just ignore and let this one die

Omg, you have all posted such beautiful poems Here is one of my favourites:


The Martyrdom of Bishop Farrar - Ted Hughes

Bloody Mary's venomous flames can curl:
They can shrivel sinew and char bone
Of foot, ankle, knee and thigh and boil
Bowels, and drop his heart a cinder down:
And her soldiers can cry, as they hurl
Logs in the red rush: "This is her sermon."

The sullen-jowled watching Welsh townspeople
Hear him crack in the fire's mouth: they see what
Black oozing twist of stuff bubbles the smell
That tars and retches their lungs: no pulpit
Of his ever held their eyes so still,
Never, as now his agony, his wit

An ignorant means to establish ownership
Of his flock! Thus their shepherd she seized
And knotted him into this blazing shape
In their eyes, as if such could have cauterized
The trust they turned towards him, and branded on
Its stump her claim, to outlaw question

So it might have been: seeing their exemplar
And teacher burned for his lessons to black bits,
Their silence might have disowned him to her ,
And hung up what he had taught with their Welsh hats:
Who sees his blasphemous father struck by fire
From heaven, might well be heard to speak no oaths.

But the fire that struck here, come from Hell even,
Kindled little heavens in his words
As he fed his body to the flame alive.
Words which, before they will be dumbly spared,
Will burn their body and be tongued with fire
Make paltry folly of flesh and this world's air.

When they saw what annuities of hours
And comfortable blood he burned to get
His words a bare honouring in their ears,
The shrewd townsfolk pocketed them hot:
Stamp was not current but they rang and shone
As good gold as any queen's crown.

Gave all he had, and yet the bargain struck
To a merest farthing his whole agony,
His body's cold-kept miserdom on shrieks
He gave uncounted, while out of his eyes,
Out of his mouth, fire like a glory broke,
And smoke burned his sermon into the skies

how about an ORIGINAL poem from my teens:

A Final Goodbye

I walked the cave in total darkenss, the only light being
The glimmer of hope I held.
Deeper and deeper I went.
Rope burns, fading light...I finally found myself so deep,
I could not get out.
I lay there now, in this darkness... alone... and all hope is now lost.
I think I just choose to lay down and die.
But my lips bare a smile. For I loved you, and I always will.

here's another original from my teens:


Back To Reality

The dawn...
Beautiful in its silence.
The Earth's expression shy,
Bowing its face with unusual quietness.
Prickly meadowed ground,
Colorless trees,
Daunting breeze...
With perfect triumph
I listen to the sweeping wind
Its song of promise.
Your palid face dances...
Twisting with illuminations
Of infinite crave for me.
Feet bare of shoe
Cold on splintered wood.
Muffled screams.
Suffocated dreams.
The chirping bird alerts me
Back to reality.

Those are really good 3Ring, I liked the 2nd one best VV

Nice piccy though that sky is looking a little dark for that bikini lol I would wrap up well, storm is comin'

Goodnight Maggie VV Sleep softly and soundly.

Nite Maggie, love the piccie =^. .^=

yawns, this is just as addicting as playing sl.

What's SL?

I don't know I forgot. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Wonderfully dark Phia, though I suppose I should be disturbed considering the actual historical event that took place.

Baudelaire!

Pep (But not in translation)

Good night Threadies, and thanks so much for the poetry fest. It's so nice to read all your favorites, and 3Ring, your wonderful original poems. I loved 'em all... Poe, Eliot, Hughes (the same Ted Hughes who was married to Sylvia Plath?), Lowell, Caldwell. Oh, and the Baudelaire, Gabrielle! Such a wonderfully dark selection.

My good night offering. Sleep well, those that are sleeping, and take care the rest of you.

Eagle Poem

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circles in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.


~ Joy Harjo ~

(How We Become Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2001)

One more user agreed.

Good morning, threadies! Thank you for all the overnight poetry, Women of the Thread.

And oooh, Lexxi...VERY nice picture. /me purrrrrrrs.

I was back in Avilion last night for a bit, and Lindal popped in to show me some jewelry. Wow, you should have seen Lindal in her warrior gear. Dang, I forgot to take a picture. HOT HOT HOT.

Au Lecteur

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.


Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.


Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.


C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.


Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.


Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.


Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.


Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,


II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;


C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!


— Charles Baudelaire

Pep (The last line will have to be my new sig!)

Good morning, Pep! (or rather, good afternoon, for you )

And for those who do not read French (she says sheepishly, knowing her French forebears are shaking their fists at her), here's a website with a few different translations of the poem, "To the Reader":

http://fleursdumal.org/poem/099 .

I was just going to post that link Mo!

Will Schmitz's freely interpreted version will probably make most sense to you across the Atlantic!

Pep (You must be psychic!)

Drive by good morning folks- rushing off to work - see u all from there- be well

Another lovely poem Allegria , and yes it is the same Ted Hughes who was married to Sylvia Plath

Bonjour! Je comprends un peu.
Good morning everyone! (or afternoon or evening where ever you may be). Another day and its thread time.

LOL

*waves to Amara as she rushes out the door*

*waves to Phia and to Nichole* - good morning/good afternoon/good evening!

Thanks, its morning for me =) goes and grabs a red bull!