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[Lady Artifice]

I love poetry, so I'll post some in here from time to time. I might read some aloud via vocaroo as well. Feel free to share your favorites.

 

Sharks in the Rivers

Ada Limón, 1976

We’ll say unbelievable things

to each other in the early morning—

 

our blue coming up from our roots,

our water rising in our extraordinary limbs.

 

All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles

and ghosts of men, and spirits

behind those birds of flame.

 

I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes,

I can only hear the frame saying, Walk through.

 

It is a short walkway—

into another bedroom.

 

Consider the handle. Consider the key.

 

I say to a friend, how scared I am of sharks.

 

How I thought I saw them in the creek

across from my street.

 

I once watched for them, holding a bundle

of rattlesnake grass in my hand,

shaking like a weak-leaf girl.

 

She sends me an article from a recent National Geographic that says,

 

Sharks bite fewer people each year than

New Yorkers do, according to Health Department records.

 

Then she sends me on my way. Into the City of Sharks.

 

Through another doorway, I walk to the East River saying,

 

Sharks are people too.

Sharks are people too.

Sharks are people too.

 

I write all the things I need on the bottom

of my tennis shoes. I say, Let’s walk together.

 

The sun behind me is like a fire.

Tiny flames in the river’s ripples.

 

I say something to God, but he’s not a living thing,

so I say it to the river, I say,

 

I want to walk through this doorway

But without all those ghosts on the edge,

I want them to stay here.

I want them to go on without me.

 

I want them to burn in the water.

 

 

[vertigomez]

Oh my goodness, yeeesss! I love this idea, Lady A. I'm a huge poetry fanatic myself. I've even written some, though it's certifiably terrible.

Sharks in the Rivers is lovely.

[Jorji Costava]

I know f--k all about poetry, but Nerdwriter1, one of my favorite Youtubers, did a neat video on William Butler Yeats' Leda and the Swan, so here it is:

 

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still 

Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed 

By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, 

He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. 

 

How can those terrified vague fingers push 

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? 

And how can body, laid in that white rush, 

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? 

 

A shudder in the loins engenders there 

The broken wall, the burning roof and tower 

And Agamemnon dead. 

                                  Being so caught up, 

So mastered by the brute blood of the air, 

Did she put on his knowledge with his power 

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

 

Also, Vocaroo readings of these poems would be awesome! (That's not part of the Yeats poem btw  )

[Lady Artifice]

Oh my goodness, yeeesss! I love this idea, Lady A. I'm a huge poetry fanatic myself. I've even written some, though it's certifiably terrible.

Sharks in the Rivers is lovely.

 

 

I'm very sure it's not. We should both work up the courage to share our own poetry, Gomez. It would be good for us.

[Sifr]

I may have written a lot of poetry at one point...

[HuldraDancer]

Same here, actually won something for one of my poems in a newspaper contest I entered, was not allowed to collect the prize however since I was neither 18 nor did my guardian believe I actually won something. Given how cringey most of my poetry was I don't blame her for not believing that it won me something

[vertigomez]

Share ALL your lovely poetry, BSNers! I'm sure it's delightful. I'm not brave enough yet, but here's my very favorite poem of all time: Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant.

Spoiler

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice—

Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

It was allegedly written when he was seventeen and I'm blown away every time I read it. If I had a philosophy, it would be this poem.

[Steelcan]

Ic eom wunderlicu wiht     wifum on hyhte
neahbuendū nyt;     nængum sceþþe
burgsittendra     nymþe bonan anum.
Staþol min is steapheah     stonde ic on bedde
neoþan ruh nathwær.     Neþeð hwilum
ful cyrtenu   ceorles dohtor
modwlonc meowle     þæt heo on mec gripeð
ræseð mec on reodne     reafað min heafod
fegeð mec on fæsten.     Feleþ sona
mines gemotes     seþe mec nearwað
wif wundēn locc.     Wæt bið þæt eage.

 

You guys posting serious stuff, so I'm gonna post this riddle from the Exeter book (https://en.wikipedia...iki/Exeter_Book)

 

the modern english translation

 

Spoiler

I am a wondrous creature for women in expectation, a service for neighbors. I harm none of the citizens except my slayer alone. My stem is erect, I stand up in bed, hairy somewhere down below. A very comely peasant's daughter, dares sometimes, proud maiden, that she grips at me, attacks me in my redness, plunders my head, confines me in a stronghold, feels my encounter directly, woman with braided hair. Wet be that eye.  

 

 

The "innocent" answer is an onion, the less innocent one, well humor hasn't changed all that much in 1000yrs