Poetry Appreciation Thread

[Theologian in Training]

[b]W.B. Yeats[/b]

[b][i]When You Are Old[/b][/i]

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

[Theologian in Training]

[b]Lawrence Ferlinghetti[/b]

[b][i]The Plough Of Time[/b][/i]

Night closed my windows and
The sky became a crystal house
The crystal windows glowed
The moon
shown through them
through the whole house of crystal
A single star beamed down
its crystal cable
and drew a plough through the earth
unearthing bodies clasped together
couples embracing
around the earth
They clung together everywhere
emitting small cries
that did not reach the stars
The crystal earth turned
and the bodies with it
And the sky did not turn
nor the stars with it
The stars remained fixed
each with its crystal cable
beamed to earth
each attached to the immense plough
furrowing our lives

[Thy Geekdom Come]

[b]Henry Wadsworth Longfellow[/b]

[b][i]The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere[/i][/b]

LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower, as a signal light, --
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade, --
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, --
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the pickle,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British regulars fired and fled, --
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
>From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm, --
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

[Theologian in Training]

[b]Bruce Weigl[/b]

[b][i]Snowy Egret[/b][/i]

My neighbor's boy has lifted his father's shotgun and stolen
down to the backwaters of the Elizabeth
and in the moon he's blasted a snow egret
from the shallows it stalked for small fish.

Midnight. My wife wakes me. He's in the backyard
with a shovel so I go down half drunk with pills
that let me sleep to see what I can see and if it's safe.
The boy doesn't hear me come across the dewy grass.
He says through tears he has to bury it,
he says his father will kill him
and he digs until the hole is deep enough and gathers
the egret carefully into his arms
as if not to harm the blood-splattered wings
gleaming in the flashlight beam.

His man's muscled shoulders
shake with the weight of what he can't set right no matter what,
but one last time he tries to stay a child, sobbing
please don't tell. . . .
He says he only meant to flush it from the shadows,
but only meant to watch it fly
but the shot spread too far
ripping into the white wings spanned awkwardly for a moment
until it glided into brackish death.

I want to grab his shoulders,
Shake the lies loose from his lips but he hurts enough,
he burns with shame for what he's done,
with fear for his hard father's
fists I've seen crash down on him for so much less.
I don't know what do to but hold him.
If I let go he'll fly to pieces before me.
What a time we share, that can make a good boy steal away,
wiping out from the blue face of the pond
what he hadn't even known he loved, blasting
such beauty into nothing.

[Thy Geekdom Come]

[b]Micah J. Murphy[/b]

[b][i]Renewed Hope[/i][/b]

In the early morning, the flames arise.
Death is rampant; fear rules the darkest day.
Pillars of smoke fill the once blue skies.
A thousand small lives fall quickly away.

In the total chaos, a saving hand
A new come hero to this tragic place
The helper who's covered in soot and sand
Brushes the fine dust from his aching face.

The great towers fall, the heroes are crushed.
Painful screams rise from the smoky ruin.
The voices of a thousand martyrs hushed.
The most solemn bugles will trill TAPS soon.

The people salute a symbol of hope.
The stars and stripes over all who've died,
The bold waving flag helps victims to cope.
"Glory to thee, O American Pride!"

[Theologian in Training]

Nice, thank you Raphael! If you go to the first page, you will see one of my poems as well.

[Thy Geekdom Come]

[b]Micah J. Murphy[/b]

[i]In the style of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow[/i]

[b][i]Weeping Willow[/i][/b]

Look through the window and you shall see
The sad branches of the willow tree.
For the death of a noble maiden it does mourn.
Over its roots, two men had sworn
To fight most fairly in a duel,
For they had set an important rule.
Before they turned and began to pace,
They looked each other in the face
And took an oath on this sacred place,
"We will not turn before the time
To justify this awful crime:
That only one of us in this fight
Will survive with all his might.
For 'tis the love of Jane we seek
And o'er our shoulders, we shall not peek
To see the other man walk away;
From this vow we shall not stray:
We shall both turn at the same moment
So we'll need not make atonement
And with guilty conscience live our lives.
We both desire the love of Jane
And shall forgive immanent pain.
For in our hope for the same maiden's heart
Our fragile friendship was torn apart
And now we'll fight until the end
For sweet li'l Jane's silky hand."
The two men shook upon this pact
And then began their violent act.
Each retrieved a silver gun;
Each hoped not to be outdone.
Each man turned upon his heel
Praying for mercy with great zeal.
After they took fifty strides,
They reached for their holsters of cattle hides.
Each man then did pull a gun,
But then it seemed, no man had won
For Jane between the two has run.
Each man had fired a single shot
Each man quickly became distraught
As Jane fell to the dusty ground.
What a horrible fate each man had found!
Both lovers collapsed upon the street
And they looked at Jane and their eyes did meet.
Each man saw sorrow in his former friend
They did embrace and did amend
The life-long friendship that they thought
Had ended when they both had sought
The love of the fair lady, Jane
Who, watching their quarrel, felt so much pain.
At the funeral they both pursued
The chance at ending their cursed feud.
So if you ever decide to engage
In violence spurred on by jealous rage
Just look out this window here
Where the weeping willow is shedding a tear.

[Thy Geekdom Come]

[b]Micah J. Murphy[/b]

[b][i]Life Is A Sonata[/i][/b]

Life is a sonata,
Not from a music sheet,
But straight from the heart.
Interspersed with the memories
Of a familiar refrain.
Its notes may be high or low,
Building effect upon one another.
A record of relationships,
Filled with harmonies and solos,
Crescendoing until the middle verse,
Decrescendoing to the point of death.
And as the sonata comes to a close,
The maestro takes a final bow,
And choir of angels gives a heavenly ovation.

[Theologian in Training]

[quote name='Raphael' date='Jun 14 2004, 05:49 PM'] [b]Micah J. Murphy[/b]

[i]In the style of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow[/i]

[b][i]Weeping Willow[/i][/b]

Look through the window and you shall see
The sad branches of the willow tree.
For the death of a noble maiden it does mourn.
Over its roots, two men had sworn
To fight most fairly in a duel,
For they had set an important rule.
Before they turned and began to pace,
They looked each other in the face
And took an oath on this sacred place,
"We will not turn before the time
To justify this awful crime:
That only one of us in this fight
Will survive with all his might.
For 'tis the love of Jane we seek
And o'er our shoulders, we shall not peek
To see the other man walk away;
From this vow we shall not stray:
We shall both turn at the same moment
So we'll need not make atonement
And with guilty conscience live our lives.
We both desire the love of Jane
And shall forgive immanent pain.
For in our hope for the same maiden's heart
Our fragile friendship was torn apart
And now we'll fight until the end
For sweet li'l Jane's silky hand."
The two men shook upon this pact
And then began their violent act.
Each retrieved a silver gun;
Each hoped not to be outdone.
Each man turned upon his heel
Praying for mercy with great zeal.
After they took fifty strides,
They reached for their holsters of cattle hides.
Each man then did pull a gun,
But then it seemed, no man had won
For Jane between the two has run.
Each man had fired a single shot
Each man quickly became distraught
As Jane fell to the dusty ground.
What a horrible fate each man had found!
Both lovers collapsed upon the street
And they looked at Jane and their eyes did meet.
Each man saw sorrow in his former friend
They did embrace and did amend
The life-long friendship that they thought
Had ended when they both had sought
The love of the fair lady, Jane
Who, watching their quarrel, felt so much pain.
At the funeral they both pursued
The chance at ending their cursed feud.
So if you ever decide to engage
In violence spurred on by jealous rage
Just look out this window here
Where the weeping willow is shedding a tear. [/quote]
Powerful....quite powerful

[Theologian in Training]

[b]Snow Patrol[/b]

[b][i]Same[/b][/i]


Maybe somewhere else will not be half as cold as me
The curtains drawn, the winter sun makes patterns on your face
It looks like some kaleidoscopic breathing exercise
It's the same, it's the same, it's the same
It's the same, it's the same, it's the same

Baby, won't you breathe?
Baby, won't you breathe?

Hold me in your freezing arms before we have to go
I wince a little but it's not because I know the truth
The windshield of your little car is frosted through the clouds
A clear heart of our own peers eyes me shiver on the seats
It's the same, it's the same, it's the same
It's the same, it's the same, it's the same

Treat it as a task, treat it as a task
Baby, won't you breathe?
Baby, won't you breathe?
It's the same, it's the same, it's the same
It's the same, it's the same, it's the same

[Thy Geekdom Come]

Theo, that was a nice poem you wrote.

[Theologian in Training]

[quote name='Raphael' date='Jun 14 2004, 06:05 PM'] Theo, that was a nice poem you wrote. [/quote]
Thank you...wrote it on retreat in a hermitage just me, nature, the lake, and Jesus

[Colleen]

[b]Robert Frost (1874-1963)[/b]

[b][i]The Pasture[/i][/b]


I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too.


I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too.

[Colleen]

[b][i]The Raven[/i][/b]

[b]Edgar Allen Poe [/b]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore --
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
This it is, and nothing more,"

Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; --
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; --
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never-nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!' said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting --
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore.