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Favorite Poetry

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By (user no longer on site) OP     over a year ago

Hi folks,

Just curious if other people have a favorite poem? For me, it would have to be Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven". It is almost dripping with atmosphere and menace. And I loved watching the movie with Vincent Price based on the poem as a kid

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

[Removed by poster at 19/09/17 04:38:59]

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Slam poetry.

Yelling.

Angry.

Waving my hands a lot.

Specific point of view on things. Cynthia.

Cyn-thi-a.

Jesus died for our Cynthia’s.

Jesus cried.

Runaway bride.

Julia Roberts.

Julia rob-hurts.

Cynthia.

Mmmmm Cynthia, you’re dead.

You are dead.

Be boop beep you’re dead.

Schmidt

Goosebumps....

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago


"Slam poetry.

Yelling.

Angry.

Waving my hands a lot.

Specific point of view on things. Cynthia.

Cyn-thi-a.

Jesus died for our Cynthia’s.

Jesus cried.

Runaway bride.

Julia Roberts.

Julia rob-hurts.

Cynthia.

Mmmmm Cynthia, you’re dead.

You are dead.

Be boop beep you’re dead.

Schmidt

Goosebumps...."

love that film

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Ian Dury was good .....

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Never more...

There was an old lady from Ealing...

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By *witch4Fun24Couple  over a year ago

Leicester

Tyger..tyger. William Blake

Leisure; William Henry Davies

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By (user no longer on site) OP     over a year ago

There was an old lady who lived in a shoe

She had so many kids...

Her uterus fell out...

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

This poem was my soul mates favourite poem and it never fails to stir my emotions when I read it ....

It's called the Invitation .....

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments...

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By *rrol.BMan  over a year ago

Wrexham

The aforementioned Poe is one of my favourites.

I'm also quite fond of this...

Discretion

by Roger McGough

Discretion is the better part of Valerie

(though all of her is nice)

lips as warm as strawberries

eyes as cold as ice

the very best of everything

only will suffice

not for her potatoes

and puddings made of rice

Not for her potatoes

and puddings made of rice

she takes carbohydrates

like God takes advice

a surfeit of ambition

is her particular vice

Valerie fondles lovers

like a mousetrap fondles mice

And though in the morning

she may whisper: "it was nice"

you can tell by her demeanour

that she keeps her love on ice

but you've lost your hard-earned heart

now you'll have to pay the price

for she'll kiss you on the memory

and vanish in a trice

Valerie is corruptible

but known to be discreet

Valerie rides a silver cloud

where once she walked the street.

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Dylan Thomas.

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Robert Burns

Some hae meat and canna eat - and some wad eat that want it.

But we've got meat and we can eat so let the Lord be thanket

My gran would quote this before our Sunday dinner

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Oscar wilde

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By *ogerNesszonesMan  over a year ago

Northern England

"Dreamers" by Ted Hughes. This wonderful poem describes how Assisa Weevil came into Ted and Sylvia's world:

Dreamers.

We didn’t find her - she found us.

She sniffed us out. The Fate she carried

Sniffed us out

And assembled us, inert ingredients

For its experiment. The Fable she carried

Requisitioned you and me and her,

Puppets for its performance.

She fascinated you. Her eyes caressed you,

Melted a weeping glitter at you.

Her German the dark undercurrent

In her Kensington jeweller’s elocution

Was your ancestral Black Forest whisper - Edged with a greasy, death-camp, soot-softness.

When she suddenly rounded her eyeballs,

Popped them, str@ngled, she shocked you.

lt was her mock surprise.

But you saw hanged women ch*ke, dumb, through her,

And when she listened, watching you, through smoke,

Her black-ringed grey iris, slightly unnatural,

Was Black Forest wolf, a witch’s daughter out of Grimm.

Warily you cultivated her,

Her jewishness, her many-blooded beauty,

As if your dream of your dream-self stood there,

A glittering blackness, Europe’s mystical jewel.

A creature from beyond the fringe of your desk-lamp.

Who was this Lilith of abortions

Touching the hair of your children

With tiger-painted nails?

Her speech Harrods, Hitlers mutilations

Kept you company, ing the onions.

An ex-Nazi Youth Sabra. Her father

Doctor to the Bolshoi Ballet.

She was helpless too.

None of us could wake up.

Nightmare looked out at the poppies.

She sat there, in her soot-wet mascara,

In flame-orange silks, in gold bracelets,

Slightly filthy with erotic mystery -

A German

Russian Israeli with the gaze of a demon

Between curtains of black Mongolian hair.

After a single night under our roof

She told her dream. A giant fish, a pike

Had a globed, golden eye, and in that eye

A throbbing suman foetus -

You were astonished, maybe envious.

I refused to interpret. I saw

The dreamer in her

Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it.

That moment the dreamer in me

Fell in love with her, and I knew it.

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