The Elmwood
General Category => General Discussion => Topic started by: pyro71976 on
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FIRE AND ICE a poem by Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
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Hmmm... Did anyone else thing nuclear holocaust followed by nuclear winter?
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Succubus by Andrew Allen
The world grinds to a halt
You can see perception ease into a
photograph
She crosses to you looking like a
flapper from the
20's
Voice isn't too girly and
she fills what she wears
with slim sexy ease
On her back is a tattoo of some
strange sigil that looks so old
but still relevant somehow
grinning you watch her
watch you
soon the two of you embrace
at your home and her breasts are
great
you never wake up
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Never trust a flapper.....
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Alone by Edgar Allan Poe
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
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Poe and Lovecraft are my favorite poets and IMHO the best poets. Certainly America's best.
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I agree with you about Poe. Haven't read a lot of Lovecraft's poetry. Too bad Poe died so young.
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On a lighter note - here's a poem from an unknown author I remember from my childhood
One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight,
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,
One was blind and the other couldn't see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout "hooray!"
A paralyzed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye,
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all,
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came shot to death those two dead boys,
If you don't believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!
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Variations on a theme
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very very good.
But when she was bad she was horrid.
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very very good.
But when she was bad she was still pretty good.
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very very good.
But when she was bad she was even better.
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This has aways been one of my favorites.
Erosion By E.J Pratt
It took the sea a thousand years,
A thousand years to trace
The granite features of this cliff,
In crag and scarp and base.
It took the sea an hour one night,
An hour of storm to place
The sculpture of these granite seams
Upon a woman’s face.
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Here's a little poem so Brian can understand why I put Lovecraft on the same pedestal as Poe.
Hallowe'en in a Suburb by H. P. Lovecraft
The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
And the harpies of upper air,
That flutter and laugh and stare.
For the village dead to the moon outspread
Never shone in the sunset's gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
Where the rivers of madness stream
Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.
A chill wind weaves through the rows of sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
For harvests that fly and fail.
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic throne,
And looses the vast unknown.
So here again stretch the vale and plain
That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
Sprung out of the tomb's black maw
To shake all the world with awe.
And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
Shall some day be with the rest,
And brood with the shades unblest.
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
Of horror and death are penned,
For the hounds of Time to rend.
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The book of longing by Leonard Cohen
I can't make the hills
The system is shot
I'm living on pills
For which I thank G-d
I followed the course
From chaos to art
Desire the horse
Depression the cart
I sailed like a swan
I sank like a rock
But time is long gone
Past my laughing stock
My page was too white
My ink was too thin
The day wouldn't write
What the night penciled in
My animal howls
My angel's upset
But I'm not allowed
A trace of regret
For someone will use
What I couldn't be
My heart will be hers
Impersonally
She'll step on the path
She'll see what I mean
My will cut in half
And freedom between
For less than a second
Our lives will collide
The endless suspended
The door open wide
Then she will be born
To someone like you
What no one has done
She'll continue to do
I know she is coming
I know she will look
And that is the longing
And this is the book