Bouncy Ball
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:06 AM
Original message |
Robert Frost. A tiny bit naughty. |
|
Edited on Thu Jul-14-05 01:07 AM by Bouncy Ball
Well, I mean while it's the theme and all.
PUTTING IN THE SEED
You come to fetch me from my work to-night When supper's on the table, and we'll see If I can leave off burying the white Soft petals fallen from the apple tree. (Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite, Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea) And go along with you ere you lose sight Of what you came for and become like me, Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
|
AlienGirl
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:11 AM
Response to Original message |
1. More Frost: "To Earthward" |
|
Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air
That crossed me from sweet things, The flow of–was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Downhill at dusk?
I had the swirl and ache From sprays of honeysuckle That when they’re gathered shake Dew on the knuckle.
I craved strong sweets, but those Seemed strong when I was young; The petal of the rose It was that stung.
Now no joy but lacks salt, That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain
Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
When stiff and sore and scarred I take away my hand From leaning on it hard In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length.
|
Bouncy Ball
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:13 AM
Response to Reply #1 |
2. God, that's just a gorgeous one, isn't it? |
AlienGirl
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:16 AM
Response to Reply #2 |
3. Oh yeah...Also, I love this one: |
|
Edited on Thu Jul-14-05 01:17 AM by AlienGirl
Acquainted with the Night I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.
|
bettyellen
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:17 AM
Response to Original message |
4. the man i love is a country man |
|
and he's big and he's strong, he's got corns on his hands. he's strong as a hickory tree. and he's the right kind of man for me. in the morining, he's right behind the plow in the evening, he stops to milk the cow. and every night, he loves me. oh wee. how he love me. cause i i i want a man with a whole lot of energy.
dakota staton
|
Bouncy Ball
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:18 AM
Response to Reply #4 |
|
:rofl:
OMG you are killing me!
|
bettyellen
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:31 AM
Response to Reply #5 |
9. that's from memory too and i never remember lyrics... |
|
your post reminded me of that song. she could wail a magnificent "thrill is gone" too. i miss my ms foo foo.
|
AlienGirl
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:21 AM
Response to Original message |
|
Directive
Back out of all this now too much for us, Back in a time made simple by the loss Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, There is a house that is no more a house Upon a farm that is no more a farm And in a town that is no more a town. The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you Who only has at heart your getting lost, May seem as if it should have been a quarry— Great monolithic knees the former town Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered. And there’s a story in a book about it: Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest, The chisel work of an enormous Glacier That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole. You must not mind a certain coolness from him Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain. Nor need you mind the serial ordeal Of being watched from forty cellar holes As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins. As for the woods’ excitement over you That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves, Charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years ago? They think too much of having shaded out A few old pecker-fretted apple trees. Make yourself up a cheering song of how Someone’s road home from work this once was, Who may be just ahead of you on foot Or creaking with a buggy load of grain. The height of the adventure is the height Of country where two village cultures faded Into each other. Both of them are lost. And if you’re lost enough to find yourself By now, pull in your ladder road behind you And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me. Then make yourself at home. The only field Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall. First there’s the children’s house of make-believe, Some shattered dishes underneath a pine, The playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad. Then for the house that is no more a house, But only a belilaced cellar hole, Now slowly closing like a dent in dough. This was no playhouse but a house in earnest. Your destination and your destiny’s A brook that was the water of the house, Cold as a spring as yet so near its source, Too lofty and original to rage. (We know the valley streams that when aroused Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.) I have kept hidden in the instep arch Of an old cedar at the waterside A broken drinking goblet like the Grail Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it, So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t. (I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.) Here are your waters and your watering place. Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
|
Bouncy Ball
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:22 AM
Response to Reply #6 |
7. "...pecker-fretted apple trees...." |
|
snicker snicker
(acting like a 15 year old)
|
AlienGirl
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:28 AM
Response to Reply #7 |
|
Despite all the Frost poetry that's just about nature and pretty things, I like his darker, sadder poems better.
Tucker
|
davepc
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
|
Thu Jul-14-05 01:35 AM
Response to Original message |
10. James Joyce wrote some pretty shocking stuff |
|
Real hardcore letters to his wife.
|
DU
AdBot (1000+ posts) |
Sun May 12th 2024, 12:31 PM
Response to Original message |