Maybe not strictly poetry, but a worthy sentiment.
"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
John Donne - Meditation XVII
Atrophy: what you get when you win atournament.
Who would have thought one of the most popular topics on a wrestling forum would be a discussion of poetry? Can you see, before a national championship match, a wrestler waxing poetic to himself: "is this to be or not to be?"
Great topic, Poetry Mom.
Yes, the quotes from Donne and the Bible are poetry. I'd say so anyway.
They cannot scare me with their far away places
On worlds, between worlds, where no human race is
I have it in me, much closer to home
To scare myself with my own desert spaces.
well since we're veering into the "not exactly poetry" category, this has always been a favorite quotation of mine from Shakespeare. Extremely touching, especially when you see footage of Robert Kennedy quoting it in tribute to JFK:
when he shall die
take him and cut him out in little stars
and he will make the face of heaven so fine
that all the world will be in love with night
and pay no worship to the garish sun
Super 32 Challenge - October 26-27, 2013
"Good things happen when you wrestle for a full seven minutes." -- Jayson Ness, post-finals press conference
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
(for Kellie Jones, born 16 May 1959)
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus . . .
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there . . .
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands.
Thanks for adding to the thread everyone. I enjoy reading your postings.
Brother Morris, no significant improvement. She's still feverish and unable to speak and seemed weaker yesterday. She's back at the hospital last night. I'm taking it day-by-day. It's a curious up and down situation; a tough position to judge. When I prepare to go get her she improves only to regress again. If I can't get her home in a couple days I will go there to bring her home.
Thanks very much for your message from a day ago. It meant a lot hearing from you. I have nothing but time on my hands so I'll check back later on.
I was reading Emily Dickinson last night and jumped over to some Billy Collins. If you are a bit familiar with Dickinson and her biography, this Collins' poem will make you chuckle. It contains some laugh-out-loud "inside" references to good ole Emily.
Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
by Billy Collins
First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.
And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.
Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.
You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.
The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.
Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.
What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.
So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset
and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.
I'm off topic but here is a racy, wild one by Dickinson. Wouldn't a man be so lucky to have a Wild Night with a woman who feels this way?
"Wild Nights! Wild Nights"
by Emily Dickinson
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild Nights should be
Futile the winds
To a heart in port, --
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in Thee!
And back on topic to memorable, meaningful lines, I submit the oft quoted Lord Byron:
She Walks in Beauty
By George Gordon Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: