poetry you like

[Aional]

poets you like, best poems in your eyes.. .What touched you recently, what you found nice... Etc. In languages you wish, though, please, that everyone could understand...otherwise it is pointless. :roll:

SO: this morning's my favorite(yes, TODAY I began my day with poetry not mine, :oops: )

When we two are parted
by Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

[Kitty]

Wordsworth William:

My heart leaps up when I behold
a rainbow in the sky
so was it when my life began
so is it now I am a men
so be it if I shall grow old
or let me die
The child is father of the men:
And I could wish my days to be
bound each to each by natural piety

I had to read poetry for school one day and choose this one cause of that one sentence that I still can't how to explain unfasbahr...   "The child is father of the men"
It's very well warm speaking I love this men poems, he has another one "I wandered lonely as a cloud" (the first poem I've ever read from him)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

 

 



William Wordsworth

[EWolff]

Here has read recently... I hope to you it will be clear.... Author Richard Christian Metson.Very much it was pleasant to me.

"The vampire"

Night. The person. A rain.
Thirst or hunger-pain.
Search. On a trace. A scent.
He at the wheel. Faster.
Pools. Rushes the car.
Speed. Even faster.
The radio voice sounds.
News. News. Where?
Accident. And blood.
Will face cars.
Nearby absolutely.
Small city.
Whether it is a lot of victims, is not present?
Pools shine, shine.
Thirst. I wish. To drink.
Speed to add still.
As. Minutes. Creep.
Pools. Flies the car.
Here he on a place. Park.
To hide and look.
Corpses. Blood. It is blood.
Black varnish shines.
Black at lanterns.
Here gapers - crowd.
Sirens around howl.
To wait. To hide and wait.
To wait and suffer. Suffer.
Hour. He sits and waits.
Two. A cigarette. A pain.
Smoke hunger to appease.
Bitterness a throat to fill.
Thermos. And coffee burns down.
Bitterness. And blood salt.
Also it is sweetish...
Taste of death the stranger
It to what you will not compare.
On a forehead sweat slides.
To wait. A cigarette still.
Perspiration and nausea.
Street fires.
Howl police sirens.
"First aid". Here.
Shine at gapers in eyes.
Greedy, hungry shine.
Stretcher and bed-sheets.
Red white to close.
Flesh. The flesh is tormented.
Death. Creeps. A fever.
So, tics-so. To wait.
Hour. And two. Or three.
In a throat a nausea clod.
To wait. To hide and wait.
The stench in the car is a sweat.
Sweat and the eaten smoke.
Uncountable cigarettes -
Chain gone out fire.
"Fast" goes away.
The crumpled car
The lorry on itself has taken away.
Corpsecarry. Bags.
Black polyethylene.
The black. Shines. Shines.
Vjik. Take away. And following.
Looks. Greedy. Crowd.
Someone cries. Not all.
Gapers. Flashes. They
Have come tearing along, that it to remove.
Newsdealers. A scent at them.
Well here, again silence.
The rain  has gone is stronger.
Streets all are empty.
Drunk, being unsteady, has passed.
Air crude. A fog.
Again he remained one.
So, has looked back. Calm.
And bodies have taken away.
The door the car claps.
As the back has become numb.
To leave. Sidewise to approach.
To look - at first casually.
No not to hasten, not to hasten.
So, we will stand. Forward.
Park. And round the house.
Sleep. And windows are silent.
Dead city. Forward.
Here it. A chalk and blood.
Blood. And as the chalk is white.
Contour. Wet asphalt.
More close. A step. Still a step.
Contour. To step.
Inside to enter. In blood.
About not to hasten, suck in.
Sight, skin most.
To feel. To feel.
Nostrils having inflated, costs.
Eyelids has covered, is silent.
Concentrate, What?
Exhalation and breath. Is!
The woman. And a fright.
In a pocket mirror front.
Flash of another's headlights.
The hulk of the lorry.
Explosion and terrible pain.
Metal gnash.To howl.
Shout. Will face. Death.
Fire table in darkness.
Time, stand, stand.
Has concentrated. So.
As water sponge to suck in -
Death, horror and blood.
Hunger to sate the.
I see, I see death.
I recover so.
To continue to live,
I drink death.
I  Absorption  a pain.
Horror I guzzle also fear.
With each second is stronger.
Blood from asphalt to lick -
So much forces will not give,
How simply to stand and look
In the past. In anywhere.
In what already is not present.
Again and again I will scroll.
Horror. Shouts and a pain.
Blood. Collision. Death.
Here he, my drug.
Я it is sated. Quite.
To me. Warm. Well.
Dose. The. Has received.
Breaks. Mine. Has passed.
Yes, the habit is strong.
Death-it my life.
Blood another's e bread.
To me on asphalt a feast
Has prepared death.
Here lightening has come.
All. To a drop. To the bottom.
All. It is time to leave.
Back sits down. The motor.
Has touched the car. A rain.
Streets as shine.
Black and wet shine.
All seems blood.
Sleep, small town, sleep.
He gets a card.
With card in the car rustles.
In safety. Away.
He is sated quite.
Sigarette still.
Wind to let in a window.
Radio that buzzes?
Search. Where still death?
Where still explosion and blood?
Blows by a knife? A pain?
He on a trace goes.
Somewhere a gain to it.
Somewhere the death-that to live.
Soon. Hardly to suffer.
For now - he is full.

[caelum]

I recently wrote a short trilogy, inspired by the art of H.R. Giger and the music of Electric Wizard and Machinae Supremacy. They don't reflect my usual works, but I thought I'd post them and see what you people think.


The Human Soul (Vision 1)

Hard surface,
cold to the touch.
Composition unknown.

Perfect barrier,
no fault detectable.
Inside unknown.

Mystery unsolved,
with no lead or clue.
The human soul.

Vulnerability,
shielded by words.
The human soul.


Dead nor Alive (Vision 2)

Doomed to die,
the empire of man.
Everything must perish,
the natural plan.

See it rise,
the empire of steel.
Biomechanoids are born,
and nature must kneel.

Enter immortal machines,
living, yet mostly dead.
Man has made a god,
human enhanced by lead.


Man Eternal (Vision 3)

The sons of Adam
need no longer fight.
They are now eternal,
through technological might.

Mankind has found
the supreme state of being.
A mechanical monster,
strapped to the living.

Pumps and valves
move out of sight.
Our blood still flows
and gives us light.

Huge metallic wires,
plugged to our crania,
will keep us alive,
for the next few millenia.

[Kitty]

simply nice! well written, I think you are like my boyfriend who chooses his words very closely not? I just write what I think but he really looks up his words etc changes things when they don't seem to fit in anyway   But I like that poem!!

Greetings!
Me

[caelum]

simply nice! well written, I think you are like my boyfriend who chooses his words very closely not? I just write what I think but he really looks up his words etc changes things when they don't seem to fit in anyway   But I like that poem!!

Thank you for contributing. Yes, it sometimes takes me many days to finalise the wording and the structure of a poem, but also there are times when the whole thing falls into place in my head and I just need to write it down somewhere so that I don't forget it. Here are some of those, they represent the usual styles and themes of my works.

A Life Like This

Who would’ve imagined
a life like this?

Life,
in a world of sounds,
of voices and cries.
A world of colours,
of smells and tastes.
A world where one
can feel alive.

Now,
who would've imagined it?

No one.

For no one imagined
before a life like this.

Life,
in a senseless world,
where one must sense
every joy
and every pain.
A maddening experience,
that's what it is.

Now,
who will remember, a life like this,
in a place like this?

No one.

For this is really it.



Misplaced

A journey through mist,
in the endless greyness.
Dark clouds above,
before and around.

The feel of moisture on my brow,
a drop of water on my skin.
The fog is alive,
with me inside.

My moving body causes swirls,
in the standing, colourless void.
I breathe it in,
I breathe it out.

Solid things don't exist,
in a world of emptiness.
There are no sounds,
they are not real.

I am not true, I do not belong.
I have no direction, no destination.
I meander endlessly,
in shapeless mist.

[lacrima_elix]

@Caelum

The first ones are better, because they are emotion recreated in peace. The last ones are just emotion. And what counts in the end is not your emotion, but the reader's. Whatever.  

[Kitty]

well for me the opposit counts, I liked the last once better just cause they really resemble, you can feel the truth and the honesty in it and I really like that about poems...for me Lacrima poems are not my nor anothers emotions they are just one at their own and resemble something and out of every poem one can learn his own lessons rather it is written like the last or the first ones  

Simply great poems! congrats!

Greetings
Me

[lacrima_elix]

@Longwaytogo

Haha, I could have sworn you'll say that! :lol:  "Life Like This" sounds pretty much like one of your poems. You are too emotional, Kitty, no offence.

Hug

[Kitty]

@ lacrima: yes I become predictable isn't it, I noticed a lot around here there are many people who write in the same style in the forum very odd   naja everybody has his talents  
na I wouldn't say too emotional, what is too emotional ha   but I would say sensitive, was else in the past right, I haven't been like this since birth but anyway I like being me like this instead of the previous cold hearted human  

Lovely greetz!
Me

[lacrima_elix]

I noticed a lot around here there are many people who write in the same style in the forum very odd  

That's just because teenagers tend to think& feel alike. They are still looking for their identity and its a painful process, they seek attention, but nobody seems to understand them, they yearn for love and love sometimes hurts, they often like dark things, like dark music, dark poetry - mainly because they want to shock the people around. And most of all, they feel the need to express themselves - in long "philosophical" poems, with lots of rhetorical questions and lots of definitions (showing the way they see life, death, love etc.)
Well, those are the young poets or at least that's what I saw in most of my students. (Being a literature teacher, they often come to me with their poems and I always try to help them. I've also noticed that those poets are mostly girls (boys find other ways of expressing themselves) and they unfortunately stop writing after reaching a certain age.)

Hug

[Kitty]

well that's odd cause I started writing while many stop writing as my teacher of dutch told me last year...most teens write when they become 13 à 14 and stop at the age of 17 (that's his expierience) while I became a fullwriter at my 16 I wrote at my 13 till 14 and a half and stopped till my 16 then I start writing again. Now I'm 19 and sometimes see my teacher again and then he sais girl do you still write?
but what you say makes sense although I didn't have a normal youth you could say, I mean I dealed with a lot even before I started secundary school and my teacher blamed that for the fact that I still write about those things, i don't write to shock you know, I write cause that's what I feel and I can't help it but by write it down as I said before to you, I really need my writing to get peace in my soul,my heart. And you know what frightens me the most? the fact that I have love in large amount around me and that I still yearn for it in my poems, I write so often about those misterous angel that has to cross my path and when I reread it I think girl your angel already passed, you already have him and though, still young I wanted to be grown up to fast and missed the most important time of my life  :cry: anyway can't put the clock back...

Greetings
me

[caelum]

@lacrima_elix

I see what you mean and I can indeed find a lot of myself in what you have said. Or rather, I can see a lot of my past self in it. My Misplaced poem shows the emotions I felt about a year ago, although I wrote it just a few months back. I was a bit lost and didn't really know what to do with myself. I yearned for love and I yearned to love. But this past year has really taught me much. I have found love, and have lived in the bliss and grief that it brings. And no matter how much it sometimes hursts, it is a feeling that I cannot live without.

What comes to the last part, about gender and age, you might be right. I am a boy and will soon turn 18, and I started writing about five years ago. There have been times when I haven't found inspiration, but those times have always ended. I have never found a better way to channel my feelings than writing poems, or at least some of my feelings. Anger and frustration I let out by going running or by engaging in other forms of physical excersice, but joy, love, confusion and such more abstract feelings go easily onto paper through a pen or a pencil. And this has not changed through the years.

But remember, saying to a teenager that what he or she is going through is normal and happens with most people of the age group can cause frustration in itself, for many in our world crave to be different from the gray mass that is normality. That is why so many have a drive to seek themselves in varying sorts of literature and music. I myself was one of them, but I have come to realize that I am nothing without other people and that the self-conception that I have is often very different from the conception that other people have of me. Afterall, it is very hard for a teenager to find understanding in a world where "grown ups" try to see things in a rational way. For myself rational thinking is only a tool, not the basis for life. Emotions are the foundation, the means and the end to everything that is human. "One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes" (The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupéry, my fevorite book)

Hopefully you got something out of that, I sometimes confuse even myself with the words that spill out of me. Cheers!

[lacrima_elix]

@Caelum

"Grown-ups are very very strange."
Everything you have said is absolutely true, teenagers are different, each one of them is special, feelings are great etc. But I was talking about POETRY. You must admit that although everybody has feelings, not everybody is a poet. I was talking about VALUE. And again you must admit that not all naive things wrote by teenagers (and not only teenagers) has value - except, maybe, for them.
Bottom line: if one wants to be a poet, he or she must read a lot, learn from the other poets, understand that poetry is more than just feelings written on a sheet of paper. Otherwise, he or she will never become a poet and will remain just a teenager bursting with emotion and stuff. Dixi.

[Kitty]

you see that's another thing... not all who writes "poems" want to be seen as a poet... like I just write to write it out and not like I want to be a great poet...so...