~Sophia~ Posted January 13, 2007 Report Share Posted January 13, 2007 (edited) Rudyard Kipling "IF" If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! (I read somewhere that this poem was presented at Ayn Rand's funeral) Edited January 13, 2007 by ~Sophia~ Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
softwareNerd Posted January 13, 2007 Report Share Posted January 13, 2007 (I read somewhere that this poem was presented at Ayn Rand's funeral)Yes, I read that somewhere. She definitely mentions that it is her favorite. It's a great poem. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
~Sophia~ Posted March 15, 2007 Report Share Posted March 15, 2007 (The author is a mystic but I still kind of like this poem). The Invitation by Oriah 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 hearts 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 lifes betrayals or have become shriveled 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
John McVey Posted March 15, 2007 Report Share Posted March 15, 2007 (edited) Back in the late 70's and early 80's, before computerised programming tv, channels would fill gaps with odds and sods. One channel would use music clips. From that time, there are only two that I remember. One is Kermit T. Frog's Rainbow Connection from The Muppet Movie. The other, more importantly, was one that had a deep and lasting effect on me: the words are a paean to a lightbringer, the music itself is moving, the clip was constructed of fantastic views taken from the Apollo Program, the guitar solo is kickass, and I have a major thing for women with voices that are powerful yet remain delightfully feminine. I didn't know what it was called or who it was by until, about 10 years ago, a new friend at uni just happened to have it amongst his collection, some 16 years or so after I first heard it. It turns out that the maker of the clip didn't write the original, that the original is actually a poem/song thing by some other guy many a decade ago and the musician just fixed it up slightly (and did a much better job than the poet, IMHO). Here is that musician's wording of that poem (sung beautifully by his wife at the time): Queen and Huntress chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in a silver chair, State in wonted manner keep. Earth let not an envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to cheer, when day did close. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying heart Space to breath, how short soever. Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Bless us then with wished sight, Thou who makes a day of night. The musician who fixed the poem into the above is Mike Oldfield, and the singer was Sally Oldfield. The song is called Ode to Cynthia, aka Incantations Part 4, aka Excerpt From Incantations. The original poem/song (which I also discovered entirely by accident) is called Hymn to Diana by Ben Jonson as part of a greater work called Cynthia's Revels. Jonson's Hymn had the last verse split up nonsensically and distributed without rhyme or reason amongst the other three verses. JJM Edited March 15, 2007 by John McVey Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
softwareNerd Posted July 26, 2007 Report Share Posted July 26, 2007 (edited) Algernon Charles Swinburne's "Love and Sleep": ... ... ... Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, Some Swinburne poems are simply a delight to read, for the poem itself and in admiration of the craftsmanship. (They must be read out loud.) Check out his poem titled "Dolores". Swinburne contemplates love and lust -- actually, mainly lust. To put it in Objectivist terms, he explores the positives of the "body" side of that mind-body duality. The poem reads like a hymn to lust and bodily pleasure. While worshiping Dolores, the courtesan, Swinburne labels her "Our Lady of Pain", possibly seeing that she is only half the story. Yet, he knows she's important and complains about the Platonic Christian ethic that has sought to ban her, asking "What ailed us, O gods, to desert you ... For creeds that refuse and restrain" Here are selected portions: Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; The heavy white limbs, and the cruel Red mouth like a venomous flower; When these are gone by with their glories, What shall rest of thee then, what remain, O mystic and sombre Dolores, Our Lady of Pain? ... ... ... There are sins it may be to discover, There are deeds it may be to delight. What new work wilt thou find for thy lover, What new passions for daytime or night? What spells that they know not a word of Whose lives are as leaves overblown? What tortures undreamt of, unheard of, Unwritten, unknown? ... ... ... Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time, And bared all thy beauties to one? Ah, where shall we go then for pastime, If the worst that can be has been done? ... ... ... ... In a twilight where virtues are vices, In thy chapels, unknown of the sun, To a tune that enthralls and entices, They were wed, and the twain were as one. For the tune from thine altar hath sounded Since God bade the world's work begin, And the fume of thine incense abounded, To sweeten the sin. ... ... ... Thou shalt bind his bright eyes though he wrestle, Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive; In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle, In his hands all thy cruelties thrive. In the daytime thy voice shall go through him, In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache; Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him Asleep and awake. ... ... ... They shall pass and their places be taken, The gods and the priests that are pure, They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken? They shall perish, and shalt thou endure? ... ... ... We shall see whether hell be not heaven, Find out whether tares be not grain, And the joys of the seventy times seven, Our Lady of Pain. Edited July 26, 2007 by softwareNerd Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
~Sophia~ Posted March 18, 2008 Report Share Posted March 18, 2008 A REAL MAN Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be. Some preach their virtues, and a few Express their lives by what they do. That sort was he. No flowery phrase Or glibly spoken words of praise Won friends for him. He wasn't cheap Or shallow, but his course ran deep, And it was pure. You know the kind. Not many in a life you find Whose deeds outrun their words so far That more than what they seem they are. There are two kinds of lies as well: The kind you live, the ones you tell. Back through his years from age to youth He never acted one untruth. Out in the open light he fought And didn't care what others thought Nor what they said about his fight If he believed that he was right. The only deeds he ever hid Were acts of kindness that he did. What speech he had was plain and blunt. His was an unattractive front. Yet children loved him; babe and boy Played with the strength he could employ, Without one fear, and they are fleet To sense injustice and deceit. No back door gossip linked his name With any shady tale of shame. He did not have to compromise With evil-doers, shrewd and wise, And let them ply their vicious trade Because of some past escapade. Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be. No door at which he ever knocked Against his manly form was locked. If ever man on earth was free And independent, it was he. No broken pledge lost him respect, He met all men with head erect, And when he passed I think there went A soul to yonder firmament So white, so splendid and so fine It came almost to God's design. Edgar A. Guest Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Mammon Posted June 21, 2008 Report Share Posted June 21, 2008 (edited) *** Mod's note: merged with an earlier, similar topic. - sN *** Post your favorite poems, I'll start "If" If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! --Rudyard Kipling Edited June 21, 2008 by softwareNerd Added 'merged-topic' notice Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Zip Posted June 21, 2008 Report Share Posted June 21, 2008 Invictus OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbow'd. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. W. E. Henley Tommy I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind", But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind, There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees! Rudyard Kipling Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
B. Royce Posted June 21, 2008 Report Share Posted June 21, 2008 Life The foolish hand but air doth hold, The reckless, blood and scars; The sure one pockets all the gold And steers the man to the stars. Brian Faulkner Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Dr. Radiaki Posted June 22, 2008 Report Share Posted June 22, 2008 Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night, Dylan Thomas Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
KendallJ Posted June 22, 2008 Report Share Posted June 22, 2008 How did I miss this thread, and how could one so old NOT contain Ulysses? "...Some work of noble note, may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with Gods...." Ulysses - Alfred Lord Tennyson It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honoured of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers; Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this grey spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and through soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
JMeganSnow Posted June 22, 2008 Report Share Posted June 22, 2008 Years ago I read a supremely excellent poem by Joseph Haldeman about, of all things, cryogenic suspension. It was published in Omni magazine, which is now defunct. It contains one of my favorite lines: "A billion suns have risen since my birth I'm old, but still too young for ash or earth." Very good poem, not many people can create a meaningful sonnet that long. I'm also extremely fond of the cowboy poems of Badger Clark, one of which was quoted by Ayn Rand in CUI: The Westerner My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, And each one sleeps alone. Their trails may dim to the grass and rains, For I choose to make my own. I lay proud claim to their blood and name, But I lean on no dead kin; My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. They built high towns on their old log sills, Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, But with new, live rock from the savage hills I'll build as they only dreamed. The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, Till the rails glint down the pass; The desert springs into fruit and wheat And I lay the stones of a solid street Over yesterday's untrod grass. I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth Or the way he makes his prayer. I grant him a white man's room on earth If his game is only square. While he plays it straight I'll call him mate; If he cheats I drop him flat. Old class and rank are a wornout lie, For all clean men are as good as I, And a king is only that. I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state That will spoon me out my food. A stout heart sings in the fray with fate And the shock and sweat are good. From noon to noon all the earthly boon That I ask my God to spare Is a little daily bread in store, With the room to fight the strong for more, And the weak shall get their share. The sunrise plains are a tender haze And the sunset seas are gray, But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze Over me and the big today. What good to me is a vague "maybe" Or a mournful "might have been," For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. To see more of his poems, go to http://www.cowboypoetry.com/badger.htm#Westerner Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Thomas M. Miovas Jr. Posted June 22, 2008 Report Share Posted June 22, 2008 I think all of the poems presented on this page of this thread at least are great poems. I love to write poetry, and I have a few of them on my website in the esthetics section under "poetry." http://www.appliedphilosophyonline.com/esthetics.htm Of course, my own poetry says what I want to say to the world, so I'm rather found of them. Here is a sample: Here is a Clue by Thomas M. Miovas, Jr. All Rights Reserved 1993 Here is a clue as what to do While 'tempting to correct the glue That binds your mind and body to A culture stuck in moods of blue: Remember art is Man's best way Of realizing causal sway -- The cult of moralizing gray Won't stand a chance to give a nay. For an artistic vision bright Enlightens all to see the right Of Man the hero at his height And glories even in the night. 'Tis not all lost to those who see The power of philosophy, But honor those who's glory be Made real by concretizing thee. Take up the banner of true art: A necessary vital part Not often used to make a start (Most think of axes then depart). Stay here and use your mind, to wit: A change of soul to further it Along such lines as proper knit; Integrity will cure the rift. The mind, it too needs nutrients To help it through the rudiments Of carving life from all the rents Put forth by those at variance. Let not your soul be want of life Nor give into opposing strife, For use of art as cutting knife Can turn a man into a smythe. 'Tis his own soul he seeks to carve From out of wasteland with no bard; His heroes often left to starve Because it's thought to be too hard. But if it's difficult to be A hero in this land of free, Where else do you expect to see Advice for rationality? For justice is and justice must Become the one to drive to dust Dishonest preachers gaining trust Of people's souls driving to bust. Productiveness is not all clay That's shaped by mindful hands at play; One's spirit, too, needs to display The prideful vigor of the day. Be independent and be smart, Let not the otherism start To drain the knowledge of your part: Simply compose heroic art. Look deep enough and you will find, That vision locked within your mind; Philosophy and art combined Lets few men settle for the rind. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
B. Royce Posted June 23, 2008 Report Share Posted June 23, 2008 Years ago I read a supremely excellent poem by Joseph Haldeman about, of all things, cryogenic suspension. It was published in Omni magazine, which is now defunct. It contains one of my favorite lines: "A billion suns have risen since my birth I'm old, but still too young for ash or earth." Very good poem, not many people can create a meaningful sonnet that long. I'm also extremely fond of the cowboy poems of Badger Clark, one of which was quoted by Ayn Rand in CUI: The Westerner My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, And each one sleeps alone. Their trails may dim to the grass and rains, For I choose to make my own. I lay proud claim to their blood and name, But I lean on no dead kin; My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. They built high towns on their old log sills, Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, But with new, live rock from the savage hills I'll build as they only dreamed. The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, Till the rails glint down the pass; The desert springs into fruit and wheat And I lay the stones of a solid street Over yesterday's untrod grass. I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth Or the way he makes his prayer. I grant him a white man's room on earth If his game is only square. While he plays it straight I'll call him mate; If he cheats I drop him flat. Old class and rank are a wornout lie, For all clean men are as good as I, And a king is only that. I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state That will spoon me out my food. A stout heart sings in the fray with fate And the shock and sweat are good. From noon to noon all the earthly boon That I ask my God to spare Is a little daily bread in store, With the room to fight the strong for more, And the weak shall get their share. The sunrise plains are a tender haze And the sunset seas are gray, But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze Over me and the big today. What good to me is a vague "maybe" Or a mournful "might have been," For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. To see more of his poems, go to http://www.cowboypoetry.com/badger.htm#Westerner These are great, Janet. Thanks for posting. The first, above, almost immediately set my mind a-going, thus; The only stars that shot out at my birth Were my two hands---to clasp the best of earth. Then, as I get carried away, A billion times the earth has circled round And still the spring of life's not fully wound. The hour hand of man has just begun And Reason, with its minutemen, does run. Excuse me, Jennifer. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Zip Posted July 16, 2008 Report Share Posted July 16, 2008 A new favorite... by my daughter Alanna. Dared by a Dandelion Twist a dandelions stem, and turn the seeds to the wind. Such is the way of jumping, when one knows not where she'll land. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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