Poetry Mondays – Twas just this time last year I died. (Emily Dickinson)

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‘Twas just this time, last year, I died.

I know I heard the Corn,

When I was carried by the Farms 

It had the Tassels on 

I thought how yellow it would look 

When Richard went to mill 

And then, I wanted to get out,

But something held my will. 

I thought just how Red — Apples wedged

The Stubble’s joints between 

And the Carts stooping round the fields

To take the Pumpkins in 

I wondered which would miss me, least,

And when Thanksgiving, came,

If Father’d multiply the plates 

To make an even Sum 

And would it blur the Christmas glee

My Stocking hang too high

For any Santa Claus to reach

The Altitude of me 

But this sort, grieved myself,

And so, I thought the other way,

How just this time, some perfect year 

Themself, should come to me 

The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

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Poetry Mondays – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (Dylan Thomas)

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When Worlds Collide

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 grieve 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.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Author Notes

DT’s father was going blind when DT wrote this poem. The dying of the light is a reference to darkness and being blind.

Photo Credit: http://www.davemorrowphotography.com

The Poems of Dylan Thomas, New Revised Edition [with CD]

Poetry Mondays – Easy A by Ryan Fu from The Hated Ones

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There’s something magical

watching someone self-destruct,

there’s a beauty and honesty

about the downward spiral.

You can’t turn away from it

like an oncoming car crash or an F5 tornado,

terrorizing and destroying

everything around it.

You wish them the best but secretly,

you want to see how far the rabbit hole

they can fall and stumble

past the point of no return. 

It’s all our fault.

We did this to them.

We gave them the magic carpet,

then pulled it underneath them. 

We put them on the highest pedestal

because we’re scared of heights.

So we make them stars

then wait til gravity does its job.

A nation of vultures

waiting for the next falling star.

Welcome the New Roman Colosseum,

where we crucify our heroes.

Photo Credit: Owen Beiny/ WENN

Easy A

Weekend Inspiration – Lays of Ancient Rome by Thomas Babington Macaulay

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Poetry Mondays – Beer by Charles Bukowski

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Love is A Mad Dog From Hell

I don’t know how many bottles of beer

I have consumed while waiting for things

to get better

I dont know how much wine and whisky

and beer

mostly beer

I have consumed after

splits with women-

waiting for the phone to ring

waiting for the sound of footsteps,

and the phone to ring

waiting for the sounds of footsteps,

and the phone never rings

until much later

and the footsteps never arrive

until much later

when my stomach is coming up

out of my mouth

they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:

“what the hell have you done to yourself?

it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!” 

the female is durable

she lives seven and one half years longer

than the male, and she drinks very little beer

because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad

they are out

dancing and laughing

with horney cowboys.

well, there’s beer

sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles

and when you pick one up

the bottle fall through the wet bottom

of the paper sack

rolling

clanking

spilling gray wet ash

and stale beer,

or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.

in the morning

making the only sound in your life.

beer

rivers and seas of beer

the radio singing love songs

as the phone remains silent

and the walls stand

straight up and down

and beer is all there is.

Love is a Dog From Hell

Poetry Mondays – The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

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Wizardpaths

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged

Poetry Mondays – Remember by Christina Rossetti

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Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann’d:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

The Complete Poems (Penguin Classics)

Poetry Tuesdays – If by Rudyard Kipling (Thanks for another great season Dodgers!!!)

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MLB: NLDS-St. Louis Cardinals at Los Angeles Dodgers

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 all 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!

dodgers-win-pitcher

Kipling: Poems (Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets)

The Gift by Christine Rose (Be Like Water Contributor)

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Christine Rose is Like Water…she wants to share her “Gift” to everyone, enjoy!

Originally posted on Bare Naked in Public:

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A few years ago a woman I hardly knew gave me a small handmade journal, bound with string and buttons, and covered with fabric and seashells. Her name was Mary. We met at a gathering of mutual friends. Playing cards and sharing a bottle of red wine, we laughed, and told stories about our lives. She asked about my work, and seemed mildly amused by my being a school principal. I suppose I don’t look or behave like a principal when I’m playing cards on a warm summer evening. She was a cashier at a liquor store, three blocks from my house, small world. We drank and talked some more. I told her about my desire to write, using my standard line . . . I’ve got something to say, I just don’t know what it is. Wide eyed, she smiled, told me to wait one second  and ran outside to her car. She returned with a small journal in hand, this is for…

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Poetry Mondays – Claude McKay – If We Must Die

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If we must die,

let it not be like hogs


Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,


While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,


Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
 

If we must die,

O let us nobly die,


So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain;

then even the monsters we defy


Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen!

We must meet the common foe!


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Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,


And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!


What though before us lies the open grave?


Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,


Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Complete Poems (American Poetry Recovery)