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PAST POEMS | by Rochefuquot (sp.) Sunday, 8/25 from Kissing A Fool "True love cannot be found Where it does not truly exist, Nor can it be hidden Where it truly does." |
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G/D Home Today's Poem |
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from “My Favorite Season” Saturday, 8/24/02 Where is the friend I seek? My longing rises with the sun. Night fades, in vain I call his name. I see his traces, I know he is there. I feel him where the flowers Sweeten the air, Where saplings sprout, And wheat thrives. He is the breeze that caresses me, The scent for which I long. I hear his voice blend into the summer’s song. |
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Trees - Friday 8/23/02 By Joyce Kilmer (from Cannonball Run) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. |
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Funeral Blues - Monday, 8/26 W. H. Auden (from Four Weddings and a Funeral) Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, For nothing now can ever come to any good. |
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"God-like the man who sits at her side, Who watches and catches the laughter Which softly tears me to tatters. Nothing is left of me Each time I see her." - from the movie Jude Tuesday, 8/27 |
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“Self-Pity” Wednesday, 8/28 by D.H. Lawrence (from G.I. Jane) I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself. |
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“The Unknown God” by George Russell, Thurs., 8/29 Far up the dim twilight fluttered Moth-wings of vapour and flame; The lights danced over the mountains, Star after star they came. The lights grew thicker unheeded, For silent and still were we; Our hearts were drunk with a beauty Our eyes could never see. |
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Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. Isaiah 40:28-31 Sunday, 9/1 (from Chariots of Fire) |
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“One and one don’t make two. One and one make one.” - Roger Daltrey shown Fri., 8/30 |
...She dressed her mind As others do their bodies, and refined That Better part with care, and still did wear More jewels in her manners than her ear... -- William Cartwright Saturday., 8/31 |
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Love Sonnet XLIII By Pablo Neruda for his wife Matilde Mon., 9/2 I hunt for a sign of you in all the others, in the rapid undulant river of women, braids, shyly sinking eyes, light step that slides, sailing through the foam. Suddenly I think I can make out your nails— oblong, quick, nieces of a cherry--: then it’s your hair that passes by, and I think I see your image, a bonfire, burning in the water. I searched, but no one else had your rhythms, your light, the shady day you brought from the forest; nobody had your tiny ears. You are whole—exact—and everything you are is one, and so I go along, with you I float along, loving a wide Mississippi toward a feminine sea. |
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DISOBEDIENCE Wed., 9/4 By A.A. Milne (of Winnie the Pooh fame) James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree Took great Care of his Mother, Though he was only three. James James Said to his Mother, “Mother,” he said, said he; “You must never go down to the end of the town, if you don’t go down with me.” James James Morrison’s Mother Put on a golden gown, James James Morrison’s Mother Drove to the end of the town. James James Morrison’s Mother Said to herself, said she: “I can get right down to the end of town and be back in time for tea.” King John Put up a notice, “LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED! JAMES JAMES MORRISON’S MOTHER SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID. LAST SEEN WANDERING VAGUELY: QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD, SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF THE TOWN—FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD! -->> |
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Hope Tuesday., 9/3 By Friedrich von Schiller People speak and dream a great deal About better days in the future, You see them running and chasing After a happy, golden goal; The world grows old and grows young again, But man always hopes for betterment. Hope introduces him to life, It hovers around the merry boy, Its magical glow tempts the youth, It is not buried with the old man; For, if he ends his weary course in the grave, Even at the grave he plants—hope. This is no empty, flattering delusion Generated in a fool’s brain, It manifests itself loudly in our heart: We were born for something better. And what the inner voice says Does not deceive the soul that hopes. |
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James James Morrison Morrison (Commonly known as Jim) Told his Other relations Not to go blaming him. James James Said to his Mother, “Mother,” he said, said he; “You must never go down to the end of the town without consulting me.” James James Morrison’s Mother Hasn’t been heard of since. King John said he was sorry, So did the Queen and Prince. King John (Somebody told me) Said to a man he knew: “If people go down to the end of the town, well, what can anyone do?” (Now then, very softly) J. J. M. M. W. G. Du P. Took great C/o his M***** Though he was only 3. J. J. Said to his M***** “M*****,” he said, said he: “You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of-the-town- if-you-don’t-go-down-with ME!” |
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Somewhere There’s A Man, 9/5 By Roberto Juarez, Translated by W. S. Merwin Somewhere there’s a man Who sweats thought. On his skin are drawn The moist contours of a finer skin, The wake of a navigation without a vessel. When that man thinks light, he shines, When he thinks death, he becomes polished, When he remembers somebody, he acquires their features. When he falls into himself, he grows dark like a well. In him the color of night thoughts is visible, And it’s obvious that no thought is without Its night and its day. And also that there are colors and thoughts That are not born of day nor of night But only when oblivion grows a little bigger. That man is porous, like an earth with more life in it, And at times when he dreams, he looks like a fire: Splashes of a flame that feeds itself with flame, Writhings of calcined woods. In that man love can be seen, But only by someone who meets him and loves him. And also in his flesh one could see God, But only when one had stopped seeing all the rest |
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