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Poetry - Charon - 10-19-2017
Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953
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.
He wrote this for his father. https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/browse-poems-poets
RE: Poetry - Charon - 10-19-2017
Time to be the fine line of light
Carrie Fountain
between the blind and the sill, nothing
really. There are so many things
that destroy. To think solely of them
is as foolish and expedient as not
thinking of them at all. All I want
is to be the river though I return
again and again to the clouds.
All I want is to stop beginning sentences
with All I want. No—no really all
I want is this morning: my daughter
and my son saying “Da!” back and forth
over breakfast, cracking each other up
while eating peanut butter toast
and raspberries, making a place for
the two of them I will, eventually,
no longer be allowed to enter. Time to be
the fine line. Time to practice being
the line. And then maybe the darkness.
Copyright © 2017 by Carrie Fountain. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 19, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.
RE: Poetry - Charon - 10-19-2017
She Walks in Beauty
George Gordon Byron, 1788 - 1824
I.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
III.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Written June 12, 1814. This poem is in the public domain.
RE: Poetry - Charon - 10-19-2017
Anxiety
D. H. Lawrence, 1885 - 1930
The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun,
The crisping steam of a train
Melts in the air, while two black birds
Sweep past the window again.
Along the vacant road, a red
Bicycle approaches; I wait
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy
To leap down at our gate.
He has passed us by; but is it
Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still
She has no rest.
RE: Poetry - Charon - 10-19-2017
You Can Do Anything
There’s a mountain before you
One you feel you can never climb
The distance is frightening,
but I know you can make it to the other side
If only you try
I’ve seen the strength
that you carry inside
I’ve seen the will, the passion
the fight in your eyes
I’ve witnessed your ambition
I know you can do it one more time
You can do anything
You can be anyone
You can be happy, too
But first you must believe
in the power of you
You’re powerful,
valuable, beautiful and brave
And I know that you know
you can make it through tomorrow
if you can get through today;
I will be there for you
every step of the way
RE: Poetry - Popster - 10-20-2017
I can relate very well to this poem.
(10-19-2017, 08:27 PM)Charon Wrote: Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953
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.
He wrote this for his father. https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/browse-poems-poets
RE: Poetry - IceWizard - 10-20-2017
My G-Pa used to say this all the... Often wondered just what he meant
Now I know ...
Time and tide waits for none
Time and tide waits for none...
Make most from your life before it's gone.
Tides can be high or low...
Life also goes on it's own flow.
Neither you can stop time ,nor tide...
Take care of your life's ride before you slide.
Time is precious don't waste it...
If you have some dream, go chase it.
Do not wait for so called right time...
Sitting idle with this thought is biggest crime.
The right time begins once you start...
And you can hit the bull's eye with the dart.
Ruchira
RE: Poetry - Charon - 10-20-2017
nice. I imagine we shall get to Irish "there once was a woman from glasco..." as i obviously don't know what they are really called.
But, I felt poetry was lacking. And, i think I have put up just about every humorous smiley I could find.
RE: Poetry - Linville - 10-20-2017
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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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!
RE: Poetry - Linville - 10-27-2017
I saw this ion the form of a poem under a beautiful photo so I grabbed it to put here;
Even when a storm is brewing,
And all your friends seem far away,
To find your power, to grow and flower.
Just be yourself, and face the day.