Envictus
Level 40
Joined: Mar 04, 2006
Posts: 1036
Location: New York
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 Posted: Fri Dec 28, 2007 3:37 am Post subject: Poetry |
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A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole.
In the morning, glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
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Richard Cory
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
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The Dog Years
when it seemed every girl I dated
had a friend—
a Sheena or a Scoop, Jerome or Mr. Bones—
a four-legged, longtime furry pal
whose single-minded, tail-shaking
devotion to his mistress
caused me a certain pang,
knowing his relationship with her
would outlast mine;
that he would still be here,
jumping on the furniture
long after I was just a memory
beside the toothbrush rack, another
anecdotal mugshot
in the history book of non-commitment
Still, that animal and I would often,
of a sunny afternoon, promenade together,
sniffing at the pants of strangers,
one of us pausing
while the other peed,
having in common both
a short attention span
and an insatiable appetite
for the love of womankind
How perplexing for that dog
it must have been
when at the midnight hour
it was me, not him,
admitted to the fresh
bower of her bed-
and more than once,
in the warm, aromatic dark
full of animal mysteries
and spiritual facts,
I myself felt baffled by my luck,
like a sinner who has woken up
inexplicably in heaven,
while far off in the background
some poor wretch
who had lived by all the rules
howled and scratched at the shut door.
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After great pain,
a formal feeling comes
After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
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Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
_________________
KMFDM - Anarchy.mp3 |
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