Your Favourite Poem

[Sassy Colombian]

You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

 

[summerisle]

 

[sdk]

Congratulations Louise Glück! You have won the Nobel Prize in Literature!

"Mother and Child"

We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.

Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family.
Then back to the world, polished by soft whips.

We dream; we don’t remember.

Machine of the family: dark fur, forests of the mother’s body.
Machine of the mother: white city inside her.

And before that: earth and water.
Moss between rocks, pieces of leaves and grass.

And before, cells in a great darkness.
And before that, the veiled world.

This is why you were born: to silence me.
Cells of my mother and father, it is your turn
to be pivotal, to be the masterpiece.

I improvised; I never remembered.
Now it’s your turn to be driven;
you’re the one who demands to know:

Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant?
Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us;
it is your turn to address it, to go back asking
what am I for? What am I for?

 

[BigDunc'sFod]

Congratulations Louise Glück! You have won the Nobel Prize in Literature!

"Mother and Child"

We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.

Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family.
Then back to the world, polished by soft whips.

We dream; we don’t remember.

Machine of the family: dark fur, forests of the mother’s body.
Machine of the mother: white city inside her.

And before that: earth and water.
Moss between rocks, pieces of leaves and grass.

And before, cells in a great darkness.
And before that, the veiled world.

This is why you were born: to silence me.
Cells of my mother and father, it is your turn
to be pivotal, to be the masterpiece.

I improvised; I never remembered.
Now it’s your turn to be driven;
you’re the one who demands to know:

Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant?
Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us;
it is your turn to address it, to go back asking
what am I for? What am I for?

At first I was like "this is rubbish" then I read it twice, then five times

It's brilliant.

 

[summerisle]

The epilogue from the novel Death of a Hero by Richard Adlington. He fought on the the Western Front in 1916/17, was gassed, and suffered from shell shock in his later years. The book details the hypocrisy of Edwardian society and his disillusionment with civilians at home during the War. Well worth a read.

 

[chrismpw]

I want to go to the sea again
The lonely sea and sky
I left my shoes and socks there
I wonder if they're dry

 

[trueblue84]

 

[Devanski]

I never quite grasped the intricacies of poetry... always seemed above me, a bit like opera but then that’s probably just an environment thing.
Anyway, I do remember this one left an impression on me during my school years.
http://www.davidpbrown.co.uk/poetry/edwin-brock.html
That’ll probably be my only contribution to this thread...guttersnipe that I was.

 

[kev]

This is a song lyric rather than a 'poem' but it's very apt for today (and tomorrow)

NOVEMBER 12th (Joe Solo)


My name is Private Joe Carpenter
of the 51st Rifles in France
I'm here to pick up the pieces of people
They left when the army advanced
The rats here grew fat on the flesh of my comrades
Rotting out in No Man's Land
Now I'm trying to give some poor bugger his name back
When all I can find is his hand

On November 11th they rang out the bells
The crowds hit the streets as they silenced the shells
I bet old Lloyd George is proud of himself
But he's not digging graves on November the 12th

My brother died up in Wipers last winter
He’d signed up as soon as he could
Now bits of his body lay buried forever
In ten foot of Passchendaele mud
There is no graveside my mother can mourn at
As she cries out into the night
She says his death was a message from Heaven
That God never meant us to fight

November 11th they rang out the bells
And crowds hit the streets as they silenced the shells
And I bet old Lloyd George is proud of himself
But then he’s not digging graves on November the 12th

I was digging some place when I come face to face
With two unblinking eyes staring back
It give me a fright, by some trick of the light
Hell, I swear that it looked like our Jack
But it was some German boy barely sixteen
I stood there and whispered a prayer
Said: “You were never really my enemy son,
No he’s sat in some office somewhere”.

November 11th they rang out the bells
And crowds hit the streets as they silenced the shells
And I hope all warmongers rot down in Hell
And I’d make ‘em dig graves on November the 12th

 

[summerisle]

 

[Groucho]

Misread the title as your favourite porn

 

[summerisle]

Misread the title as your favourite porn

Is that a come on. lol

 

[Groucho]

Is that a come on. lol

Aye aye

 

[kev]

Misread the title as your favourite porn

. . . . and immediately came for a look. lol