other people's words...

[night faerie]

A place for posting poetry that's not yours. Yes, I know, this is the "Our Creations" forum, but I still think it belongs here, so nyah.

WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN ...
...I shall wear purple
with a red hat which doesnt go and doesnt suit me
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals and say we've no money for butter
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the f l o w e r s from other people's gardens
And learn to spit
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprized
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.


...Jenny Joseph

[Cloric the Cleric]

I'll probably be posting here a lot. I'm a pretty avid fan of poetry.


But to start off, one of my favorites, and, as I recall, one of Malcor's favs too.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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 the 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.


Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

[Abraxas77]

To Pen I Grip
by Cynthia Thornton Herrera

With words I weave
These thoughts express
From dreams they drip
Like from a sieve
They cascade down
From silent lip
Through veins of hand
To pen I grip

With words I grieve
As thoughts regress
Could dreams run dry
Like riverbed
Of sands that sink
From dying lip
Through shriveled hand
To pen I grip

This was a poem from my uni's literary magazine, and IMO, its the best one. I have no idea why it didn't win (all submissions are entered into contest), or even place for that matter. So, to make up for that, I just had to share it with the rest of the world

Did I mention I really like this poem?

[dark fuschia]

I always loved the imagery in this one when I was a teenager It was the only poem we did at school that I liked much.


Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

[night faerie]

I friend wrote this one and I found it breathtaking

Pain.doc
Pain wakes me.
She slips into bed beside me
and nudges me to life.

Pain walks beside me.
Always letting me know
she is there.

Pain comforts me.
She pulls me into her arms.
Whispers in my ear as I cry.

Pain guides me.
Pointing out the path
that will lead to her.

Pain sits with me.
In the darkness
when I am alone.

Pain laughs with me.
When joy fills my heart,
she is just around the corner.

Pain sleeps with me.
She slides into the bed
when I am all alone.

[Alexia]

This poem, while confunsingly attributed to a number of authors such as Mary Frye, Gwydion Penderwen, Joyce Fossen or Albert Spengler, is one that I found was one piece of poetry that truly touched my soul when I read it at the time of a friend's death. Worth a mention. *nods*

---

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there – I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle Autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there.
I did not die.

[Jennifer]

this poem is a little sappy, but I like it, cos it's true

A White Rose
by John Boyle O'Reilly

The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips

[Curtis]

Now take my hand and hold it tight
I will not fail you here tonight
For failing you I fail myself
And place my soul upon a shelf
In hell's library without light
I will not fail you here tonight.

Dean Koontz, "The Book of Counted Sorrows"

[Nachtnoir]

by Neil Gaiman

I get the feeling I've been here before
(Which is of course unlikely to be true)
But in these times it's so hard to be sure...

Consider the cold bastions of law
The clunk of padlock, muttered curse of screw-
I get the feeling I've been here before.

A thousand worlds and every world's a dorr.
The lights go out; I think I think of you,
But in these times it's so hard to be sure.

There's black blood slowly clotting on the floor,
Adhering to the bottom of my shoe.
I get the feeling I've been here before.

I've never been intentionally obscure,
I've never been intentionally taboo,
But in these times it's so hard to be sure.

There is no crime, though somewhere there's a clue.
Not far away the game begins anew...
But in these times it's so hard to be sure:
I get the feeling I've been here before.

[dark fuschia]

This poem is called "Banishment" It was written by Siegfreid Sassoon, a soldier who fought in WW1.


I am banished from the patient men who fight.
They smote my heart to pity, built my pride.
Shoulder to aching soldier, side by side,
They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light.
Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight
They went arrayed in honour.
But they died,--
Not one by one: and mutinous I cried
To those who sent them out into the night.
The darkness tells how vainly I have striven
To free them from the pit where they must dwell
In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven
By grappling guns.
Love drove me to rebel.
Love drives me back to grope with them through hell;
And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.

[Jennifer]

THE WATCH
by Robert Herrick

Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never
Wound up again; Once down, he's down for ever.
The watch once down, all motions then do cease;
The man's pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace.

[Cloric the Cleric]

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

[night faerie]

k I'd just like to take this opportunity to point to the poem presently gracing our mainpage. ~points~
It is a creation I found posted on another forum and the author (thank you) gave me permission to use it here. I really really like it, and therefore, so it is not lost to obscurity when the mainpage morphs again, here it is:

Well, what would you do? ...by Claire Brook; AKA Little skinny

White Lightening and Marlboros
(purchased by the boy who looked oldest)
were distributed. All set.

We giggled and swaggered and swore our way
to the great iron gateway outside St John's.
With hard-earned skill we overcame this daunting man-made boundary
and with foreboding that never seemed to go away,
we shouted and hollered,
overcoming the spiritual boundary that surrounds a graveyard at night.

Michael tripped over that branch again,
we laughed ourselves senseless and clutched our guts.
And when the roaring of cider-soaked teens subsided
we hissed at each other to shush,
whilst watching the windows of the parsonage
for the flick-on of lights.

None came and so we continued our stroll,
smoking like movie stars and throwing things
making our way to our usual spot -
the memorial slab of Jacob Mallory, departed this world 2nd June 1945.

Imagine our shock as we approached
to see a figure huddled there.

Guilt and vomit. The parson? A tramp?

We froze.

The figure unhuddled and turned to face us.
White as the label on our cider bottle the figure shimmered.
We sank to the moss.
The pitiful figure sobbed and said "Do you know what I am reduced to?"

Becca, (who knows nothing of these things), whispered, "you are an angel!"

"No longer an angel"

The figure shrugged and to the ground fell feathers and sinew and bone.

"I am destined to carry more than my weight in flight.
I am human now and must carry the weight of the world"
With a heavy sigh, the angel curled up, and Jacob Mallory became a pillow of despair.

We gulped, as one, a chorus of gulps. Then we upped and left it there.

[Alexia]

The Cat Who Lived a Million Times - HYAKUMANKAI IKITA NEKO
(From the Cowboy Bebop finale: The Real Folk Blues)

There was a cat who could live for a million years.
He died a million times, and lived a million times.
He was a great tiger-striped cat.
A million people adored the cat,
And a million people cried when that cat died.
The cat never cried, not even once.

Once, the cat was a king's cat.
The cat hated the king.
The king was great at war, and was always at war.
And, he put the cat in a magnificent cage,
And took him out to war.
One day, the cat was hit by a flying arrow, and died.
The king embraced the cat and wailed during the battle.
The king stopped the war and returned to his castle.
And, he buried the cat in the castle's garden.

Once, the cat was a sailor's cat.
The cat hated the seas.
The sailor took the cat to all the seas of the world,
And all the ports of the world.
One day, the cat fell off the boat.
The cat could not swim.
The sailor hurriedly scooped up the cat with his net,
But the cat was soaked and dead.
The sailor embraced the cat which was now like a wet rag,
And wailed in a loud voice.
And, he buried the cat under the tree
In a park in a far-away port.

Once, the cat was the cat of a magician in a circus.
The cat hated the circus.
The magician put the cat inside a box every day,
And cut him in half with a saw.
Then, he removed the cat, still in one piece,
Out of the box to receive his applause.
One day, the magician made a mistake,
And really cut the cat in half.
The magician wailed in a loud voice,
Holding the two parts of the cat in each hand.
Nobody applauded him.
The magician then buried the cat behind the circus tent.

Once, the cat was a burglar's cat.
The cat hated burglars.
The burglar walked quietly through the dark town with the cat,
Just like a cat.
The burglar robbed only houses with dogs.
While the dog was barking at the cat,
The burglar opened the safes.
One day, the cat was bitten to death by the dog.
The burglar embraced the cat with the diamonds he stole,
And walked through the night town wailing in a loud voice.
Then, he went home and buried the cat in a small yard.

Once, the cat was the cat of a lonely grandmother.
The cat hated grandmothers.
The grandmother looked outside every day from a small window,
Holding the cat in her arms.
The cat was asleep all day on top of the grandmother's lap.
Time passed, and the cat died of old age.
The frail grandmother embraced the frail dead cat,
And cried all day.
The grandmother buried the cat under a tree in the yard.

Once, the cat was a little girl's cat.
The cat hated children.
The girl piggy-backed the cat, and slept clutching the cat.
When she cried, she wiped her tears on the cat's back.
One day atop the girl's back,
The holster to keep the cat secure wound around his neck,
And the cat died.
Holding the cat with the dangly neck, the girl cried all day.
And, she buried the cat under a tree in the yard.

The cat had no fear of dying.

Once, the cat wasn't anyone's cat.
He was a stray cat.
The cat was able to be his own cat for the first time.
The cat loved himself.
Since he was a great tiger-striped cat,
He became a great stray cat.

All the female cats wanted to be the cat's wife.
There were cats that gave him huge fish.
Others gave him premium mice.
Some cats brought rare catnip as a gift.
Other cats licked his tiger fur for him.
The cat said to all of them—
"I've died a million times! This is so ridiculous now!"
The cat loved himself more than anyone else.

But there was just one beautiful white cat
That didn't even look at the cat.
The cat went over next to the white cat, and told her,
"I died a million times!"
The white cat just said, "Oh."
The cat became slightly upset, since he loved himself.
The next day, and the day after that,
The cat went over to the white cat and told her,
"You haven't even finished one life."
The white cat just said, "Oh."

One day, the cat did three somersaults in front of the white cat,
and said, "I once was a cat for a circus."
The white cat just said, "Oh."
The cat started to say, "I have had a million—"
Then asked the white cat, "Can I be at your side?"
The white cat said, "Yes."
The cat stayed by the white cat for a long time.

The white cat had many cute kittens.
The cat no longer dared to say "I have had a million—"
The cat loved the white cat and all the many kittens
Even more than himself.

As time passed, the kittens grew up and all went away.
The cat, satisfied, said, "They became great stray cats now."
The white cat said, "Yes," and softly purred her throat.
The white cat had become a grandmother cat.
The cat purred his throat even more softly.
The cat thought that he wanted to live forever with the white cat.

One day, the white cat quietly stopped moving next to the cat.
The cat cried for the first time in his life.
Night came, morning came,
Night came again, and morning came again.
The cat cried a million times.
Morning came, night came—
and one afternoon, the cat stopped crying.
The cat, next to the white cat, quietly stopped moving.

The cat never came back to life again.

[Abraxas77]

Donald Justice

Women in Love
It always comes, and when it comes they know.
To will it is enough to bring them there.
The knack is this, to fasten and not let go.

Their limbs are charmed; they cannot stay or go.
Desire is limbo: they’re unhappy there.
It always comes, and when it comes they know.

Their choice of hells would be the one they know.
Dante describes it, the wind circling there.
The knack is this, to fasten and not let go.

The wind carries them where they want to go.
Yet it seems cruel to strangers passing there.
It always comes, and when it comes they know
The knack is this, to fasten and not let go.

See what I had to say about this poem