Poetry Corner

I pine for the days of Skunk
I knew way back when.

I met a woman Fine

We smoked, We sinned


Never seen her again

Poems start
With words on Paper.
Poetry starts
In our mental Vapor.

There's a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire--
He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He's nibbling the noodles,
He's munching the rice,
He's slurping the soda,
He's licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he's in there--
That Polary Bear
In our Fridgitydaire.

Long walks at night--
that's what good for the soul:
peeking into windows
watching tired housewives
trying to fight off
their beer-maddened husbands.

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

Truckin'

Truckin'

Grateful Dead - Truckin' Garcia;Lesh;Weir;Hunter

Truckin got my chips cashed in. keep truckin, like the do-dah man
Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin on.

Arrows of neon and flashing marquees out on main street.
Chicago, new york, detroit and its all on the same street.
Your typical city involved in a typical daydream
Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings.

Dallas, got a soft machine; houston, too close to new orleans;
New yorks got the ways and means; but just wont let you be, oh no.

Most of the cast that you meet on the streets speak of true love,
Most of the time theyre sittin and cryin at home.
One of these days they know they better get goin
Out of the door and down on the streets all alone.

Truckin, like the do-dah man. once told me youve got to play your hand
Sometimes your cards aint worth a dime, if you dont layem down,

Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip its been.

What in the world ever became of sweet jane?
She lost her sparkle, you know she isnt the same
Livin on reds, vitamin c, and cocaine,
All a friend can say is aint it a shame?

Truckin, up to buffalo. been thinkin, you got to mellow slow
Takes time, you pick a place to go, and just keep truckin on.

Sittin and starin out of the hotel window.
Got a tip theyre gonna kick the door in again
Id like to get some sleep before I travel,
But if you got a warrant, I guess youre gonna come in.

Busted, down on bourbon street, set up, like a bowlin pin.
Knocked down, it gets to wearin thin. they just wont let you be, oh no.

Youre sick of hangin around and youd like to travel;
Get tired of travelin and you want to settle down.
I guess they cant revoke your soul for tryin,
Get out of the door and light out and look all around.

Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip its been.

Truckin, Im a goin home. whoa whoa baby, back where I belong,
Back home, sit down and patch my bones, and get back truckin on.
Hey now get back truckin home.


[YOUTUBEIF]pafY6sZt0FE[/YOUTUBEIF]


RMS

Friedrich Schiller-Die Glocke

(The most famous german Poem, pupils had to learn the Poem for decades)

(Shortform

Loch in Erde,
Bronze rin,
Glocke fertig,
bim bim bim)

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/das-lied-von-der-glocke-song-be

Song of the Bell
Walled up in the earth so steady
Burned from clay, the mould doth stand.
This day must the Bell be ready!
Fresh, O workmen, be at hand!
From the heated brow
Sweat must freely flow,
That the work may praise the Master,
Though the blessing comes from higher.

OUR WORK in earnest preparation,
Befitteth well an earnest word;
When joined by goodly conversation,
Then flows the labor briskly forw'd
So let us now with care consider,
What through a frail power springs forth:
The wicked man one must have scorn for,
Who ne'er reflects, what he brings forth.
This it is, what all mankind graceth,
And thereto his to understand,
That he in inner heart so traceth,
What he createth with his hand.

Take the wood from trunk of spruce tree,
Yet quite dry let it abide,
That the flame compressed so tightly
Strike the gullet deep inside!
Cook the copper brew,
Quick the tin in, too!
That the glutinous bell-metal
Flowing rightly then will settle!

WHAT IN the dam's dark cavern dour
The hand with fire's help did mould,
High in the belfry of the tower
There will our story loud be told.
Still will it last as years are tolling
And many ears will it inspire
And wail with mourners in consoling
And harmonize devotion's choir.
What here below to son terrestr'al
The ever-changing fate doth bring,
Doth strike the crown which made from metal,
Uplifting it doth sound its ring.

Bubbles white I see creating,
Good! the mass doth flow at last.
Now with potash permeating,
Let us hasten quick the cast.
And from lather free
Must the mixture be,
That from metal pure abounding
Pure and full the voice be sounding.

FOR WITH its joyful festive ringing
It doth the child beloved greet
On that first step his life is bringing,
Which starts in arms of slumber sweet;
For in the womb of time's attesting
His fortune black or bright is resting,
The mother's tender cares adorning
With love, to guard his golden morning.
The years they fly like arrows fleet.
From maiden breaks the lad so proudly,
And into life so wild doth roam,
Throughout the world he wanders widely.
As stranger, seeks his father's home,
And glorious, in youthful splendor,
Like creature from the heav'nly land,
With cheek so modest, shy and tender
Sees he the maid before him stand.
Then seized by nameless longing, aching,
The young lad's heart, alone he leaves,
From out his eyes the tears are breaking,
His brothers' ranks so wild he flees.
Her steps he blushingly doth follow
And is by her fair greeting blessed,
The fairest seeks he in the meadow,
With which by him his love is dressed.
Oh! gentle longing, sweetest hoping,
The first love's time of goldenness!
The eye doth see the heavens op'ning,
So feasts the heart in happiness
Oh! that it last forever greening,
The beaut'ous time of love's beginning!

How indeed the pipes are browning!
This small staff do I dip in:
When its glaze to us is shining,
Will the casting time begin.
Now, men, lively be!
Test the mix for me,
If the brittle with the nimble
Join together 'tis good symbol.

FOR WHERE the rough is with the supple,
Where strong itself with mild doth couple,
The ringing will be good and strong.
So test therefore, who join forever,
If heart to heart be found together!
Delusion is short, remorse is long.
In the bridal locks so lovely
Plays the virgin's modest crown,
When the churchbells pealing brightly
To the festive gleam call down.
Ah! Life's fairest celebrating
Doth the May of life end, too,
With the girdle, with the veiling
Tears delusion fair in two.
The passion doth fly.
Love must be enduring;
The flowers fade by,
Fruit must be maturing.
The man must go out
In hostile life living,
Be working and striving
And planting and making,
Be scheming and taking,
Through hazard and daring,
His fortune ensnaring.
Then streams in the wealth in an unending measure,
The silo is filled thus with valuable treasure,
The rooms are growing, the house stretches out.
And indoors ruleth
The housewife so modest,
The mother of children,
And governs wisely
In matters of family,
And maidens she traineth
And boys she restraineth,
And goes without ending
Her diligent handling,
And gains increase hence
With ordering sense.
And treasure on sweet-smelling presses is spreading,
And turns 'round the tightening spindle the threading,
And gathers in chests polished cleanly and bright
The shimmering wool, and the linen snow-white,
And joins to the goods, both their splendor and shimmer,
And resteth never.

And the father with joyful glance
From the house gable's view oh so vast
Surveying his fortune's enhance,
Seeth the posts of trees that are tow'ring
And the rooms of his barns o'erflowing
And the silos, bent low from the blessing,
And the billows of corn unceasing,
Boasting with haughty mouth:
"Firm, as the soil o' th' earth,
'Gainst all misfortune's pow'r
Splendid my house doth tow'r!"—
Yet with mighty fate supernal
Is entwined no bond eternal,
And misfortune strideth fast.

Good! now be the cast beginning,
Finely jagged is the breach.
Yet before it start to running,
Let us pious verses preach.
Make the tap eject!
God our house protect!
Smoking in the handle's hollow
Shoots with fire-brownéd billow.

BENEF'CENT is the might of flame,
When o'er it man doth watch, doth tame,
And what he buildeth, what he makes,
For this the heav'nly powers he thanks;
Yet fright'ning Heaven's pow'r will be,
When from its chains it doth break free,
Embarking forth on its own track,
Nature's daughter, free alack.
Woe, when it is liberated
Growing such that none withstand,
Through the alleys populated
Rolls the monstrous firebrand!
For by elements is hated
The creation of man's hand.
From the heavens
Blessing's teeming,
Rain is streaming;
From the heavens, unforeseen,
Strikes the beam!
Hear in belfry whimpers form!
That is storm!
Red as blood
Heavens broil,
That is not the daylight's flood!
What a turmoil
In the roads!
Steam explodes!
Climbs the fire column glowing,
Through the streets' long rows it's going
Forth it goes with wind's speed growing,
As in jaws of ovens cooking
Glows the air, the beams are cracking,
Pillars tumble, windows quav'ring,
Children wailing, mothers wand'ring,
Whimp'ring cattle
Under rubble,
All is running, saving, flying,
Bright as day the night is shining.
Through long chain of hands, not resting
As contesting
Flies the bucket, lofty bowing
Spouts the fountain, water flowing.
Howling comes the storm a-flying,
Which doth seek the roaring flames.
Crackling in the well-dried grains,
Falls it, in the roomy silo,
On the wood of rafters hollow,
And as if it would by blowing
With itself the earth's full weight
Drag it, in its vi'lent flight,
Into Heaven's summit growing
Giant tall!
Hopeless all
Yields the man 'fore God's great powers,
Idle sees he all his labors
And amazed to ruin going.

All burnt out
Is the setting,
Of the savage storm's rough bedding;
In the empty window op'ning
Horror's living,
And high Heaven's clouds are giving
Looks within.

Just one peek
To the ashes
Of his riches
Doth the man behind him seek
His wanderer's staff then gladly seizes.
Whatever fire's rage has cost,
One solace sweet is e'er unmovéd:
He counts the heads of his belovéd
And see! not one dear head is lost.

In the earth it is receivéd
Full the mould is happ'ly made;
Will its beauty be perceivéd,
So be toil and art repaid?
Should the cast not take?
Should the moulding break?
Ah! perhaps, whilst we are hoping,
Harm is us already gripping.

To HOLY earth's e'er-dark'ning bosom
Do we entrust our hands' true deed,
The sower doth entrust his seed
And hopes, indeed, that it will blossom
To bless, as Heaven bath decreed.
Still costlier the seed we've buried
With sorrow in the womb of earth
And hope, that from the coffin carried
'Twill bloom to fairer fortune forth.

From cathedral,
Anxious, long,
Bell is sounding
Funeral song.
Earnestly its doleful toll doth carry
Some new wanderer on the final journey.

Ah! the wife it is, the dear one,
Ah! it is the faithful mother,
Whom the swarthy Prince of Shadeland
Carries off from arm of husband,
From the group of children dear,
Whom she blooming to him bare,
Whom she on her breast so true
Watched with pleasure as they grew—
Ah! the bonds of home so giving
Will forevermore be loose,
For in shadowland she's living,
Who was mother of the house,
For her faithful rule now ceases,
No more keepeth watch her care,
Henceforth in the orphaned places
Rules the foreign, loveless e'er.

Till the Bell be cooly laying,
Let no stringent work ensue;
As the bird in leaves is playing,
May each person goodly do.
Nods the starlit sky,
Duty's all foreby,
Hears the lad the vespers sounding,
For the Master toil's abounding.

BRISKLY hastens he his paces
Far in forest wild the wand'rer,
To the lovely cottage-places.
Bleating homeward
Draws the sheep herd,
And the cattle
Broad-foreheaded, flocks so glossy,
Come in lowing
To accustomed stalls they're going.
Heav'ly in
Shakes the wagon,
Harvest-laden,
Colored brightly
On sheaves sightly
Garlands lie,
And the young folk of the reapers
Dancing fly.
Street and market-place grow stiller,
Round the social flame of lighting
Gather those in household dwelling,
And the town gate closes creaking.
Black bedighted
All the earth be
Yet the burgher is affrighted
Not by night,
Which the wicked has excited,
For the watchful law's clear eye keeps sight.

Holy Order, blesséd richly,
Heaven's daughter, equals has she
Free and light and glad connected,
City buildings hath erected,
Who herein from country dwelling
The uncivil savage calling,
Ent'ring into human houses,
Gentler custom she espouses,
With the dearest band she's bound us,
Love for fatherland weaves round us.

Thousand busy hands in motion
Help in cheerful unity,
And in fiery commotion
Will all forces public be.
Master and the men take action
Under freedom's holy care,
Each is pleased with his position,
Scorn for every scoffer share.
Work's the burgher's decoration,
Labor's prize is to be blest;
Honor kings by royal station,
Busy hands us honor best.

Peace so gentle,
Charming concord,
Tarry, tarry
Friendly o'er this city be!
May the day be ne'er appearing,
When the rugged hordes a-warring
Through this quiet vale are storming,
When the heavens,
Which the evening's blushes pretty
Paint so fine,
From the village, from the city
Wildly burning frightful shine!

Now for me break up the building,
Its intent is filled a-right,
That our hearts and eyes he feasting
On the most successful sight.
Swing the hammer, swing,
'Til the mantle spring!
If the Bell be now awoken,
Be the frame in pieces broken-

THE MASTER can break up the framing
With wisen'd hand, at rightful hour,
But woe, whene'er in brooks a-flaming
Doth free itself, the glowing ore!
Blind-raging with the crash of thunder,
It springs from out the bursted house,
And as from jaws of hell asunder
Doth spew its molten ruin out;
Where senseless powers are commanding,
There can no structure yet be standing,
When peoples do themselves set free,
There can no common welfare be.

Woe, when in womb of cities growing,
In hush doth pile the fiery match,
The people, chains from off it throwing,
Doth its own help so frightful snatch!
There to the Bell, its rope-cord pulling,
Rebellion, doth it howling sound
And, hallowed but for peaceful pealing,
To violence doth strike aloud.

Liberty, Equality! Men hear sounding,
The tranquil burgher takes up arms,
The streets and halls are all abounding,
And roving, draw the murd'ring swarms;
Then women to hyenas growing
Do make with horror jester's art,
Still quiv'ring, panther's teeth employing,
They rip apart the en'my's heart.
Naught holy is there more, and cleaving
Are bonds of pious modesty,
The good its place to bad is leaving,
And all the vices govern free.
To rouse the lion, is dang'rous error,
And ruinous is the tiger's bite,
Yet is most terrible the terror
Of man in his deluded state.
Woe's them, who heaven's torch of lighting
Unto the ever-blind do lend!
It lights him not, 'tis but igniting,
And land and towns to ash doth rend.

Joy unto me God hath given!
See there! like a golden star
From its husk, so blank and even,
Peeleth out the metal core.
From the crown to base
Like the bright sun plays,
And escutcheons' decoration
Builder's skill gives commendation.

COME IN! Come in!
Ye workmen all, do come ye close in,
That we commence the Bell to christen,
Concordia its name be given,
To concord, in an intimate communion,
The loving commons gathers she in union.

And be her purpose thus fulfilled,
For which the Master did her build:
On high above low earthly living,
Shall she in heav'n's blue tent unfurl'd,
Be thunder's neighbor, ever-pending,
And border on the starry world,
A single voice from high she raises
Like constellations' band so bright,
Which its creator wand'ring praises,
And leads the wreathéd year a-right.
Alone to grave, eternal singing
Her metal mouth be consecrate,
And hourly with all swiftness winging,
Shall she be moved by time in flight,
Her tongue to destiny is lending,
Herself has heart and pity not,
With nothing but her swing attending
The game of life's e'er-changing lot.
And as the ring in ears is passing
Sent by her mighty sounding play,
So let her teach, that naught is lasting,
That all things earthly fade away.

Now with rope's full power bringing
Rock the Bell from vault with care,
That she in the realm of ringing
Rises, in the Heavens' air.
Pull ye, pull ye, heave!
She doth move, doth wave.
Joy be she this city bringing,
Peace be the first chime she's ringing.

Robrites said:

Poems start
With words on Paper.
Poetry starts
In our mental Vapor.

Click to expand...

Daydreams start
From hashish stupor.
Dreaming starts
Out of wishes on paper.
What if destiny,
Gets you dreamy?
You'll probably
Say, love me,
To your enemy.
Then finally,
You'll be free.

Ok, the short Translation from the very long poem in english, transslated by Herman

Hole in earth,
bronce in,
bell Ready,
bim bim bim

1

New Year's morning:
the ducks on the pond
quack and quack.

A day will come
Many will rise

Nothing will be done
But the way we use our eyes

Some might write
While some fight

The shorter the reason
The brighter the light

New Year’s Morning

Helen Hunt Jackson





Only a night from old to new! Only a night, and so much wrought! The Old Year’s heart all weary grew, But said: “The New Year rest has brought.” The Old Year’s hopes its heart laid down, As in a grave; but, trusting, said: “The blossoms of the New Year’s crown Bloom from the ashes of the dead.” The Old Year’s heart was full of greed; With selfishness it longed and ached, And cried: “I have not half I need. My thirst is bitter and unslaked. But to the New Year’s generous hand All gifts in plenty shall return; True love it shall understand; By all my failures it shall learn. I have been reckless; it shall be Quiet and calm and pure of life. I was a slave; it shall go free, And find sweet peace where I leave strife.” Only a night from old to new! Never a night such changes brought. The Old Year had its work to do; No New Year miracles are wrought. Always a night from old to new! Night and the healing balm of sleep! Each morn is New Year’s morn come true, Morn of a festival to keep. All nights are sacred nights to make Confession and resolve and prayer; All days are sacred days to wake New gladness in the sunny air. Only a night from old to new; Only a sleep from night to morn. The new is but the old come true; Each sunrise sees a new year born.

Target Sky, feathers fly
Long range, aim high
Watch the bullet drop
Grouse in the pot.

It should have been, could have been worse than you could ever know.
The dashboard was broken but we still have the radio.
(a Modest Mouse rip off but it got me subbed )

plagairism is flattery

Traveling through the Dark


By William E. Stafford

Traveling through the dark I found a deer

dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.

It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:

that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.



By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car

and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;

she had stiffened already, almost cold.

I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.



My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—

her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,

alive, still, never to be born.

Beside that mountain road I hesitated.



The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;

under the hood purred the steady engine.

I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;

around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.



I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,

then pushed her over the edge into the river.

"I love writing poetry but it's taken time, like a difficult courtship that leads to a good marriage, for us to get to know each other. I wrote poetry for seven years to learn how to write a sentence because I really wanted to write novels and I figured that I couldn't write a novel until I could write a sentence. I used poetry as a lover but I never made her my old lady. . . . I tried to write poetry that would get at some of the hard things in my life that needed talking about but those things you can only tell your old lady."
— Richard Brautigan. "Old Lady." The San Francisco Poets. Edited by David Meltzer. Ballantine Books, 1971, pp. 293-294.