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The poetry of earth is never dead:
The poetry of earth is ceasing never.
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8th-Jul-2008 05:56 pm - A Prayer in Time of War
A Prayer in Time of War
Thou, whose deep ways are in the sea,
Whose footsteps are not known,
To-night a world that turned from Thee
Is waiting -- at Thy Throne.

The towering Babels that we raised
Where scoffing sophists brawl,
The little Antichrists we praised --
The night is on them all.

The fool hath said . . . The fool hath said . ..
And we, who deemed him wise,
We who believed that Thou wast dead,
How should we seek Thine eyes?

How should we seek to Thee for power
Who scorned Thee yesterday?
How should we kneel, in this dread hour?
Lord, teach us how to pray!

Grant us the single heart, once more,
That mocks no sacred thing,
The Sword of Truth our fathers wore
When Thou wast Lord and King.

Let darkness unto darkness tell
Our deep unspoken prayer,
For, while our souls in darkness dwell,
We know that Thou art there.

~ By: Alfred Noyes
5th-Jan-2008 07:51 pm(no subject)
Watcher of the Skies
"Canadian Boat Song"
Listen to me, as when ye heard our father
Sing long ago the song of other shores -
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
All your deep voices as ye pull the oars;
Fair these broad meads - these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
From the lone shieling of the misty island
Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas -
Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.
Fair these broad meads - these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,
Where 'tween the dark hills creeps the small clear stream,
In arms around the patriarch banner rally,
Nor see the moon on royal tombstone gleam.
Fair these broad meads - these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
When the bold kindred, in the time long-vanished,
Conquered the soil and fortified the keep,
No seer foretold the children would be banished,
That a degenerate lord might boast his sheep.
Fair these broad meads - these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
Come foreigner rage - let Discord burst in slaughter!
O then for clansmen true, and stern claymore -
-The hearts that would have given their blood like water
Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar.
Fair these broad meads - these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
5th-Jan-2008 12:34 am - By Pablo Neruda
Watcher of the Skies
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca. 
Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía. 
Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.  
Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.  
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.
20th-Dec-2007 08:22 pm - Wayward Child
Eros dwelling in destruction
There lay a dying sailor weeping
So far he'd wandered from the south,
As he lay upon the burning sand
The children gather to watch his passing.

He'd swum the seven seas before him
And danced upon the stormy breakers.
But now dying alone is all that's left for him
And death a shining slowly beckons.

And rolling in last veil of sunshine
Sheds light upon his dying hours.
But still strong in his urgent will to live
For he tries again to reach the water.

And turning away still ring the voices
Of children laughing o'er the murky waters,
And somewhere I hear the silent singing
Calling on the wayward child.

...by Bert Jansch
16th-Aug-2007 03:57 am - De Vermis
Time is fleeting
The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days —
Perhaps you will not miss them. That’s the joke.
The universe winds down. That’s how it’s made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.

~ John M. Ford
black like a crow flying low to the sand
She's a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis
Loves horses, and her boyfriend too

It's a long day living in Reseda
There's a freeway running through the yard
And I'm a bad boy 'cause I don't even miss her
I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart

And I'm free, free fallin'
Yeah I'm free, free fallin'

All the vampires walkin' through the valley
Move west down Ventura boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
All the good girls are home with broken hearts

And I'm free, free fallin'
Yeah I'm free, free fallin'
Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm
Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm

I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
Gonna free fall out into nothin'
Gonna leave this world for a while

And I'm free, free fallin'
Yeah I'm free, free fallin'
Birth of Venus
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
i love siegfried sassoon & his work, but the last stanza has stuck in my memory more than anything else.

siegfried sassoon - suicide in the trenches.

i knew a simple soldier boy
who grinned at life in empty joy,
slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
and whistled early with the lark.

in winter trenches, crowded and glum,
with crumps and lice and lack of rum,
he put a bullet through his brain.
no one spoke of him again.

you smug-faced crowds with killing eye
who cheer when soldier lads march by,
sneak home and pray you'll never know
the hell where youth and laughter go.
black like a crow flying low to the sand

13th-Jul-2007 10:47 pm - pablo neruda - sonnet XVII
my best friend text me an extract from this sonnet one morning, then wrote another part of it in my birthday card. it's his favourite poem & i thought it was beautiful - enough to share.

pablo neruda - sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
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