Do you have a favorite poem prone that you like, because it speaks to you now and then or reminds you of something or somebody. Long, long before I knew who Jenny Joseph was, I ran across her poem somewhere. I remember laughing out loud and trying to remember it so I could tell my wife a poem I had discovered. I didn’t remember but I did remember enough of it that she recognized it and was quite familiar with it but then she was always two steps ahead of me. I have liked this poem for many years. I recently read it was voted England’s favorite poem. If you’re not favorite with one of my favorites, take a listen to this. Warning By Jenny Joseph When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. Do you have a favorite poem you'd like to share?
How about this? The Purpose of Poetry Jared Carter This old man grazed thirty head of cattle in a valley just north of the covered bridge on the Mississinewa, where the reservoir stands today. Had a black border collie and a half-breed sheep dog with one eye. The dogs took the cows to pasture each morning and brought them home again at night and herded them into the barn. The old man would slip a wooden bar across both doors. One dog slept on the front porch, one on the back. He was waiting there one evening listening to the animals coming home when a man from the courthouse stopped to tell him how the new reservoir was going to flood all his property. They both knew he was too far up in years to farm anywhere else. He had a daughter who lived in Florida, in a trailer park. He should sell now and go stay with her. The man helped bar the doors before he left. He had only known dirt under his fingernails and trips to town on Saturday mornings since he was a boy. Always he had been around cattle, and trees, and land near the river. Evenings by the barn he could hear the dogs talking to each other as they brought in the herd; and the cows answering them. It was the clearest thing he knew. That night He shot both dogs and then himself. The purpose of poetry is to tell us about life.
I've loved this poem from the moment I first read it. Framed it. It made me want to write. To tell of life. Foolish huh?
On Pain - Poem by Khalil Gibran Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy; And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief. Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity: For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears. Khalil Gibran
Your Children Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you. And though they are with you, they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite. And He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's hands be for happiness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, So He loves the bow that is stable. Khalil Gibran
Marriage Then Almitra spoke again and said, 'And what of Marriage, master?' And he answered saying: You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore. You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days. Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God. But let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow. Khalil Gibran
Oh, my, @ Babs Hunt I have long ago forgotten Khalil Gibron. I remember way back The Prophet took up residence in our home after my wife gave a copy to our son. I remember reading parts of it from timed to time and may have been a little jealouse a man such as he could speak of what I wished to say but had not yet thought.
He is my favorite Poet....his poems are pure Wisdom to me. And yes, I wish I could express my thoughts as he did too @Bill Boggs.
On Death Kahlil Gibran You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
Kahlil Gibran on Love When love beckons to you, follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God." And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
My poem: It snowed last night. Oh, yes. Yes, indeedy it did! When I woke up, my bushes were hid. Now to folks 'round here, snow's a rare thing. I don't reckon we've had any since way last spring. But now we can build a snowman and have a snowball fight. Because, bless my soul, it snowed last night!