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Favourite Pieces of Poetry

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I would post some of my favorites..but some people don't appreciate my style of poetry...poetry "isn't supposed to rhyme"...so I will take my leave...but good selections hazzy!

 

writoussssssssssssssssssss i do declare you must post em!!! the world is full of critics doesn't mean you should shy away inshallah POST EM i wannaaa seee :D

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All that the proud can feel of pain,

The agony they do not show,

The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness,

And then is jealous, lest the sky

Should have a listener, nor will sigh

Until its voice is echoless.

 

Titan! to thee the strife was given

Between the suffering and the will,

Which torture where they cannot kill;

And the inexorable Heaven,

And the deaf tyranny of Fate,

The ruling principle of Hate,

Which for its pleasure doth create

The things it may annihilate,

Refus’d thee even the boon to die:

The wretched gift Eternity

Was thine - and thou hast borne it well.

 

- Prometheus by George Gordon Lord Byron.

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I would post some of my favorites..but some people don't appreciate my style of poetry...poetry "isn't supposed to rhyme"...so I will take my leave...but good selections hazzy!

What? Of course poetry is meant to rhyme. What the?!?

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So with ramadhan round the corner, here is a piece of poetry which gives a short summary of ramadhan, mashaAllah

 

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This is one I quite love;



This Is Just To Say



I have eaten


the plums


that were in


the icebox



and which


you were probably


saving


for breakfast



Forgive me


they were delicious


so sweet


and so cold.



-William Carlos William

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The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word “Mother,” and the most beautiful call is the call of “My mother.”

It is a word full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart. The mother is everything – she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness.

She is the source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness.

Everything in nature bespeaks the mother. The sun is the mother of earth and gives it its nourishment of heart; it never leaves the universe at night until it has put the earth to sleep to the song of the sea and the hymn of birds and brooks. And this earth is the mother of trees and flowers. It produces them, nurses them, and weans them.

The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds. And the mother, the prototype of all existence, is the eternal spirit, full of beauty and love.

- Khahlil Gibran

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Mother O Mine

 

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

 

-Rudyard Kipling

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It Ain't What You Do, It's What It Does To You

 

I have not bummed across America

with only a dollar to spare, one pair

of busted Levi's and a bowie knife.

I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

 

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,

barefoot, listening to the space between

each footfall picking up and putting down

its print against the marble floor. But I

 

 

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day

so still I could hear each set of ripples

as they crossed. I felt each stone's inertia

spend itself against the water; then sink.

 

I have not toyed with a parachute cord

while perched on the lip of a light-aircraft;

but I held the wobbly head of a boy

at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

 

And I guess that the tightness in the throat

and the tiny cascading sensation

somewhere inside us are both part of that

sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

Simon Armitage

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I have not bummed across America with only a dollar to spare, one pair of busted Levi's and a bowie knife. I have lived with thieves in Manchester. I have not padded through the Taj Mahal, barefoot, listening to the space between each footfall picking up and putting down its print against the marble floor. But I skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day so still I could hear each set of ripples as they crossed. I felt each stone's inertia spend itself against the water; then sink.
I have not toyed with a parachute cord while perched on the lip of a light-aircraft; but I held the wobbly head of a boy at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.
And I guess that the tightness in the throat and the tiny cascading sensation somewhere inside us are both part of that sense of something else. That feeling, mean.

somehow doesn't seem as poetic :hmm:

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I really really enjoy reading poetry, the way people capture their raw emotions in words/ideas and then the work lives on even after they've passed away. It's also interesting to read a poets work from when he started writing til his last few pieces, you see which themes/ideas remain consistent throughout, and what changes. One guy- his poems seem to show that he is still bitter about his past (mainly his relationship with this father) and then you have poets who were born/raised in war zones and how their poetry always reflects this. One person wrote a poem in which adopted a persona of a mad man, and how he became insane because he couldn't understand how lands split, people turn on each other, families are ripped apart, over something that has no basis but just an idea; nationalism. Other poems people wrote in their old age and you see how their life experiences formed their views and how far you agree with them at this age, and then how your views will change with time to come.

 

It always gives me so much to think about when I read a good piece.

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:mellow:

 

The day I decided to get rid of you

I peeled back my skin

prepared to pluck you

out like a splinter

but you had long since

entered my bloodstream

and with every heartbeat

you were just out of reach.

I fear the day

you reach my brain.

One more thought of you

might do me in.

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