[Laurie2]

Did not intend,
To offend.

[TheVillageChicken]

Robert Zimmerman aka Bob Dylan

"Subterranean Homesick Blues"


Johny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollar bills
You only got ten.

Maggie comes fleet foot
Face full of black soot
Talkin' that the heat put
Plants in the bed but
The phone's tapped anyway
Maggie says that many say
They must bust in early May
Orders from the DA
Look out kid
Don't matter what you did
Walk on your tip toes
Don't try, 'No Doz'
Better stay away from those
That carry around a fire hose
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows.

Get sick, get well
Hang around an ink well
Ring bell, hard to tell
If anything is goin' to sell
Try hard, get barred
Get back, write Braille
Get jailed, jump bail Join the army, if you failed
Look out kid
You're gonna get hit
But losers, cheaters
Six-time users
Hang around the theaters
Girl by the whirlpool
Lookin' for a new fool
Don't follow leaders
Watch the parkin' meters.

Ah get born, keep warm
Short pants, romance, learn to dance
Get dressed, get blessed
Try to be a success
Please her, please him, buy gifts
Don't steal, don't lift
Twenty years of schoolin'
And they put you on the day shift
Look out kid
They keep it all hid
Better jump down a manhole
Light yourself a candle
Don't wear sandals
Try to avoid the scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
You better chew gum
The pump don't work
'Cause the vandals took the handles.

[bkcunningham1]

ee cummings

[Bizdoc]

As my FIL's dementia deepened, one of the last portions of his memory to go was the memory of poetry he had memorized in school. He didn't know his daughter, but he knew Horatio at the bridge...

When Phil Condit was CEO of Boeing, he ran a leadership development program for the very senior managers. Part of the week long program was poetry readings by David Whyte, a former management consultant turned author and poet. His goal was to help these folks (mostly engineers as he was) see that aesthetics are an important part of good design and of good business.

Poets are the experts at distilling events, emotions, and observations down to the minimum critical elements.

[geri317]

Mary Oliver is a favorite of mine.

[rubicon]

Originally Posted by LI SNOWBIRD

Gibran is wonderful -- but there are so many great poets. I mostly favor the romantics. If pressed i would say T.S Eliot.
My daughter recently gave me a coffee mug with a TS eliot quote "I have mesured out my life in coffee spoons", from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I means a great deal to me. Hmm can you guess I was a lit major?

LI Snowbird: Me too. "And the women come and go speaking of Michelangelo"............................

Poetry/prose subject to mood

I was fascinated with Guy de Maupassant writings Mother Savage ,etc

and my mood from reading Katherine a Porters' The Jilting of Granny Weatherall" comical to bereavement

I need to read more poems and short stories

Andrew Dice Clay LOL

[LI SNOWBIRD]

Originally Posted by rubicon

LI Snowbird: Me too. "And the women come and go speaking of Michelangelo"............................

Poetry/prose subject to mood

I was fascinated with Guy de Maupassant writings Mother Savage ,etc

and my mood from reading Katherine a Porters' The Jilting of Granny Weatherall" comical to bereavement

I need to read more poems and short stories

Thanks but I have to add Emily Dickenson... : "Because I could not stop for death-he kindly stopped for me..."
PS I am so happy that there alot of other poetry lovers out there

[Uptown Girl]

Poem of the Day: Immigrant Picnic
[http://poetryfoundation.org/poem/29817] by Gregory Djanikian

It's the
Fourth of July, the flags are painting the town, the plastic forks and
knives are laid out like a parade.

And I'm grilling, I've got my apron, I've got potato salad, macaroni,
relish, I've got a hat shaped like the state of Pennsylvania.

I ask my father what's his pleasure and he says, "Hot dog, medium rare,"
and then, "Hamburger, sure, what's the big difference," as if he's
really asking.

I put on hamburgers and hot dogs, slice up the sour pickles and Bermudas,
uncap the condiments. The paper napkins are fluttering away like lost
messages.

"You're running around," my mother says, "like a chicken with its head
loose."

"Ma," I say, "you mean cut off, loose and cut off being as far apart
as, say, son and daughter."

She gives me a quizzical look as though I've been caught in some
impropriety. "I love you and your sister just the same," she says, "Sure,"
my grandmother pipes in, "you're both our children, so why worry?"

That's not the point I begin telling them, and I'm comparing words to fish
now, like the ones in the sea at Port Said, or like birds among the
date palms by the Nile, unrepentantly elusive, wild.

"Sonia," my father says to my mother, "what the hell is he talking about?"
"He's on a ball," my mother says.
"That's roll!" I say, throwing up my hands, "as in hot dog, hamburger, dinner roll...."

"And what about roll out the barrels?" my mother asks, and my father claps
his hands, "Why sure," he says, "let's have some fun," and launches into
a polka, twirling my mother around and around like the happiest top,

and my uncle is shaking his head, saying "You could grow nuts listening to
us,"

and I'm thinking of pistachios in the Sinai burgeoning without end,
pecans in the South, the jumbled flavor of them suddenly in my mouth,
wordless, confusing, crowding out everything else.

[graciegirl]

Originally Posted by Uptown Girl

Poem of the Day: Immigrant Picnic
[http://poetryfoundation.org/poem/29817] by Gregory Djanikian

It's the
Fourth of July, the flags are painting the town, the plastic forks and
knives are laid out like a parade.

And I'm grilling, I've got my apron, I've got potato salad, macaroni,
relish, I've got a hat shaped like the state of Pennsylvania.

I ask my father what's his pleasure and he says, "Hot dog, medium rare,"
and then, "Hamburger, sure, what's the big difference," as if he's
really asking.

I put on hamburgers and hot dogs, slice up the sour pickles and Bermudas,
uncap the condiments. The paper napkins are fluttering away like lost
messages.

"You're running around," my mother says, "like a chicken with its head
loose."

"Ma," I say, "you mean cut off, loose and cut off being as far apart
as, say, son and daughter."

She gives me a quizzical look as though I've been caught in some
impropriety. "I love you and your sister just the same," she says, "Sure,"
my grandmother pipes in, "you're both our children, so why worry?"

That's not the point I begin telling them, and I'm comparing words to fish
now, like the ones in the sea at Port Said, or like birds among the
date palms by the Nile, unrepentantly elusive, wild.

"Sonia," my father says to my mother, "what the hell is he talking about?"
"He's on a ball," my mother says.
"That's roll!" I say, throwing up my hands, "as in hot dog, hamburger, dinner roll...."

"And what about roll out the barrels?" my mother asks, and my father claps
his hands, "Why sure," he says, "let's have some fun," and launches into
a polka, twirling my mother around and around like the happiest top,

and my uncle is shaking his head, saying "You could grow nuts listening to
us,"

and I'm thinking of pistachios in the Sinai burgeoning without end,
pecans in the South, the jumbled flavor of them suddenly in my mouth,
wordless, confusing, crowding out everything else.

Reading this is the first time I have UNDERSTOOD poetry that didn't rhyme.

It paints a picture.

I am very sincere. We are NEVER too old to learn.

Thank you girl.

I loved the poem.

[elbear]

Good to read - Actually I have the Sand and Foam book on my little desk at the cottage here right now. I love to sit outside on a sunny day and just take one short piece at a time and let it wash over me, then mull it over and over in my mind.

Originally Posted by senior citizen

WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE POET?


One of mine has always been Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)

The young emigrant from Lebanon who came through Ellis Island in 1895 never became an American citizen: he loved his birthplace too much. But he was able to combine two heritages and achieved lasting fame in widely different cultures. This aphorism from Sand and Foam convey Gibran's message:

"Faith is an oasis in the heart which will never be reached by the caravan of thinking."

Lebanese writer and artist Kahlil Gibran influenced modern Arabic literature and composed inspirational pieces in English, including The Prophet.

Kahlil Gibran, baptized Gibran Khalil Gibran, the oldest child of Khalil Gibran and his wife Kamila Rahme, was born January 6, 1883, in Besharri, Lebanon, then part of Syria and the Ottoman Turkish Empire. His childhood in the isolated village beneath Mt. Lebanon included few material comforts and he had no formal early education. However, he received a strong spiritual heritage.

Surrounded for centuries by members of the Moslem and Druze religions, residents of Maronite Christian villages like Besharri evolved a mystical philosophy of life.

His later work was influenced by legends and biblical stories handed down for generations in the scenic region near the ancient Cedars of Lebanon.

Seeking a better future, the family, except for their father, moved to America in 1895. They joined relatives and shared a tenement in South Boston, Massachusetts. Kamila Gibran sold lace to support her four children and opened a small dry goods store. While registering for public school, Gibran\'s name was shortened and changed.

His life changed when a settlement house art teacher noticed his artistic skill. Florence Peirce with Jessie Fremont Beale, a philanthropist, arranged for Gibran\'s introduction to Fred Holland Day in December 1896.

A Boston patron of literature and fine arts who was also an \"artistic\" photographer, Day used Gibran, his younger sisters Marianna and Sultana, half-brother Peter, and Kamila as models.

After discovering Gibran\'s aptitude for literature and art, Day proclaimed him a \"natural genius\" and became his mentor. Gibran designed book illustrations, sketched portraits, and met Day\'s friends.

He then went to Beirut, Lebanon, in 1898 to attend Madrasat-al-Hikmah, a Maronite college where he studied Arabic literature and cofounded a literary magazine.

Returning to Boston in 1902, he experienced family tragedy. During 1902 and 1903 Kamila, Sultana, and Peter died from disease. Marianna, a seamstress, supported both herself and Gibran, who resumed his art work and renewed his friendship with Day.

In 1903 Josephine Preston Peabody, a poetess and friend, arranged for an exhibition of his work at Wellesley College; in 1904 Gibran and another artist exhibited their work at Day\'s Boston studio.

Here, Gibran met Mary Elizabeth Haskell, who became his patron and tutor in English for two decades. The owner of Miss Haskell\'s School for Girls and, later, headmistress of the Cambridge School, she believed he would have an outstanding future.

She aided several talented, needy people and was a major factor in Gibran\'s success as an English writer and artist.

From 1908 to 1910 Haskell provided funds for Gibran to study painting and drawing in Paris. Before going to France, he studied English literature with her and had an essay, \"al-Musiqa\" (1905), published by the Arabic immigrant press in New York City.

Diverse influences, including Boston\'s literary world, the English Romantic poets, mystic William Blake, and philosopher Nietzsche, combined with his Besharri experience, shaped Gibran\'s artistic and literary career. Although his drawings depict idealized, romantic figures, the optimistic philosophy of his later writing resulted from a painful personal evolution. Understanding Gibran\'s attitude towards authority gives greater insight to his work in English.

Gibran opposed Ottoman Turkish rule and the Maronite Church\'s strict social control. After \"Spirits Rebellious,\" an Arabic poem, was published in 1908, Gibran was called a reformer and received widespread recognition in the Arabic world. Other Arabic writings, including \"Broken Wings\" (1912), were published in New York where a large Syrian-Lebanese community flourished. He became the best known of the \"Mahjar poets\" or immigrant Arabic writers. His most respected Arabic poem is the \"The Procession\" (1919). He was president of Arrabitah, a literary society founded in New York in 1920 to infuse \"a new life in modern Arabic literature.\"

Gibran sought and won acceptance from New York\'s artistic and literary world. His first work in English appeared in 1918 when The Madman was published by the American firm of Alfred A. Knopf. The sometimes cynical parables and poems on justice, freedom, and God are illustrated by three of Gibran\'s drawings. In 1919 Knopf published Gibran\'s Twenty Drawings; in 1920 The Forerunner appeared. Each book sold a few hundred copies.

In October 1923 The Prophet was published; it sold over 1,000 copies in three months.

The slim volume of parables, illustrated with Gibran\'s drawings, is one of America\'s all-time best selling books; its fame spreads by word of mouth. Critics call it overly sentimental. By 1986, however, almost eight million copiesâ€"all hard-bound editionsâ€"had been sold in the United States alone. Several of his other works enjoyed substantial sales. Gibran bequeathed his royalties to Besharri; ironically, the gift caused years of feuding among village families.

Gibran\'s views on the brotherhood of man and man\'s unity with nature appeal primarily to young and old readers. The parables present a refreshing, new way of looking at the world that has universal appeal. By 1931 The Prophet had been translated into 20 languages. In the 1960s it reached new heights of popularity with American college students.

Although in failing health, Gibran completed two more books in Englishâ€"Sand and Foam (1926) and Jesus, The Son of Man (1928)â€"that illustrate his philosophy. After his death earlier essays were compiled and published, and his Arabic work has been translated into many languages.

Gibran was 48 when he died in New York City on April 10, 1931, of cancer of the liver. The Arabic world eulogized him as a genius and patriot.

A grand procession greeted his body upon its return to Besharri for burial in September 1931.

Today, Arabic scholars praise Gibran for introducing Western romanticism and a freer style to highly formalized Arabic poetry. \"Gibranism,\" the term used for his approach, attracted many followers.

In America, the West Tenth Street Studio for Artists in Greenwich Village, where he lived after 1911, has been replaced with a modern apartment building. But Gibran\'s books are in countless libraries and book stores. Five art works, including a portrait sketch of Albert Pinkham Ryder, are at New York City\'s Metropolitan Museum of Art, the gift of his patron Mary Haskell Minis.

[elbear]

Well, some of us enjoyed the read
Having only a moment to spare
But if it annoyed you so
I must respond, I just don't care

[Walt.]

It was in 1931 that Ogden Nash stirred the emotions with the pithy classic:

The Bronx?
No Thonx.

[shcisamax]

Although not really uplifting, I have never forgotten this poem:

Spring
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

[OldManTime]

Originally Posted by senior citizen

Yes, T.S. Eliot, ditto*.......and when I was much younger, Elizabeth Barrett Browning......

*great minds think alike....thanks for sharing...

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


　


From amherst.edu

I agree, that poem has stayed in the back of my head since a child.
March 2012 i went by her grave, i really forget where it was, Barcelona, Paris??