Trigg Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 In Broken Images He is quick, thinking in clear images; I am slow, thinking in broken images. He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images; I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images, Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance; Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance. Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact, Questioning their relevance, I question the fact. When the fact fails him, he questions his senses; When the fact fails me, I approve my senses. He continues quick and dull in his clear images; I continue slow and sharp in my broken images. He in a new confusion of his understanding; I in a new understanding of my confusion. Link to comment
Guest hakkamike Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Robert Graves Link to comment
Trigg Posted September 5, 2004 Author Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Yup, Graves-great poem if you really read it. My favorite is an oldie but a goodie by Frost THE ROAD NOT TAKEN Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference. Yup, all the difference Link to comment
John & Hai Yan Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration findsOr bends with the remover to remove.O, no! It is an ever fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wandering bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his highth be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come.Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved. William Shakespeare Link to comment
Trigg Posted September 5, 2004 Author Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 It's a shakespear sonnit---don't know the name?? Link to comment
John & Hai Yan Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Right you are Trigg! Sonnet 116William Shakespeare Probably the most quoted and most widely known of Shakespeare's 154 Sonnets. Link to comment
hypoclear Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Well I had to cheat.. google.. but here are a few I found worth while. Geeez! i didn't know we were such a literate bunch.. There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven -A time to give birth, and a time to die;A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.- Ecclesiastes, 3:1-2 Spring passes and one remembers one's innocenceSummer passes and one remembers one's exuberanceAutumn passes and one remembers one's reverenceWinter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.- Yoko Ono, Season of Glass Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature— the assurancethat dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.- Rachel Carson Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil paintingand autumn a mosaic of them all. - Stanley Horowitz This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and glowing, on sea and continues and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls. - John Muir Only the ephemeral is of lasting value.- Ionesco To see what is in front of one's nose needs a constant struggle.- George Orwell Mark and Bea Link to comment
cosmiclobster Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Mark and Bea: Nice ones! Being a lover of nature, I especially liked Carson, Horowitz and (or course) Muir. Thank you!!! Link to comment
sylinchinastill Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 You Fit Into Meyou fit into melike a hook into an eye a fish hookan open eyeMargaret Atwood Persimmons by Li-Young LeeIn sixth grade Mrs. Walkerslapped the back of my headand made me stand in the cornerfor not knowing the differencebetween persimmon and precision.How to choose persimmons. This is precision.Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.Sniff the bottoms. The sweet onewill be fragrant. How to eat:put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.Chew on the skin, suck it,and swallow. Now, eatthe meat of the fruit,so sweetall of it, to the heart. Donna undresses, her stomach is white.In the yard, dewy and shiveringwith crickets, we lie naked,face-up, face-down,I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.Naked: I've forgotten.Ni, wo: you me.I part her legs, remember to tell hershe is beautiful as the moon. Other words that got me into trouble werefight and fright, wren and yarn.Fight was what I did when I was frightened,fright was what I felt when I was fighting.Wrens are small, plain birds,yarn is what one knits with.Wrens are soft as yarn.My mother made birds out of yarn.I loved to watch her tie the stuff;a bird, a rabbit, a wee man. Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to classand cut it upso everyone could tastea Chinese apple. Knowingit wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eatbut watched the other faces. My mother said every persimmon has a suninside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face. Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaperforgotten and not yet ripe.I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,where each morning a cardinal sang. The sun, the sun. Finally understanding he was going blind,my father would stay up all one nightwaiting for a song, a ghost.I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,and sweet as love. This year, in the muddy lighting of my parents' cellar, I rummage, lookingfor something I lost.My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs, black cane between his knees,hand over hand, gripping the handle. He's so happy that I've come home.I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.All gone, he answers. Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.I sit beside him and untie three paintings by my father:Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.Two cats preening.Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth. He raises both hands to touch the cloth,asks, Which is this? This is persimmons, Father. Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,the strength, the tenseprecision in the wrist.I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed. These I painted blind.Some things never leave a person:scent of the hair of one you love,the texture of persimmons,in your palm, the ripe weight. Link to comment
Trigg Posted September 5, 2004 Author Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Well, after reading and re-reading that one- me thinks I need go see the wife for a few moments.--do loves dem persimmons Link to comment
jkobman Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 How about a one-liner from humorist Ogden Nash? I love work, I can sit and look at it all day. Link to comment
Guest DragonFlower Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 While I was walking along Frost's forest path fallen along the winding trailthe crisp autumn leaves lingerflashing their colors at the sundressing the earth in bright clothesto wait for the cold of winter for my wife Link to comment
Guest DragonFlower Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 A thought towards our families I stood very still,gazing out over the neat rows of fragile white markers It is so quiet,here in the Punchbowl ,insulated from the noisy city below Here in the caldera of some long dead volcanoe,lie not long dead warriors I ponder my very existence and the luck that has allowed me to tarry here,under blue skies On that day,long ago,my father was at sea,by some twist of fate Or perhaps he would lie here,with his eternally sleeping comrades I stood very still,gazing out over the friends and family that gathered at the crest of the hill The grain of the oaken wood,that I have chosen to convey his remains,sings to me of nature and life The report of the salute,rings in my ears,the crisp snap,as the flag is folded A hero's honor's,for a man,who did nothing more than a hundred thousand others Perhaps,I am sure,they were all hero's,in their own way and their own time Only fate,says which will die soon and which will die late I stood very still,gazing out over my life,what will fate have for me? for my father-- Link to comment
cosmiclobster Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 Dragon Flower: VERY nice - Thank you Link to comment
Martytb Posted September 5, 2004 Report Share Posted September 5, 2004 I find it very ironic and romantic that you fine gentlemen have entwined yourselves in a culture that reveres poetry.Please post some Chinese poetry, which is quite different from the Western style.I have read a great deal about the Chinese love for poetry, but have not had the chance to read any. I only know that they do not rhyme words. Link to comment
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