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Poem for today's Journal
 
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Below are the 11 most recent journal entries recorded in Poem for today's LiveJournal:

Monday, November 20th, 2006
1:20 pm
[snailrind]
Happy the Man
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.



This is a rather nifty ode by the Roman poet Horace.  His full name was Quintus Horatius Flaccus, and that's about all I know about him.  Oh, except that I once knew a cat with the same name.

Current Mood: chipper
Wednesday, July 5th, 2006
7:43 pm
[snailrind]
'To the States'
Since July 4th was American Independance day, I thought I'd add one by an American poet: Walt Whitman.  I find him too wordy a lot of the time, but he's written some gems.  In his day he was an innovator, and his free-flowing style has had a big influence on modern poetry.  He died in 1892, but you wouldn't think it from the way he wrote.


WHY reclining, interrogating? Why myself and all drowsing?
What deepening twilight! scum floating atop of the waters!
Who are they, as bats and night-dogs, askant in the Capitol?
What a filthy Presidentiad! (O south, your torrid suns! O north, your
arctic freezings!)
Are those really Congressmen? are those the great Judges? is that the
President?
Then I will sleep awhile yet--for I see that These States sleep, for
reasons;
(With gathering murk--with muttering thunder and lambent shoots, we
all duly awake,
South, north, east, west, inland and seaboard, we will surely awake.)
Monday, July 3rd, 2006
4:49 pm
[snailrind]
From Kubla Khan, by S. T. Coleridge
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !


        A damsel with a dulcimer
        In a vision once I saw:
        It was an Abyssinian maid,
        And on her dulcimer she played,
        Singing of Mount Abora.
        Could I revive within me
        Her symphony and song,
        To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Sunday, July 2nd, 2006
10:37 am
[kaz_itsmyname]
John Cooper Clarke
...I WROTE THE SONGS

by
John Cooper Clarke


I WROTE THE SONGS THAT NEARLY MADE

THE BOTTOM LINE OF THE HIT PARADE

ALMOST ANTHEMS, SHOULDA BEEN HITS

SONGS LIKE... PUTTIN' ON THE RITZ

SOME ENCHANTED AFTERNOON

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO LEVENSHULME

DANCIN' IN THE DAYLIGHT, SINGIN' IN THE SMOG

YOU AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A HEDGEHOG

SO CLOSE AND YET SO FAR

DO YOU REMEMBER THEY WAY WE ARE

I'D LIKE TO GET YOU ON A SPEEDBOAT TO CHINA

FROM AN IDEA BY GEORGE STEINER

AIN'T NO BLAG - UNCLE'S GOT A BRAND NEW JAG

AIN'T NO SLOUCH - MAMA'S GOT A BRAND NEW COUCH

SHE AIN'T HEAVY, SHE'S MY SISTER

NOT TO LEAVE OUT TWIST AND WHISPER

BRAND NEW LEAPORDSKIN PILLBOX GLOVE

BABY YOU AND ME WE GOT A GREASY KIND OF LOVE



He has done so much, not always sure its my thing, but some raise a smile. Its good to listen to them and hear the rhythm.
http://www.cyberspike.com/clarke/poemlist.html
Saturday, July 1st, 2006
8:58 pm
[snailrind]
Something inspired me...
The air is still and hot, my breathing shallow, I hate this weather.

It makes singing difficult, when the air brings on that thickening:

Motes of pollen squeeze my alveoli; even speech is raw.

I'm sprawled on the sheet: there's nothing else to do.

The birds have all stopped, disconsolate on window ledges, beaks agape:

They're waiting for the cool blue dusk to ease their stupor,

Much good may it do them; time has never dragged so slow.

I wish you'd bring me a breath of Autumn when you come.

Its air is gold and sweet, like linctus--always in a rainstorm,

That's when my sung notes ring most true, and I connect with you.
Friday, June 30th, 2006
4:18 pm
[kaz_itsmyname]
A poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
THE LOVER FORSAKETH HIS UNKIND LOVE.

by
Sir Thomas Wyatt

My heart I gave thee, not to do it pain,
But to preserve, lo, it to thee was taken.
I served thee, not that I should be for-saken ;
But, that I should receive reward again,
I was content thy servant to remain ;
And not to be repayed after this fashion.
Now, since in thee there is none other reason,
Displease thee not, if that I do refrain.
Unsatiate of my woe, and thy desire ;
Assured by craft for to excuse thy fault :
But, since it pleaseth thee to feign default,
Farewell, I say, departing from the fire.
For he that doth believe, bearing in hand,
Plougheth in water, and soweth in the sand.


I don't know much about this guy, I must confess. I found a website which has a lot of his work, and I started reading there http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/wyattbib.htm

One of his first jobs was in 1516 as "Sewer Extraordinary to Henry VIII"! He ended up doing many 'jobs' in King Henry's court, including many abroad. He was ambassador to Charles V in Spain and became very disallusioned with court life.
Monday, June 26th, 2006
11:00 pm
[kaz_itsmyname]
Snippets from Hindu Gurus

Perhaps not what most people think of when it comes to poetry, but still poetical and beautiful...


Dark One, hear me, I am mad with visions.
Eaten up by seperation.
I wander from place to place
covered in ash and clothed in skins.
My body is wasting all because of you.
Distraught and desperate,
I go from forest to forest.
Immortal and Unborn One, visit your beggar.
Extinguish her pain with your
pleasurable touch.

by Mirabai


If all the land were turned to paper
and all the seas turned to ink,
and all the forests into pens
to write with,
they would still not suffice
to describe the greatness of the guru.

by Kabir

Sunday, June 25th, 2006
7:14 pm
[snailrind]
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, by John Keats



Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Saturday, June 24th, 2006
9:05 pm
[snailrind]
Leda and the Swan
This poem by W. B. Yeats is based on the ancient Greek myth, in whch the god Zeus takes on the form of a swan and rapes a young woman called Leda.  Eventually, this leads to the fall of the city of Troy.


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?
Thursday, June 22nd, 2006
1:04 pm
[kaz_itsmyname]
Shamshad Khan and others
This website takes you to a collaboration between spoken word poets and acoustic musicians at Womad. I particularly love Shamshad Khan, but there are 4 different performances there, hope someone enjoys them!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio3/womad2004/world_wide_unplugged.shtml
Wednesday, June 21st, 2006
5:47 pm
[kaz_itsmyname]
Today its Longfellow
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

'Shall I have naught that is fair?' saith he;
'Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.'

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

'My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,'
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

'They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.'

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'T was an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
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