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  1. What's new in this club
  2. @AC Benus Thank you so much for sharing this one. You’re right that it sounds musical, and needs to be recited aloud.
  3. I've found it's always best to recite Holmes' poetry out loud. It is musical in the way that Poe's work is. The Last Leaf by Oliver Wendell Holmes I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o’er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, “They are gone.” The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said— Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago— That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow; But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. _
  4. And let me add to the other voices praising this awesome poem. It pulls the heart and heightens every sense, striving to hear, scent and touch along with you, that we may share in recollection.
  5. Truly a wonderful piece, AC. Thank you.
  6. Beautiful , profound, but it makes me sad somehow. Hugs my dearest friend xo
  7. This poem is exceptional, AC. All of the senses combining to bring remembrance of a love gone... and making it anew. Funny how a simple fragrance or touch can accomplish that.
  8. Here's the semi-final draft of the poem I'v been working on. Eventually it will be the new No. 12 of the Lyrics for Kevin collection. Ballade des sens Sometimes a lost breeze will bring you to me, Simply because of its kinship to scent I find well-known; whose cleanliness can free The place in my mind where I keep you pent – Where your manly smell’s allowed to present The joys it feels like to be pulled to you Before any drop of passion is spent, So I might fall into your arms anew. Sometimes a guy will laugh a certain way – Settled, his bass resonance like your sound – Shimm’ring as lure in the manner you’d say It was time for us to be bedward bound; For there that note would great music expound From my framework ringing all through and through, When once my deepest parts your voice had found So I might fall into your arms anew. Sometimes the mere brush of the sheet’s enough To centralize memory’s closed sensation And your touch return, both tender and rough, Gripping me to heightened meditation, Ready to take your profoundest stroke too Where our pulses join in expectation So I might fall into your arms anew. Sometimes my eyes close to see more clearly, And when they do, I spy your little smile, The one you make and bite your lip merely To whet the edge of my want for awhile, Letting me watch your pleasure spread in style Hov’ring over my mouth, those eyes to view, Pausing as you enter to gauge my trial, So I might fall into your arms anew. What taste then over-washes my senses, Primal and fresh; primordial and bold; The essence of you without pretenses Sinks into me now like the days of old, Slaking my thirst where our lips are ensouled, But instilling a need that must make do When you flood only recollection’s hold So I might fall into your arms anew. Envoi: Kevin, my heart with your past seems all blent, But my sixth sense always trusts what is true, Knowing the light of your love never went So I might fall into your arms anew. _
  9. Thanks for reading. It helped shake me loose and be able to continue on my own poem.
  10. @AC Benus The Ballade of Small Talk is indeed an example of timeless poetry. Thank you for sharing it with everyone. I read the original to myself, despite my horrid French; it is quite beautiful.
  11. It's so simple when you read this, but that's its brilliance. It's simply the truth for so many people. We know what is around us, but fail to know ourselves. Thanks AC for posting this wonderful piece.
  12. I sketched out the start of a new Ballade today, and once again came into contact with that form's undisputed master, François Villon. I found a poem that was unknown to me, and love Galway Kinnell's literal (i.e., non-Ballade) translation. Reading it like this makes the master's message come across in a timeless way. That's the mark of all great poetry. (I provide the original French after the translation.) Ballade of Small Talk I know flies in milk; I know the man by his clothes; I know fair weather from foul; I know the apple by the tree; I know the tree when I see the sap; I know when all is one; I know who labors and who loafs; I know everything but myself. I know the coat by the collar; I know the monk by the cowl; I know the master by the servant; I know the nun by the veil; I know when a hustler rattles on; I know fools raised on whipped cream; I know the wine by the barrel; I know everything but myself. I know the horse and the mule; I know their loads and their limits; I know Beatrice and Belle; I know the beads that count and add; I know nightmare and sleep; I know the Bohemians' error; I know the power of Rome; I know everything but myself. Envoi: Prince, I know all things; I know the rosy-cheeked and the pale; I know death who devours all; I know everything but myself. ------------------- Ballade des menus propos Je congnois bien mouches en laict; Je congnois à la robe l’homme; Je congnois le beau temps du laid; Je congnois au pommier la pomme; Je congnois l’arbre à veoir la gomme; Je congnois quand tout est de mesme; Je congnois qui besongne ou chomme; Je congnois tout, fors que moy-mesme. Je congnois pourpoinct au collet; Je congnois le moyne à la gonne; Je congnois le maistre au valet; Je congnois au voyle la nonne; Je congnois quand piqueur jargonne; Je congnois folz nourriz de cresme; Je congnois le vin à la tonne; Je congnois tout, fors que moy-mesme. Je congnois cheval du mulet; Je congnois leur charge et leur somme; Je congnois Bietrix et Bellet; Je congnois gect qui nombre et somme; Je congnois vision en somme; Je congnois la faulte des Boesmes; Je congnois filz, varlet et homme; Je congnois tout, fors que moy-mesme. Envoi: Prince, je congnois tout en somme; Je congnois coulorez et blesmes; Je congnois mort qui nout consomme; Je congnois tout, fors que moy-mesme. _
  13. I was looking up one of my favorite poems today, and bumped into a bevy of brilliant Oliver Wendell Holmes quotes. This one follows Mishima's (and my own) quote quite well. "Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow."
  14. This struck me immediately because in the Lyrics of Dedication to the Tony Sonnets I wrote a few years ago: ...now quatrains living in my blood will always make your beauty sit like heaven's dome with stars be-stud.
  15. That is a fantastic poem. Beautiful and thought provoking. Thank you for posting it.
  16. much poetry is written with blood ... wonderful quote, AC.
  17. Perfect purity is possible if you turn your life into a line of poetry -- written with a splash of blood. Yukio Mishima
  18. You read my mind... you have to be psychic...
  19. Haha, I hope you told him it'll be on the next test.
  20. Thank you. I wrote this on my classroom marker board while the students worked on a Pre-Calculus assignment. One student looked up and asked, bewildered, "Is this an English class?"
  21. A very strong and evocative Tanka, my friend. There is a melancholic tone of time passing, yet it's a fitting perspective of life and our place in the universe. We are but miniscule in the larger picture of existence.
  22. Tanka for today: More stars in the sky twinkle with an ancient light than grains of fine sand made from dinosaurs' old bones where my footprints lie fading.
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