sons would live in dread,
Under unjust, oppressive laws:
That those who quietly enjoyed
The rights for which they fought and fell,
Could be the framers of a code,
That would disgrace the fiends of hell!
Could they have looked, with prophet's ken,
Down to the present evil time,
Seen free-born men, uncharged with crime,
Consigned unto a slaver's pen, ---
Or thrust into a prison cell,
With thieves and murderers to dwell ---
While that same flag whose stripes and stars
Had been their guide through freedom's wars
As proudly waved above the pen
Of dealers in the souls of men!


Or could the shades of all the dead,
Who fell beneath that starry flag,
Visit the scenes where they once bled,
On hill and plain, on vale and crag,
By peaceful brook, or ocean's strand,
By inland lake, or dark green wood,
Where'er the soil of this wide land
Was moistened by their patriot blood, ---
And then survey the country o'er,
From north to south, from east to west,
And hear the agonizing cry
Ascending up to God on high,
From western wilds to ocean's shore,
The fervent prayer of the oppressed;
The cry of helpless infancy
Torn from the parent's fond caress
By some base tool of tyranny,
And doomed to woe and wretchedness;
The indignant wail of fiery youth,
Its noble aspirations crushed,
Its generous zeal, its love of truth,
Trampled by tyrants in the dust;


The aerial piles which fancy reared,
And hopes too bright to be enjoyed,
Have passed and left his young heart seared,
And all its dreams of bliss destroyed.
The shriek of virgin purity,
Doomed to some libertine's embrace,
Should rouse the strongest sympathy
Of each one of the human race;
And weak old age, oppressed with care,
As he reviews the scene of strife,
Puts up to God a fervent prayer,
To close his dark and troubled life.
The cry of fathers, mothers, wives,
Severed from all their hearts hold dear,
And doomed to spend their wretched lives
In gloom, and doubt, and hate, and fear;
And manhood, too, with soul of fire,
And arm of strength, and smothered ire,
Stands pondering with brow of gloom,
Upon his dark unhappy doom,
Whether to plunge in battle's strife,
And buy his freedom with his life,


And with stout heart and weapon strong,
Pay back the tyrant wrong for wrong,
Or wait the promised time of God,
When his Almighty ire shall wake,
And smite the oppressor in his wrath,
And hurl red ruin in his path,
And with the terrors of his rod,
Cause adamantine hearts to quake.
Here Christian writhes in bondage still,
Beneath his brother Christian's rod,
And pastors trample down at will,
The image of the living God.
While prayers go up in lofty strains,
And pealing hymns ascend to heaven,
The captive, toiling in his chains,
With tortured limbs and bosom riven,
Raises his fettered hand on high,
And in the accents of despair,
To him who rules both earth and sky,
Puts up a sad, a fervent prayer,
To free him from the awful blast
Of slavery's bitter galling shame ---


Although his portion should be cast
With demons in eternal flame!
Almighty God! Ât is this they call
The land of liberty and law;
Part of its sons in baser thrall
Than Babylon or Egypt saw ---
Worse scenes of rapine, lust and shame,
Than Babylonian ever knew,
Are perpetrated in the name
Of God, the holy, just, and true;
And darker doom than Egypt felt,
May yet repay this nation's guilt.
Almighty God! thy aid impart,
And fire anew each faltering heart,
And strengthen every patriot's hand,
Who aims to save our native land.
We do not come before thy throne,
With carnal weapons drenched in gore,
Although our blood has freely flown,
In adding to the tyrant's store.
Father! before thy throne we come,
Not in the panoply of war,


With pealing trump, and rolling drum,
And cannon booming loud and far;
Striving in blood to wash out blood,
Through wrong to seek redress for wrong;
For while thou 'rt holy, just and good,
The battle is not to the strong;
But in the sacred name of peace,
Of justice, virtue, love and truth,
We pray, and never mean to cease,
Till weak old age and fiery youth
In freedom's cause their voices raise,
And burst the bonds of every slave;
Till, north and south, and east and west,
The wrongs we bear shall be redressed.
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
The Quangle Wangle's Hat

They danced to the flute of the Blue Baboon
On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty tree
And all were as happy as happy could be
With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

Edward Lear

Beautiful Ms. Margaret :tiphat::clap:and almost at the same time, we both entered.

Nice little story - The excepts: "For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide", AWESOME.
I see we both found long poetry for today :clap::wave::banana::lol::lol:

He was born around 1812 I believe, and his critics said he wrote - literary nonsense. They probably liked it, but being reviewers?.....lols.
 
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marval

New member
Hi Intet

Yes at almost the same time, I like the James Whitfield poem, very from the heart.

Edward Lear wrote quite a bit of nonsense, but all very good and humerous.


Margaret
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
Hi Intet

Yes at almost the same time, I like the James Whitfield poem, very from the heart.

Edward Lear wrote quite a bit of nonsense, but all very good and humerous.


Margaret

Ms. Margaret:tiphat:

This is what I read - very good and humerous. Reviewers are often people with no talent themselves, so they "must" act as imbecils towards true talented people from the arts world.

We have a Danish (rather had) a Danish writer like Edward Lear, very famous in Denmark, his name was Halfdan Rasmussen. He wrote the same way, most often for children, but adults loved the chatter as well, with lose drawings using the crayons of children, and his books always came out in huge sizes to give room for the drawings aswell, like books that contains maps of the world. I have read lullaby´s to my children at night from his books, like I have read the fairytales of H.C. Andersen.

There´s a lot of pain in the poem from Whitfield, but much more confidence and love for the country as well. It´s what I would call the history of the war transformed into a poem.
 
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marval

New member
[SIZE=+1]Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?[/SIZE]
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)



Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.​
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
Sonnet 29: When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
by William Shakespeare


When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
 
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