Go to page:

Poems that mean something to you

poet Anonymous


Thomas Hardy

Ahavati
Tyrant of Words
United States 117awards
Joined 11th Apr 2015
Forum Posts: 15088


Happy Mother's Day weekend to all the mothers, adoptive mothers, foster mothers, single mothers, furbaby mothers, mothers who've lost their children to heaven, and single fathers.

Grace
IDryad
Tyrant of Words
124awards
Joined 25th Aug 2011
Forum Posts: 16354


I wandered Lonely as a cloud
by William Wordsworth

poet Anonymous


Thomas Hardy

poet Anonymous


Hugo Williams

Grace
IDryad
Tyrant of Words
124awards
Joined 25th Aug 2011
Forum Posts: 16354


When You are Old
by William Butler Yeats
(The poet our teacher Loved! And so I do🤓!)

poet Anonymous


W. B. Yeats.

(One of me Mum's 💐)



Grace
IDryad
Tyrant of Words
124awards
Joined 25th Aug 2011
Forum Posts: 16354


Love this one💙

Northern_Soul
-Missy-
Tyrant of Words
England 33awards
Joined 10th Jan 2021
Forum Posts: 5957

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.



“Raw With Love”
by Charles Bukowski

Grace
IDryad
Tyrant of Words
124awards
Joined 25th Aug 2011
Forum Posts: 16354

For Annie


Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed
(With her love at my breast).
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:—

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.


BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

I was a fan of EA Poe for a while, at school at least.

Indie
Miss Indie
Tyrant of Words
Australia 35awards
Joined 3rd Sep 2011
Forum Posts: 3240

Sonnet Xvii

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

Mrd
Fire of Insight
United States 2awards
Joined 10th Apr 2020
Forum Posts: 77

I came to DUP to read a couple of comments of one of my poems, crossed that off the list and was about to log off when I saw this one tiny little thing on the notifications bar and I thought, hell, it might be something really special and so I came and the Neruda just knocked me haywire over teakettle. Wonderful. I must soon read it in Spanish.

So thank you so much for sharing that. One of my faves, just for you, is "Blue Girls" by John Crowe Ransom. I am four months shy of turning 80, and the Ransom poem has been with me for over four decades now. Hope you like it. --mrd

Go to page:
Go to: