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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

The Flea a poem by John Donne

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;
'Tis true, then learn how false fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee
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Steve Jones

Steve Jones Business English
Trainer, Translator,
Proofreader

Temat: Favourite poems:

Written by a girl in New York dying of cancer...

SLOW DANCE

Have you ever watched kids

On a merry-go-round?

Or listened to the rain

Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?

Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?

You better slow down.

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

Do you run through each day

On the fly?

When you ask How are you?

Do you hear the reply?

When the day is done

!

Do you lie in your bed

With the next hundred chores

Running through your head?

You'd better slow down

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

Ever told your child,

We'll do it tomorrow?

And in your haste,

Not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch,

Let a good friendship die

Cause you never had time

To call and say,'Hi'

You'd better slow down.

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere

You miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry and hurry through your day,

It is like an unopened gift..

Thrown away.

Life is not a race.

Do take it slower

Hear the music

Before the song is over.
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Tatiana Z.

Tatiana Z. CAO @ Kontomatik

Temat: Favourite poems:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vdv4o0jSX4s
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Temat: Favourite poems:

Steve Jones:
Written by a girl in New York dying of cancer...

SLOW DANCE
Thanks, Steve. It's nice of you to share it.Joj Y. edytował(a) ten post dnia 28.02.09 o godzinie 15:22
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Temat: Favourite poems:

Steve Jones:
Written by a girl in New York dying of cancer...

SLOW DANCE



pure magic.

nothing to add.Anna I. edytował(a) ten post dnia 28.02.09 o godzinie 21:25
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Tomek U.

Tomek U. finanse i kontroling

Temat: Favourite poems:

Steve Jones:
Written by a girl in New York dying of cancer...

SLOW DANCE

Thx Steve...
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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

Whatever Edward Thomas wrote was great.

In Memoriam


The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
Have gathered them and will do never again.
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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

Out in the Dark
by Edward Thomas



Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe ;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.

Stealthily the dark haunts round
And, when the lamp goes, without sound
At a swifter bound
Than the swiftest hound,
Arrives, and all else is drowned ;

And star and I and wind and deer,
Are in the dark together, - near,
Yet far, - and fear
Drums on my ear
In that sage company drear.

How weak and little is the light,
All the universe of sight,
Love and delight,
Before the might,
If you love it not, of night.
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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

The last poem by Edward Thomas. Why do those stupid critics call him a war-poet. He did not write about war at all, although he was killed in World War I in France, in 1917?

"The Sorrow of True Love".

The sorrow of true love is a great sorrow
And true love parting blackens a bright morrow:
Yet almost they equal joys, since their despair
Is but hope blinded by its tears, and clear
Above the storm the heavens wait to be seen.
But greater sorrow from less love has been
That can mistake lack of despair for hope
And knows not tempest and the perfect scope
Of summer, but a frozen drizzle perpetual
Of drops that from remorse and pity fall
And cannot ever shine in the sun or thaw,
Removed eternally from the sun's law.
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Milena Omska

Milena Omska business planning,
management &
analysis

Temat: Favourite poems:

Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Philip Larkin
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Temat: Favourite poems:

Mine's a short one -

A man said to the universe,
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

Stephen Crane
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Dariusz Tomczak

Dariusz Tomczak PONIEWAŻ OBECNIE
GOLDENLINE JEST
PASSE, NIE
AUKTUALNIAM P...

Temat: Favourite poems:

THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,

At once began to bawl:

"God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk
Cried, "Ho! what have we here,
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ‘tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:

"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out an eager hand, And felt about the knee:

"What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain," quoth he;
"’Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!"

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
added: "E’en the blindest man can tell what this
resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope.
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

(John Godfrey Saxe American Poet 1816-1887)
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Temat: Favourite poems:

Yeats's epitaph:


Obrazek


... and a parody by his disciple:

Ezra Pound

Under Ben Bulben

Neath Ben Bulben's buttock lies

Bill Yeats, a poet twoice the soize

Of William Shakespear, as they say

Down Ballykillywuchlin way.

Let saxon roiders break their bones

Huntin' the fox

thru dese gravestones.
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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHyNYxDCm30

Edward Thomas

Adlestrop

Yes, I remember Adlestrop --
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop -- only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.Michal B. edytował(a) ten post dnia 22.03.09 o godzinie 16:22
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Temat: Favourite poems:

Child
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

Sylvia Plath
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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

A poem by Robert Frost, Edward Thomas's friend. They say that Thomas made Frost known as a poet and Frost gave Thomas a "jog" of encouragement to start writing poetry.

THE LOCKLESS DOOR

by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

T went many years,
But at last came a knock,
And I thought of the door
With no lock to lock.

I blew out the light,
I tip-toed the floor,
And raised both hands
In prayer to the door.

But the knock came again
My window was wide;
I climbed on the sill
And descended outside.

Back over the sill
I bade a “Come in”
To whoever the knock
At the door may have been.

So at a knock
I emptied my cage
To hide in the world
And alter with age.
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Temat: Favourite poems:

Nevertheless, I like this one most:

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the King's horses and all the King's men,
Couldn't put Humpty together again.


Obrazek
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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

The above post was sent by the person who can copy any profile I have - three of them so far. Luckily, I could see who the person is. I can assure this mentally disturbed person that I have already found the right poem to thank "it" for all the hard work. From what I can see, Lidia is going to be the next victim. I treat your Humpty Dumpty as a sign of your hatred for me. I tell you you will end up with some bypasses sooner or later. If you like more, sing it yourself.
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Temat: Favourite poems:

If you really are Michal B, then invite me to your contacts.
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Michal B.

Michal B. stud.

Temat: Favourite poems:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_0-PNyaMU0&feature=rel...

"Ballad of the Three Spectres"...........

As I went up by Ovillers
In mud and water cold to the knee,
There went three jeering, fleeing spectres,
That walked abreast and talked of me.

The first said, 'Here's a right brave soldier
That walks the dark unfearingly;
Soon he'll come back on a fine stretcher,
And laughing for a nice Blighty.'

The second, "Read his face, old comrade,
No kind of lucky chance I see;
One day he'll freeze in mud to the marrow,
Then look his last on Picardie.'

Though bitter the word of these first twain
Curses the third spat venomously;
'He'll stay untouched till the war's last dawning
Then live one hour of agony.'Michal B. edytował(a) ten post dnia 22.03.09 o godzinie 12:37
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