Favourite Poems

Gillette

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I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed

by Emily Dickinson.


I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When the landlord turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
 

Pecker

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It's going to be another Frost day:

The Objection to Being Stepped On

At the end of the row
I stepped on the toe
Of an unemployed hoe.
It rose in offence
and struck me a blow
In the seat of my sense.
It wasn't to blame
But I called it a name.
And I must say it dealt
Me a blow that I felt
Like malice prepense.
You may call me a fool,
But was there a rule
The weapon should be
Turned into a tool?
And what do we see?
The first tool I step on
Turned into a weapon.
 

Lordpendragon

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curiousgurl said:
Taste you
If I were to taste you, breathe your skin.
Close my eyes and take you in.
I'd Surrender my body at your will.
You'd feed me, drug me, like my pill.
I'd crave your body as my fix.
My passion blended pleasure mix.
If I were to taste you, breathe your skin
Close my eyes and take you in.
My world could then be put on hold.
No pain, no guilt, no hearts so cold.
Act out my dirty minded schemes.
Rejection absent in the scene.
If I were to taste you, breathe your skin
Close my eyes and take you in.
Satisfaction could have no end.
To be my bliss, my fire, my friend.

-Author unknown (from poetry.com, not very intellectual...but I always liked it)


This has got in my head. Unknown author, amazing, I think that it would grace the pages of any erotic poetry book.
 

Nelly Gay

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Lordpendragon said:
I told him I loved him
with my tongue in his cheeks


To be fair to the great McGough the original was

I told her I loved her
with my tongue in her cheek

On a more serious note some first world war poetry is very affecting and with Iran, Iraq, etc still viable.
Suicide In the Trenches is curiously touching in terms of the futility of war and wasted lives.,
 

AlteredEgo

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These two are from my childhood:


Mary Had a Little Sheep

Mary had a little sheep.
The sheep and Mary went to sleep.
The sheep turned out to be a ram,
And Mary had a little lamb.

Keep a Poem In Your Pocket By: Beatrice Schenk de Regniers
Keep a poem in your pocket
and a picture in your head
and you'll never feel lonely
at night when you're in bed.
The little poem will sing to you
the little picture bring to you
a dozen dreams to dance to you
at night when you're in bed.
So---
Keep a picture in your pocket
and poem in your head
and you'll never feel lonely
at night when you're in bed.






 

OBsessed

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Communion by Viggo Mortensen



1. We've left shore somehow
become the friends
of early theory
Close enough to speak
desire and pain of absence
of mistakes we'd make
given the chance.

Each smile returned
makes harder avoiding
dreams that see us
lying in early evening
curtain shadows, skin
safe against skin.
Bloom of compassion
Respect for moments
eyes lock turns
forever into one more
veil that falls away

2. This after seeing you
last night, first time
smelling you with
permission: shoulders to
wonder openly at
as carefully kissed
as those arms
waited impossibly on.

They've held me now
and your breath
down my back
sent away night air
that had me shaking
in the unlit anglican
doorway.

3. Are we ruined for
finding our faces fit
and want to know more
about morning? Is
friendship cancelled
if we can't call
each other anymore
in amnesia, invite
ourselves to last glances
under suspicious clocks
telling us when we've
had enough?

4. Your steady hands
cradling my grateful
skull; were you taking
in my face to
save an image
you've rarely allowed
yourself after leaving
that cold alcove?
Am I a photograph
you gaze at in
moments of weakness?

You ordered me
off my knees
into your arms.
Wasn't to beg
that I knelt; only
to see you once
from below.

Tried to say something
that filled my mouth
and longed to rest
in your ear.
Don't dare write
it down for fear it'll
become words, just
words.
 

DC_DEEP

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The first poem I truly enjoyed was Frost's "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening". I had a great English teacher my sophomore year in high school, and she was the first to teach me HOW to read and appreciate poetry. I won't quote the whole poem here, it's easily available online.

I have written some poetry, but it is usually in response to a very specific event - missing my partner when he is away on a business trip, losing someone I love, those sorts of things. I wrote one for a dear friend when she turned 60, and she has it framed on a wall in her house....
 

Pecker

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DC_DEEP said:
The first poem I truly enjoyed was Frost's "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening". I had a great English teacher my sophomore year in high school, and she was the first to teach me HOW to read and appreciate poetry. I won't quote the whole poem here, it's easily available online.

I have written some poetry, but it is usually in response to a very specific event - missing my partner when he is away on a business trip, losing someone I love, those sorts of things. I wrote one for a dear friend when she turned 60, and she has it framed on a wall in her house....

"...And miles to go before I sleep." Thanks for reminding us of that moving work, DC.

I'm glad it's Frost day in my house:

It takes all sorts of in and outdoor schooling
To get adapted to my kind of fooling.
 

Pecker

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DC_DEEP said:
The first poem I truly enjoyed was Frost's "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening". I had a great English teacher my sophomore year in high school, and she was the first to teach me HOW to read and appreciate poetry. I won't quote the whole poem here, it's easily available online.

I have written some poetry, but it is usually in response to a very specific event - missing my partner when he is away on a business trip, losing someone I love, those sorts of things. I wrote one for a dear friend when she turned 60, and she has it framed on a wall in her house....

"...And miles to go before I sleep." Thanks for reminding us of that moving work, DC.

It's Frost day in my house:

It takes all sorts of in and outdoor schooling
To get adapted to my kind of fooling.
 

mephistopheles

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My favorite poem:

[FONT=verdana, times new roman][SIZE=-0]She's never left alone
she likes to suck the bone
Love the smell of her cunt hair
She's always on her knees
she always aims to please
Her lips are round and her face is fair
I want some, she's on the run
She loves the taste of cum
She really gets me in heat
Oh, yes she does

She gives blowjobs, she gives blowjobs
She gets me up, she never lets me down
She gives blowjobs, blowjobs
She'll go down on every guy in town

She likes the taste of cum
She's always on the run
She gets me in heat
And now she's on every guy's list
'Cause she loves the taste of meat
She's never left alone
She likes to suck the bone
Love the smell of her cunt hair
She's always on her knees
She always aims to please
Her lips are round and her face is fair

She gives blowjobs, blowjobs
She gets me up, she never lets me down[/SIZE][/FONT][FONT=verdana, times new roman][SIZE=-0]
She gives blowjobs, blowjobs
She'll go down on every guy in town
She'll go down on you

She gives blowjobs, she gives blowjobs
She gets me up, she never lets me down
She gives me blowjobs, she gives me blowjobs
She'll go down on every guy in town!![/SIZE][/FONT]
 

Pecker

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Ewwwwww. It seems that some writers' idea of poetry is putting to paper something that rhymes.

Of course, this is the day of the runny nose being considered performance art.
 

Ethyl

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somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are the things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
your open always petal by petal myself as spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be close to me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as wehen the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility; whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-e.e. cummings
 

dong20

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A personal favourite:

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

The Listeners, Walter De La Mare.


Best enjoyed with the lights out and in excitable company, I will say no more.:wink:
 

rawbone8

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This is the only poem
I can read
I am the only one
can write it
Others seem to think
the past can guide them
My own music
is not merely naked
It is open legged
It is like a cunt
and like a cunt
must be needs be houseproud
I didn't kill myself
when things went wrong
I didn't turn
to drugs or teaching
I tried to sleep
but when I couldn't sleep
I learned to write
I learned to write
what might be read
on nights like this
by one like me

L. COHEN

 

NCbear

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ULYSSES

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known---cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all---
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end.
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, my own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle---
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me---
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads---you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

1842
 

Pecker

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It's Nash day:

Samson Agonistes
by Ogden Nash

I test my bath before I sit,
And I'm always moved to wonderment
That what chills the finger not a bit
Is so frigid upon the fundament.
 

unknowing

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The Dark Night
1. One dark night,
fired with love's urgent longings
- ah, the sheer grace! -
I went out unseen,
my house being now all stilled.
2. In darkness, and secure,
by the secret ladder, disguised,
- ah, the sheer grace! -
in darkness and concealment,
my house being now all stilled.

3. On that glad night,
in secret, for no one saw me,
nor did I look at anything,
with no other light or guide
than the one that burned in my heart.

4. This guided me
more surely than the light of noon
to where he was awaiting me
- him I knew so well -
there in a place where no one appeared.

5. O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united
the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.

6. Upon my flowering breast
which I kept wholly for him alone,
there he lay sleeping,
and I caressing him
there in a breeze from the fanning cedars.

7. When the breeze blew from the turret,
as I parted his hair,
it wounded my neck
with its gentle hand,
suspending all my senses.

8. I abandoned and forgot myself,
laying my face on my Beloved;
all things ceased; I went out from myself,
leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.

St. John of the Cross