Poetry Appreciation (do NOT post your own poetry)

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

- Robert Frost

 

This is an actual poem he wrote. One of many that he wrote. If you have never checked it out find a book called The Rose That Grew From Concrete. It's a book with the collection poems that were written by Tupac during his life and was put together and published after his death.

 

If you write, then what you write matters. If you ever put something together and get it published and just only one person is touched by what you have written then it matters. Always remember that and never stop thinking that your words and thoughts matter.

 

I'm like that as well with the bit of sci-fi & superhero related ideas that I have written down or drawn. I've got a few ideas for superheroes that I've had since I was in junior high that I wouldn't mind doing something with and since there are not that many sci-fi or fantasy related book series with black protaganist in them I have a couple of ideas in that area that I've thought about taking a chance with. Still have hopes of one day doing them and seeing them put out there for the public even if they don't become highly successful in any way. Just to say I did something I dreamed about doing since I was a child would be satisfaction enough.

 

The Awakening Age - Ben Okri

The Awakening Age
Ben Okri




O ye who travel the meridian line,
May the vision of a new world within you shine.

May eyes that have lived with poverty's rage,
See through to the glory of the awakening age.

For we are all richly linked in hope,
Woven in history, like a mountain rope.

Together we can ascend to a new height,
Guided by our heart's clearest light.

When perceptions are changed there's much to gain,
A flowering of truth instead of pain.

There's more to a people than their poverty;
There's their work, wisdom, and creativity.

Along the line may our lives rhyme,
To make a loving harvest of space and time

 

Abiku - Wole Soyinka

Wanderer child. It is the same child who dies and
returns again and again to plague the mother.
-Yoruba belief


Abiku

In vain your bangles cast
Charmed circles at my feet
I am Abiku, calling for the first
And repeated time.

Must I weep for goats and cowries
For palm oil and sprinkled ask?
Yams do not sprout amulets
To earth Abiku's limbs.

So when the snail is burnt in his shell,
Whet the heated fragment, brand me
Deeply on the breast - you must know him
When Abiku calls again.

I am the squirrel teeth, cracked
The riddle of the palm; remember
This, and dig me deeper still into
The god's swollen foot.

Once and the repeated time, ageless
Though I puke, and when you pour
Libations, each finger points me near
The way I came, where

The ground is wet with mourning
White dew suckles flesh-birds
Evening befriends the spider, trapping
Flies in wine-froth;

Night, and Abiku sucks the oil
From lamps. Mothers! I'll be the
Suppliant snake coiled on the doorstep
Yours the killing cry.

The ripest fruit was saddest
Where I crept, the warmth was cloying.
In silence of webs, Abiku moans, shaping
Mounds from the yolk.

Written by Wole Soyinka


[YOUTUBE]6vFP3NXHV8o[/YOUTUBE]

 

When shadows grow longer - Schwadorf

When shadows grow longer
and the sun sets for the forthcoming night;
our sorrow is stronger
as darkness and death are now near by our side.

Many a sun will set
and tears of grief will be shed.

 

This poem has deep meaning in my life, take the road less traveled by, it will always serve you well....

Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To 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 there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In 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 sigh
Somewhere 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.

 

This is one of my faves... and it's meant to be tongue-in-cheek. I think I posted it once before somewhere on this site, but not in the poetry thread.

"Bloodbath"
Christian Drake- Copyright 2005

And it came in like the barking of dogs in your belly,
the lunatic dogs that bark every full moon on the dot.
The clock in you unwound, the little room collapsed,
and the blood trickled out in a thin red ribbon,
licking the white sheets.
They call it a period, but it’s really a run-on sentence
babbling on all week. It’s the definition of womanhood
reduced by repetition to the tedium of tampon commercials,
punchlines, and the day-long math test of cramps
shooting through you like swimmer’s stitches
while you’re in the middle of the river.
And I watch you fight to swim to the other side
of the bed, kicking, gasping hard between gulps of chamomile tea.
But when the blood is calm, it is beautiful
as a bone-handled knife. It dreams, and as it dreams
it drools like a baby. It’s the drip-drip of a faucet
as we go to sleep, it’s a bee beating itself against the glass.
It’s a presence, not like a ghost but like a memory
in your skin, changing the pitch and timbre
of your body to my ear as I pull my fingers across
your belly and you find my lips in the dark like a magnet
and I slip my fingers through your hair as gently as thoughts
and you say,
"Baby, not tonight. I’m on my period."
And I say,

Baby, I will make love to you until we look like a war zone.
Give me the sweet murder of your body
until they string up crime scene tape across the bedroom,
because period sex is awesome.
I will love you like surgery and I will transplant your heart.
I will love you like a horror movie,
’cause it’s about to be a bloodbath in here.
Because I need a hot transfusion of your love, type A-positive
because you can’t B-negative when I’m giving you my O, O, O…
I want to surf your crimson wave,
and invite your Aunt Flow for a threesome.
I want to reverse your curse, because the Red Sox are in town.
I want to make this a "special time."
I want to put my submarine in your Red Sea
and hunt for Red October, and do not hesitate
to ask me to go snorkeling down there.
Because if I’m going to order the finest steak,
I’m going to eat it rare.
Yeah, because I crave the taste of blood,
and I want your nerves raw like a bullet wound valentine.
And whether it’s hard or sweet, we’re going to leave
Rorscharchs on the sheets
and handprints on the walls.
So throw that tampon in the air like a cotton Sputnik, just lob it,
’cause in the end, I want to be bloodier than John Wayne Bobbitt.
Your time of the month has perfect timing
because you open like the elevator doors in "The Shining."
I like some ketchup when I’m dining,
but I want to taste copper like I’m dying.
So let the woman in you make a man out of me.
Let’s get unclean. Because this lovemaking is no less perfect
than the moon rising in you, and this lovemaking is the gospel music
made by the rhythm of flesh and blood and flesh and blood,
and this blood is the closest I will ever be to making love
to your insides, sailing through your veins and arteries.
This blood on my skin is the photograph I take
when I visit your heart.

 

Selected parts of this poem are in the closing dialogue in "Thurgood" the one man play by Laurence Fishburne currently playing (brilliant play by the way, highly recommend watching) on HBO, it documents the life and times of Thurgood Marshall a college classmate of Langston's.

Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!


O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

 

In The Afterglow


She lay serenely in the afterglow
The sweat of passion spent
Vaporized and no more

Her hair tousled, frames a peaceful face
The red glow of the cheeks still visible
Her eyes resting, her mouth open slightly
Her full lips still moist, her pale skin smooth

No hint remains of what passed
The contortions of orgasm
Which were etched into her innocent face
Linger no more but shall again soon

She lies beneath a silken sheet
Stretched more tightly across her breasts
Showing them in sharp relief
The cool air from the open window

Arouses her nipples
Which stand proud through the silk
She murmurs in her sleep and squirms in unison
As her arousal continues elsewhere...

If her lover does not return
Her satisfaction will be in her own hand
Author: Paul Curtis

 

Be honest tam......you watched that Halloween simpson episode didnt you?