| Author |
Message |
    
Nohero
Citizen
Username: Nohero
Post Number: 1522
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Wednesday, April 9, 2003 - 11:02 pm: |     |
Somebody designated April 11 as "Poem in your Pocket" day. I'm not sure who. It's still an interesting idea. And why stop after April 11?
Anybody have a poem to share? |
Nohero
Citizen
Username: Nohero
Post Number: 1523
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Wednesday, April 9, 2003 - 11:03 pm: | |
"The Country"
- Billy Collins
I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice
might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.
Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe
behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,
the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -
now a fire-starter, now a torch-bearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,
lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, one-time inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?
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naborly
Citizen
Username: Naborly
Post Number: 210
Registered: 7-2001
| | Posted on Wednesday, April 9, 2003 - 11:19 pm: | |
Here is info on this neat idea as explained by WNYC:
Poem in Your Pocket Day
To celebrate National Poetry Month, all New Yorkers are encouraged to carry a poem in their pocket on Friday, April 11, and share it with friends, classmates and strangers. The initiative, led by Mayor Bloomberg, the Department of Education, the Department of Cultural Affairs and City University of New York, is designed to promote literacy and the discussion of poetry, as well as generate a sense of community.
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Chris Dickson
Citizen
Username: Ironman
Post Number: 500
Registered: 8-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 8:51 am: | |
Is that a poem in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?
 |
Dave Ross
Supporter
Username: Dave
Post Number: 4529
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 12:06 pm: | |
I always have this with me in case I have a business lunch and there's an uncomfortable lull in the conversation....
JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe. |
mim
Citizen
Username: Mim
Post Number: 256
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 12:18 pm: | |
The way a crow shook down on me
Dust of snow from a hemlock tree
Has given my heart a change of mood
And saved some part of a day I had rued.
-Robert Frost |
bella
Citizen
Username: Bella
Post Number: 284
Registered: 7-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 12:29 pm: | |
http://www.bartleby.com/102/16.html
sorry, but I am too lazy and too bad a typist to type it all out for everyone to read |
ffof
Citizen
Username: Ffof
Post Number: 1120
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 1:08 pm: | |
Dave, I know a tune to 'twas brillig'! Too bad no one can hear me singing it out loud right now... |
eliz
Citizen
Username: Eliz
Post Number: 494
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 1:19 pm: | |
anyone lived in a pretty how town
e. e. cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
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duncanrogers
Citizen
Username: Duncanrogers
Post Number: 383
Registered: 12-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 1:31 pm: | |
The Good Morrow
By John Donne
I WONDER by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then?
But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?
T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dreame of thee.
And now good morrow to our waking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare;
For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one little roome, an every where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,
Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we finde two better hemispheares
Without sharpe North, without declining West?
What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die |
shh
Citizen
Username: Shh
Post Number: 509
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 1:40 pm: | |
Roses are red,
Violets are blue
and so are your eyes.
—Anonymous
(ok, it was written by me when I was 17. I left it on this guy's car while he was in school. Maybe I'll stick it in his pocket tonight too.) |
Nohero
Citizen
Username: Nohero
Post Number: 1526
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 1:55 pm: | |
When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust,
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
-Shakespeare, Sonnet 138 |
parkbench87
Citizen
Username: Parkbench87
Post Number: 245
Registered: 7-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 2:00 pm: | |
Madam and the Phone Bill
Langston Hughes
You say I O.K.ed
LONG DISTANCE?
O.K.ed it when?
My goodness, Central
That was then!
I'm mad and disgusted
With that Negro now.
I don't pay no REVERSED
CHARGES nohow.
You say, I will pay it--
Else you'll take out my phone?
You better let
My phone alone.
I didn't ask him
To telephone me.
Roscoe knows darn well
LONG DISTANCE
Ain't free.
If I ever catch him,
Lawd, have pity!
Calling me up
From Kansas City.
Just to say he loves me!
I knowed that was so.
Why didn't he tell me some'n
I don't know?
For instance, what can
Them other girls do
That Alberta K. Johnson
Can't do--and more, too?
What's that, Central?
You say you don't care
Nothing about my
Private affair?
Well, even less about your
PHONE BILL, does I care!
Un-humm-m! . . . Yes!
You say I gave my O.K.?
Well, that O.K. you may keep--
But I sure ain't gonna pay!
|
deborahg
Citizen
Username: Deborahg
Post Number: 538
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 2:14 pm: | |
Nice thread!
Actually I carry a poem in my pocket (well, my wallet) every day. It was written by my daughter when she was six. It's called "Stars."
When I see flowers blooming
I see stars looking at me
When I see the moon shining
I see stars looking at me
When I know love is in the air
I see stars looking at me.
--by LilaG
On a completely different note, here is a poem that my dad swears he wrote (I've never known for sure if he was pulling my leg) and submitted to a competition sponsored by Carnation Milk back in the 1940s.
Carnation milk comes in a can
It is the best milk in the land.
No hay to pitch, no tits to twitch,
Just poke a hole in the son of a bitch. |
duncanrogers
Citizen
Username: Duncanrogers
Post Number: 385
Registered: 12-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 2:54 pm: | |
careful folks, I can see this thread wanting to drift into limericks.
 |
crazyguggenheim
Citizen
Username: Crazyguggenheim
Post Number: 346
Registered: 2-2002
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 3:04 pm: | |
Call me crazy, but....
there was a man from boston
he had a little Austin
there was room for his ass
and a gallon of gas
but his balls hung out and he lost 'em!
Call me crazy |
stefano
Citizen
Username: Stefano
Post Number: 292
Registered: 2-2002
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 4:41 pm: | |
Socks
Nissa Annakindt
socks are underwear, after all
eating spaghetti with a cattle prod
the small byzantine child asks
mother may i keep this fish head?
it followed me home
& the mother
a neophyte carpet prostitute, says
yes but only if you
drink your opium
all gone |
greenetree
Supporter
Username: Greenetree
Post Number: 1594
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 5:11 pm: | |
From Papa Greenetree (so he told me), circa 1963:
Birdie, birdie in the sky
Why you do that in my eye?
I don't fret and I don't cry
I'm just glad that cows don't fly.
(I think I posted that on MOL last year sometime).
Porous Horace
Horace was quite porous
and people always laughed
'cause he soaked up all the water
whenever he took a bath
Oh, poor Porous Horace
he really wasn't bad
But whenever he went swimming
the lifeguards all got mad
This story isn't all bad
I hope that no one cries
Because, whenever there was rain
Horace cleared up all the skies
Greenetree, Spring 1978 |
Timmeh
Citizen
Username: Timmeh
Post Number: 645
Registered: 1-2002
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 5:25 pm: | |
Timmeh
Tim Tim Tim Timmeh
TimmmMEH
tim
Tim Meh T Immeh
Ti MEHHH
Tim
tim
TIMMEHTIMMEHTIMMEH
tim tim
tim
Tim MEHhhh
tim |
mem
Citizen
Username: Mem
Post Number: 1721
Registered: 5-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 5:32 pm: | |
I THOUGHT I was not alone, walking here by the shore,
But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by the shore,
As I lean and look through the glimmering light--that one has utterly disappeared,
And those that appear perplex me.
Walt Whitman
Hic.
|
amandacat
Citizen
Username: Amandacat
Post Number: 107
Registered: 8-2001
| | Posted on Thursday, April 10, 2003 - 5:43 pm: | |
Another one from ee cummings:
love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places
yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skillfully curled)
all worlds
|
Hank Zona
Citizen
Username: Hankzona
Post Number: 554
Registered: 3-2002
| | Posted on Friday, April 11, 2003 - 7:25 am: | |
Mending Walls
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down. I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
--Rober Frost |
Elizabeth
Citizen
Username: Elizabeth
Post Number: 120
Registered: 7-2002
| | Posted on Saturday, April 12, 2003 - 9:13 am: | |
A day late, but hey, it's Wallace Stevens
The Pleasures of Merely Circulating
The garden flew round with the angel,
The angel flew round with the clouds,
And the clouds flew round and the clouds flew
round
And the clouds flew round with the clouds.
Is there any secret in skulls,
The cattle skulls in the woods?
Do the drummers in black hoods
Rumble anything out of their drums?
Mrs. Anderson's Swedish baby
Might well have been German or Spanish
Yet that things go round and again go round
Has a rather classical sound.
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