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Thread: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

  1. #21
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    Once to ev'ry man and nation*
    Comes the moment to decide,*
    In the strife of truth and falsehood,*
    For the good or evil side;*
    Some great cause, some great decision,*
    Off'ring each the bloom or blight,*
    And the choice goes by forever*
    'Twixt that darkness and that light.*

    Then to side with truth is noble,*
    When we share her wretched crust,*
    Ere her cause bring fame and profit,*
    And 'tis prosperous to be just;*
    Then it is the brave man chooses*
    While the coward stands aside.*
    Till the multitude make virtue*
    Of the faith they had denied.*

    By the light of burning martyrs,*
    Christ, Thy bleeding feet we track,*
    Toiling up new Calv'ries ever*
    With the cross that turns not back;*
    New occasions teach new duties,*
    Ancient values test our youth;*
    They must upward still and onward,*
    Who would keep abreast of truth.*

    Tho' the cause of evil prosper,*
    Yet the truth alone is strong;*
    Tho' her portion be the scaffold,*
    And upon the throne be wrong;*
    Yet that scaffold sways the future,*
    And, behind the dim unknown,*
    Standeth God within the shadow,*
    Keeping watch above His own

    Once to Every Man and Nation

    By James Russell Lowell

  2. #22
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    The Labyrinth

    by W.H. Auden

    Anthropos apteros for days
    Walked whistling round and round the Maze,
    Relying happily upon
    His temperament for getting on.


    The hundredth time he sighted, though,
    A bush he left an hour ago,
    He halted where four alleys crossed,
    And recognized that he was lost.

    “Where am I? Metaphysics says
    No question can be asked unless
    It has an answer, so I can
    Assume this maze has got a plan.

    If theologians are correct,
    A Plan implies an Architect:
    A God-built maze would be, I’m sure,
    The Universe in miniature.

    Are data from the world of Sense,
    In that case, valid evidence?
    What in the universe I know
    Can give directions how to go?

    All Mathematics would suggest
    A steady straight line as the best,
    But left and right alternately
    Is consonant with History.

    Aesthetics, though, believes all Art
    Intends to gratify the Heart:
    Rejecting disciplines like these,
    Must I, then, go which way I please?

    Such reasoning is only true
    If we accept the classic view,
    Which we have no right to assert,
    According to the Introvert.

    His absolute pre-supposition
    Is–Man creates his own condition:
    This maze was not divinely built,
    But is secreted by my guilt.

    The centre that I cannot find
    Is known to my Unconscious Mind;
    I have no reason to despair
    Because I am already there.

    My problem is how not to will;
    They move most quickly who stand still;
    I’m only lost until I see
    I’m lost because I want to be.

    If this should fail, perhaps I should,
    As certain educators would,
    Content myself with the conclusion;
    In theory there is no solution.

    All statements about what I feel,
    Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal:
    My knowledge ends where it began;
    A hedge is taller than a man.”

    Anthropos apteros, perplexed
    To know which turning to take next,
    Looked up and wished he were the bird
    To whom such doubts must seem absurd.
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  3. #23
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    Quote Originally Posted by KK77 View Post

    “Where am I? Metaphysics says
    No question can be asked unless
    It has an answer, so I can
    Assume this maze has got a plan.

    If theologians are correct,
    A Plan implies an Architect:
    A God-built maze would be, I’m sure,
    The Universe in miniature.
    [/I]
    Very powerful poem, thanks for sharing KK.

    We haven't even began to scratch the surface when it comes to the secrets of the universe and nothing can be ruled out.

    ---------- Post added at 20:25 ---------- Previous post was at 19:37 ----------

    Quote Originally Posted by Noivous View Post

    Tho' the cause of evil prosper,*
    Yet the truth alone is strong;*
    Tho' her portion be the scaffold,*
    And upon the throne be wrong;*
    Yet that scaffold sways the future,*
    And, behind the dim unknown,*
    Standeth God within the shadow,*
    Keeping watch above His own

    Once to Every Man and Nation

    By James Russell Lowell
    No doubt, the forces of evil have the upper hand right now and the truth is being hidden away behind a web of lies and deception. However it's still early days in this grand battle between good and evil.

    Thanks for sharing, Noivous.

  4. #24
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    Another Australian poet:

    Woman To Man by Judith Wright

    The eyeless labourer in the night,
    the selfless, shapeless seed I hold,
    builds for its resurrection day---
    silent and swift and deep from sight
    foresees the unimagined light.

    This is no child with a child's face;
    this has no name to name it by;
    yet you and I have known it well.
    This is our hunter and our chase,
    the third who lay in our embrace.

    This is the strength that your arm knows,
    the arc of flesh that is my breast,
    the precise crystals of our eyes.
    This is the blood's wild tree that grows
    the intricate and folded rose.

    This is the maker and the made;
    this is the question and reply;
    the blind head butting at the dark,
    the blaze of light along the blade.
    Oh hold me, for I am afraid.
    Last edited by hanshan; 15-12-17 at 12:52.

  5. #25
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    Excellent poetry !!!! Love it.
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  6. #26
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    This is an Australian "bush ballad" by A.B. (Banjo) Paterson, published in 1889. A drover rides a horse, moving herds of cattle from one pasture to the next. Australia's dry conditions mean cattle need to move continually to feed.

    Clancy Of The Overflow by Banjo Paterson

    I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
    Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
    He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
    Just `on spec', addressed as follows, `Clancy, of The Overflow'.

    And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
    (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
    'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
    `Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.'

    In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
    Gone a-droving `down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go;
    As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
    For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

    And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
    In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
    And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
    And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.

    I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
    Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
    And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
    Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all

    And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
    Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,
    And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
    Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

    And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
    As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
    With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
    For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

    And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
    Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
    While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal --
    But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of `The Overflow'.

  7. #27
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    Filthy and monotonous city life vs wild beauty of nature. Thanks for sharing, Hanshan.
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  8. #28
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    If I Could Tell You

    By Wystan Hugh Auden

    (Dedicated to real friendship, love and compassion)

    Time will say nothing but I told you so,
    Time only knows the price we have to pay;
    If I could tell you I would let you know.

    If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
    If we should stumble when musicians play,
    Time will say nothing but I told you so.

    There are no fortunes to be told, although,
    Because I love you more than I can say,
    If I could tell you I would let you know.

    The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
    There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
    Time will say nothing but I told you so.

    Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
    The vision seriously intends to stay;
    If I could tell you I would let you know.

    Suppose all the lions get up and go,
    And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
    Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
    If I could tell you I would let you know.
    __________________
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    Never Surrender, Comrade

  9. #29
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
    Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
    Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
    Of simple beauty and rustic health.
    Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
    The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
    But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
    White from its hill-slope looking down,
    The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
    And a nameless longing filled her breast--
    A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
    For something better than she had known.
    The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
    Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
    He drew his bridle in the shade
    Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
    And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
    Through the meadow across the road.
    She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
    And filled for him her small tin cup,
    And blushed as she gave it, looking down
    On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
    "Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
    From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
    He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
    Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
    Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
    The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
    And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
    And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
    And listened, while a pleasant surprise
    Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
    At last, like one who for delay
    Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,
    Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
    That I the Judge's bride might be!
    "He would dress me up in silks so fine,
    And praise and toast me at his wine.
    "My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
    My brother should sail a painted boat.
    "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
    And the baby should have a new toy each day.
    "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
    And all should bless me who left our door."
    The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
    And saw Maud Muller standing still.
    "A form more fair, a face more sweet,
    Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
    "And her modest answer and graceful air
    Show her wise and good as she is fair.
    "Would she were mine, and I to-day,
    Like her, a harvester of hay:
    "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
    Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
    "But low of cattle, and song of birds,
    And health, and quiet, and loving words."
    But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
    And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
    So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
    And Maud was left in the field alone.
    But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
    When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
    And the young girl mused beside the well,
    Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
    He wedded a wife of richest dower,
    Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
    Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
    He watched a picture come and go:
    And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
    Looked out in their innocent surprise.
    Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
    He longed for the wayside well instead;
    And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
    To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
    And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
    "Ah, that I were free again!
    "Free as when I rode that day,
    Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
    She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
    And many children played round her door.
    But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
    Left their traces on heart and brain.
    And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
    On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
    And she heard the little spring brook fall
    Over the roadside, through the wall,
    In the shade of the apple-tree again
    She saw a rider draw his rein,
    And, gazing down with timid grace,
    She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
    Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
    Stretched away into stately halls;
    The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
    The tallow candle an astral burned;
    And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
    Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
    A manly form at her side she saw,
    And joy was duty and love was law.
    Then she took up her burden of life again,
    Saying only, "It might have been."
    Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
    For rich repiner and household drudge!
    God pity them both! and pity us all,
    Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
    For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
    The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
    Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
    Deeply buried from human eyes;
    And, in the hereafter, angels may
    Roll the stone from its grave away!

    Maud Muller
    John Greenleaf Whittier

    ---------- Post added at 17:38 ---------- Previous post was at 17:35 ----------

    Finally! Had trouble posting that one gang...sorry.

  10. #30
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    Re: Poets' Corner - Post your poems/song lyrics here

    Really enjoyed reading that poem, Agent Noi. Touching story in beautiful verse...



    Macavity: The Mystery Cat

    By TS Eliot

    Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--
    For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
    He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
    For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

    Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
    He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
    His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
    And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!
    You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--
    But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

    Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
    You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
    His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
    His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
    He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
    And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

    Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
    For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
    You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--
    But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

    He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
    And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
    And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
    Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
    Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair--
    Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

    And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray,
    Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
    There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair--
    But it's useless to investigate--Macavity's not there!
    And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
    "It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.
    You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
    Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

    Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,
    There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
    He always has an alibi, or one or two to spare:
    And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
    And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
    (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
    Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
    Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!


    TS Eliot

    Born: 26 September 1888, St. Louis, Missouri, United States
    Died: 4 January 1965, Kensington, London
    Last edited by KK77; 29-10-17 at 21:38.
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