Post your favorite poem(s) - Page 3

Glad you liked it.

good poems, but difficult for me :D

Another short insect poem

Cockroach sandwich for my lunch




Como un bocadillo de cucaracha

Hola aquí es mío

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

Great poems!! I love poems!!! :) :thumbsup:

So I would like to share this one, one of my favourites of Dorothy Parker whose poems I really appreciate. :) :thumbsup:

Rainy Night

Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
Hide the limp and tearful willow.

Turn aside your eyes and ears,
Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
You shall walk with me tomorrow.

I am sister to the rain;
Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

I have lived with shades, a shade;
I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
In the silver of the showers.

Every fragile thing shall rust;
When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
Sifting through the brittle grasses.

All sweet sins shall be forgot;
Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
Wistful still, and still aspiring.

Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
To be living with the living?

Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast;
Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
Spirits of my shared transgressions,

Roam with young Persephone.
Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
One more wraith among your number.
Dorothy Parker

http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems...r/rainy-night/

Nice the jokes, all you're good comedians.

Please you don't leave to write the jokes here in this post.

Another touching poem about death and beravement

• I Am Not There
  
  • by Mary Elizabeth Frye (1932)
  Do not stand at my grave and weep;
  I am not there. I do not sleep.
  I am a thousand winds that blow.
  I am the diamond glint on snow.
  I am the sun on ripened grain.
  I am the gentle Autumn rain.
  When you awake in the morning hush,
  I am the swift, uplifting rush
  Of quiet birds in circling flight.
  I am the soft starlight at night.
  Do not stand at my grave and cry;
  I am not there. I did not die.

Oh I love that poem!!! I always sends shivers down my spine... :) :thumbsup: :thumbsup:

Ok another one by Dorothy (I confess I have a weakness for her poems :D) with her delightful albeit sometimes slightly macabre sense of humour..:thumbsup:


Tombstones in the Starlight

I. The Minor Poet

His little trills and chirpings were his best.
No music like the nightingale's was born
Within his throat; but he, too, laid his breast
Upon a thorn.


II. The Pretty Lady

She hated bleak and wintry things alone.
All that was warm and quick, she loved too well-
A light, a flame, a heart against her own;
It is forever bitter cold, in Hell.

III. The Very Rich Man

He'd have the best, and that was none too good;
No barrier could hold, before his terms.
He lies below, correct in cypress wood,
And entertains the most exclusive worms.


IV. The Fisherwoman

The man she had was kind and clean
And well enough for every day,
But, oh, dear friends, you should have seen
The one that got away!


V. The Crusader

Arrived in Heaven, when his sands were run,
He seized a quill, and sat him down to tell
The local press that something should be done
About that noisy nuisance, Gabriel.


VI. The Actress

Her name, cut clear upon this marble cross,
Shines, as it shone when she was still on earth;
While tenderly the mild, agreeable moss
Obscures the figures of her date of birth.

Dorothy Parker


http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems...the-starlight/

This is mine:

Ha caído una gota, una gotita,
pequeña,
pequeñita
y la gente en tropel se ha lanzado
a la calle, a los balcones, a las ventanas
por una gota,
una gotita,
pequeñita.
Gotita.


A mis pies ríos de sangre
de mujeres
despeñadas, mutiladas, despreciadas,
ignoradas.
Esa sangre que se ignora, se desprecia,
se derrama, se despeña.
Gotas,
chorros,
ríos.
Mares.


Ha caído una gota, una gotita,
pequeñita.
Gotita.



:rose:

MONDNACHT

Joseph von Eichendorf

Es war, als hätt der Himmel
Die Erde still geküßt,
Daß sie im Blütenschimmer
Von ihm nun träumen müßt.

Die Luft ging durch die Felder,
Die Ähren wogten sacht,
Es rauschten leis die Wälder,
So sternklar war die Nacht.

Und meine Seele spannte
Weit ihre Flügel aus,
Flog durch die stillen Lande,
Als flöge sie nach Haus

A German friend asked me to translate this into a rhyming English poem.. Here is my version.

It was as though the heaven
Had softly kissed the ground,
Coaxing her to dream of him
As blossoms shimmered round.

Through the fields there passed a breeze
To waft the ears of corn,
It gently rustled in the trees,
Before the distant dawn.

Spreading wide its wings in flight
My soul began to roam
O'er silent lands through star-clear night
As if returning home.

this is the one I created:

This is a beautiful poem by Emily Dickinson. I have deleted the first word.Can you guess what it is? No internet cheating, please.

----------- is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross'd the Wild,
I chanc'd to see at break of day
The solitary Child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew:
She dwelt on a wide Moor,
The sweetest Thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
The Hare upon the Green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night
You to the Town must go,
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do,
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon"
At this the Father rais'd his hook
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe,
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time
She wandered up and down
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reach'd the Town.
The wretched Parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the Moor;
And thence they saw the Bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
And now they homeward turn'd and cry'd
"In Heaven we all shall meet;"
When in the snow the Mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the foot-marks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;
And then an open field they cross'd,
The marks were still the same;
They track'd them on, nor ever lost,
And to the Bridge they came.
They follow'd from the snowy bank
Those foot-marks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank
And further there were none.
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living Child,
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome Wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

VIVO SIN VIVIR EN MÍ


Vivo sin vivir en mí,
y tan alta vida espero,
que muero porque no muero.

Vivo ya fuera de mí,
después que muero de amor;
porque vivo en el Señor,
que me quiso para sí:
cuando el corazón le di
puso en él este letrero,
que muero porque no muero.

Esta divina prisión,
del amor en que yo vivo,
ha hecho a Dios mi cautivo,
y libre mi corazón;
y causa en mí tal pasión
ver a Dios mi prisionero,
que muero porque no muero.

¡Ay, qué larga es esta vida!
¡Qué duros estos destierros,
esta cárcel, estos hierros
en que el alma está metida!
Sólo esperar la salida
me causa dolor tan fiero,
que muero porque no muero.

¡Ay, qué vida tan amarga
do no se goza el Señor!
Porque si es dulce el amor,
no lo es la esperanza larga:
quíteme Dios esta carga,
más pesada que el acero,
que muero porque no muero.

Sólo con la confianza
vivo de que he de morir,
porque muriendo el vivir
me asegura mi esperanza;
muerte do el vivir se alcanza,
no te tardes, que te espero,
que muero porque no muero.

Mira que el amor es fuerte;
vida, no me seas molesta,
mira que sólo me resta,
para ganarte perderte.
Venga ya la dulce muerte,
el morir venga ligero
que muero porque no muero.

Aquella vida de arriba,
que es la vida verdadera,
hasta que esta vida muera,
no se goza estando viva:
muerte, no me seas esquiva;
viva muriendo primero,
que muero porque no muero.

Vida, ¿qué puedo yo darle
a mi Dios que vive en mí,
si no es el perderte a ti,
para merecer ganarle?
Quiero muriendo alcanzarle,
pues tanto a mi Amado quiero,
que muero porque no muero

No es mi favorito:

El sueño

Si el sueño fuera (como dicen) una
tregua, un puro reposo de la mente,
¿por qué, si te despiertan bruscamente,
sientes que te han robado una fortuna?

¿Por qué es tan triste madrugar? La hora
nos despoja de un don inconcebible,
tan íntimo que sólo es traducible
en un sopor que la vigilia dora

de sueños, que bien pueden ser reflejos
truncos de los tesoros de la sombra,
de un orbe intemporal que no se nombra

y que el día deforma en sus espejos.
¿Quién serás esta noche en el oscuro
sueño, del otro lado de su muro?

This is my contribution.

I hope this like you.


My Love Reveals Objects


my love reveals objects
silken butterflies
concealed in his fingers

his words
splash me with stars

night shines like lightning
under the fingers of my love

my love invents worlds where
jeweled glittering serpents live

worlds where music is the world

worlds where houses with open eyes
contemplate the dawn

my love is a mad sunflower that forgets
fragments of sun in the silence


Isabel Fraire






Mi amor descubre objetos


mi amor descubre objetos
sedosas mariposas
se ocultan en sus dedos

sus palabras
me salpican de estrellas

bajo los dedos de mi amor la noche
brilla como relámpago

mi amor inventa mundos en que habitan
serpientes cuajadas de brillantes

mundos en que la música es el mundo
mundos en que las casas con los ojos abiertos
contemplan el amanecer

mi amor es un loco girasol que olvida
pedazos de sol en el silencio

Isabel Fraire






























BUY Love Poetry Books at Amazon.com

Poemas en Espanol

Women Poets


Go Home

I love your poem Crotalito ^_^

Thank so much my lady, you're great person.;)

you're welcome and thank you ;)