Poetry

like is there a book with the poem the raven?? I saw it in the Simpsons and got into the real poem
in the munsters chsrlie the raven in the clock is always sain Nevermore

2007-09-08 07:43:30 · 5 answers · asked by Anonymous

This I Leave For You
Written by Semper Fi 83 9/8/07

God knows I tried,
To be an example to all I know.
But there comes a time in life,
When we must just let go.
There are those out there,
That wish to hurt and confuse.
I guess I'm fed up now,
And tired of the abuse.

It's time to step back now,
For some just won't recieve.
I will not give up hope,
For those who don't believe.
There is a purpose in life,
That God wants me to complete.
And with negativity,
I just cannot compete.
It's such an honor,
That many gave me a chance.
As the music fades,
We all must end the dance

2007-09-08 07:08:31 · 18 answers · asked by Anonymous

I thought it had all ended but nothing
seems to go away over and over
again just like before seems happiens
is just a lie.

chrous
But I'm still here I build up all this hope
All this rage building up inside of me
All these feelings stuck inside of me
No-one hears my silent scearms

I feel like its time to disappear just wait
for death,but you stop me from I try to
tell you I've had enough its taking to
long,you say it will end

Im just barely holding on I wish this was
temporayely,but it keeps going on and on
I need somone to help me end this nightmare

Chrous
But I'm still here I build up all this hope
All this rage building up inside of me
All these feelings stuck inside of me
No-one hears my silent scearms

2007-09-08 03:37:56 · 13 answers · asked by Anonymous

I'm trying to compile a poetry collection. Is 30 poems too little and if so how many would you reccommend?

2007-09-08 03:35:54 · 4 answers · asked by Anonymous

"POEM" that I wrote and entered it in a contest. First prize winner...$10,000 dollars and published in a poem book with a little story about myself! Ok here is my "Poem"...
"This is a Title to Alcapoem"... ___________________________

My name is Alcapoem...
I sure did like to rome...
I never stayed at home...
All women loved my dome...
But one day it was gome...
And I was all alome...


A man without his dome...
Sad ending to this "POEM"!

2007-09-08 02:40:38 · 20 answers · asked by Anonymous

I move in bondage,
Donning grey suits,
An automaton with secure roots,
With a soul breaking through the dirt,
Like zealous shoots.

I am purity and depravity
in ivory skin.
A transcendental spirit within.
Full of prayers,full of sin.
Avoiding the modern din.


(I haven't finished it just as yet,perhaps im being a tad narcissistic i'm not too sure)

2007-09-08 01:27:55 · 15 answers · asked by Anonymous

I wrote it, and want feedback from someone before I give it to him.

I feel better when I'm with you
Forget about all that I've been through
And with my hand in yours
My future doesn't seem so cursed
I'm lying awake at night
Wishing you were holding me tight
Right now you're only a day away
There are so many things I wish I could say
But the words lie on the tip of my tongue
I'm not really sure what's wrong
Maybe it's that I'm just scared
That if I say them, you'll no longer be there
Maybe I don't want to be alone
Maybe your arms just feel so much like home
Maybe things simply aren't what they seem
Maybe I'm living on wishes and dreams

2007-09-07 22:22:48 · 10 answers · asked by mandy 3

I am 24 years old, and have never written a poem before. I am seeing a therapist, and I was told it might be a fun idea to write my feelings down.I've always liked poetry, and would like to run this by you.

Thank you!!!

2007-09-07 22:03:31 · 15 answers · asked by Anonymous

in this corrupt world
everything seems dark
everything hopeless
everything useless

the crimes committed,
the hurt we received,
innocent people sacrificed,
the absence of social justice,

when will all these end?
the fighting-lives lost.
this dark, cruel world we live in
has finally reached its limit.

fire everywhere
bloodshed all over
darkness prevails
slowly but surely.

hopeless it may seem
someone is waiting
eyes closed, fingers crossed
that somewhere in time..

everything will be all right.

2007-09-07 20:52:35 · 4 answers · asked by Anonymous

Ok so im 12, and i love to rite poetry (see my questions) but some words i dont really know....could you give me some...like words like
affliction? what does that mean? Could u just give me words and what the heck they mean

2007-09-07 17:05:50 · 6 answers · asked by Anonymous

FROM THE ASHES OF CELESTIAL DEBRIS


Deprived of the hibernation of
indifference,
seemingly self-imposed, quite often
self-inflicted,

separate souls are drawn back onto the
stages of life.

These characters, being favored by
the Gods that be,
had fate directing them onward towards
the chance meeting.

Against their will their passions kindled
the flames anew,
again fueling the once diminished
embers of care.

Knowing that they are nurtured now by
requited love,
the once wounded hearts of two lives beat
in unison,

thriving within the rhythm of one
mated heartbeat.

(It's my own. Be honest here. My ego is healthy enough.)

2007-09-07 17:03:21 · 9 answers · asked by Doc Watson 7

This is the poem:

I taste a liquor never brewed—
From Tankards scooped in Pearl—
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air—am I—
And Debauchee of Dew—
Reeling—thro endless summer days—
From inns of Molten Blue—

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door—
When Butterflies—renounce their "drams"—
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—
And Saints—to windows run—
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the—Sun—

So far what i can understand is that she unlike others gets her high or drunkness from nature, unlike other people. It seems like she is almost rubbing on their faces that her way better. The last two stanzas are what are giving me the most trouble, what does the bee and the butterfly represent. A foxglove is a plant that was used for heart attacks but how can that tie into the poem, thank you!!!

2007-09-07 16:18:04 · 1 answers · asked by ? 2

I have critiqued more poems than I've posted, and that's not right, is it? Poets should take risks, after all, and live on the edge. So I'm going to write this one the fly and post my first draft, something I rarely do. Here goes:

Don't Look Back

I led you on, I know
and watched your feelings grow
for all the surprises,
sunsets and sunrises
the foreplay and afterglow
I knew I'd have to go
away.

I didn't mean to do
the slightest harm to you
but passionate fires
and selfish desires
controlled me before I knew
the pain I'd put you through
today.

But the road that I've chosen to follow from here
is meant for my footsteps alone
and all the conventions
and best of intentions
can't cover my crime or atone
to you.

And so I take my leave
and leave your heart to grieve
and though I be witless
as God is my witness
my heart will stay on your sleeve
for you to wear or cleave
in two.

2007-09-07 15:51:21 · 10 answers · asked by nightserf 5

Stanza 1 (“Sindhi Woman”) is a figure of speech. What figure of speech is it? Explain it. What does the speaker in “Sindhi Woman” say about himself? How is the speaker different from the Sindhi woman? Why does the speaker admire the Sindhi woman?

2007-09-07 13:11:47 · 2 answers · asked by piper7971 2

2007-09-07 12:12:50 · 1 answers · asked by Anonymous

http://www.theversemarauder.com

2007-09-07 10:26:14 · 3 answers · asked by Anonymous

The shark starts dashing hear and there,
Waiting for my life to drop from the air.
As soon as you write back,
The shark starts to attack.
My body broken to bits,
But its not as bad as your hits!
The shark starts feasting on me,
And no one lives near the sea!



im 14

2007-09-07 08:46:58 · 19 answers · asked by Katja ie tattybow 1

Any one know of this or have any idea who this might be? Any help gratefully received!

2007-09-07 05:47:12 · 4 answers · asked by Anonymous

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place."

2007-09-07 04:00:53 · 1 answers · asked by MM 1

(imagery, rhyme,meter, theme, mood, and tone)what are they in her chapter 1 whcih is as below---please help

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place."

2007-09-07 03:54:59 · 1 answers · asked by MM 1

do u know whats the (imagery, rhyme,meter, theme, mood, and tone) in this text
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place."

2007-09-07 03:51:34 · 1 answers · asked by Dr Ask 1

Oscar Wilde's novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses,
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place."

2007-09-07 03:45:40 · 3 answers · asked by Dr Ask 1

I've been writing poetry every since fifth grade, Mr.Tomis Richardson was my teacher, he was the first tallest man I've ever seen he taught me everything I know now, but now I'm in the 10th grade and I haven't been able to write a thing since 9th. Most of my pomes were mostly about love or depression but now that I'm happy, I cant write any more, I use to write to get rid of my pain, but every since I've been with Jeremy (my boyfriend for seven months now) my world has changed, I'm not saying that I want to be sad, I just want to write agian.
If you want to read some of my poetry just go to www.poetry.com, type in Diamond Grant, and look for the pome lost love, when you find it you'll see other poems that I have written, who ever gives me the best adivice with get five points.

2007-09-07 02:46:36 · 7 answers · asked by Thick~Chick 2

Insurmountable

Pen in hand,
I sit.
Facing the fireplace
Where castles are in the sky

I start the technology,
I sit.
Back to solid
Mind in constant collision

Pen in hand,
I sit.
I start to think
To immortalize thoughtlessness.

I travel antifuture,
I sit.
The creation wonders
Imagination suffices.

Pen in hand,
I sit.
Feet seemingly planted
Hands pretend to feel.

I allow that which wanders to leave,
I sit.
Solid yet invisible
A living ghost

Pen in hand,
I sit.
Living beneath a veil
Shadowy memories flit.

I disguise fear,
I sit.
Within an atmosphere
Of timeless cruely.

And then I get up.
And all thats enchanted,
Breaks like wings,
On a fluttery butterfly.
Crushing dreams,
The pen falls.

2007-09-07 02:43:39 · 5 answers · asked by exquisite pianist 3

{This is purely fiction}



Acid rain falls down in vein
T, t, tappin’ at da window payne
Calling ma name
Tourchers ma brain
D,d,d,d,drivin’ me insane
To the rhythm of da tick tockin’ clock
Rested on ma mantel, pictures block
Of bodies and who they used to be
Burnin’ holes through ma soul
Laughin’ sickenin’ glee

Acid rain falls down in vein
T, t, tappin’ at da window payne
Ain’t it shame
I am to blame
K,k,k,killin’ them that way
To da rhythm of da shot gun banging hushed
Rested on ma mantel stained in blood
On bodies now that can no longer be
Burnin’ holes through ma soul
Laughin’ sickenin’ glee

2007-09-06 23:26:20 · 7 answers · asked by ? 3

{my daughter has it *^_^*}


Dsyelixa

Waht in the wrold is wrnog wtih me?
I'd swron I wrtoe taht rgiht!
My pen geos dwon and wriets aornud
The wrods I had in mnid.
Yes, I eidt all my wrok
And wehn I'm satsifeid
Smoenoe ponits out to me
"It's deny not d-n-e-y!"
Thnak-goondess for techonlogy
At laest now I can tpye
For I now have "spell-checker"
To keep my writings, right!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(For those of you who could'nt follow, the norm is below)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dyslexia

What in the world is wrong with me?
I'd sworn I wrote that right!
My pen goes down and writes around
The words I had in mind.
Yes, I edit all my work
And when I'm satisfied
Someone points out to me
"It's deny not d-n-e-y!"
Thank goodness for technology
At least now I can type
For I now have "spell-checker"
To keep my writings, right!

2007-09-06 23:15:08 · 11 answers · asked by ? 3

I have no name and have not seen
but. the places I have been
Thoughts of you and why you are
a mystery, a hidden sin

Another time and place perhaps,
a face to face to see that laugh
a smile I’ve carried in my mind
could I be warm, my distant half?

I could be wrong, I could be right
delightful wonder in minds eye
always wishing it could be
sadly come to and deny

A peaceful time I cherish much
although, knowing it’s a crush
someday, if not real I will see
the day when we just simply touch...

2007-09-06 22:55:44 · 8 answers · asked by ? 3

The darkness is consuming
I can feel the pressure of the silence
My soul feels like bursting
Hear pumping
Throbbing

Silver is the steel
Casting of a tiny shard of light
In the middle of the blackness
I steady my hand
Cutting

Brigh red blood s
Falls in quite drops
Bringing relief from the pain
I smile
Sighing

They dont understand
Shaking heads in disbelief
This is my disease, cross to bear
I finally i admit that i am
Addicted

2007-09-06 22:46:19 · 8 answers · asked by *Lee*D* 4

As I lay, resting you tapped me upon the shoulder in that familiar way,
I inhaled and let you back into my soul,
As you walked through the colored corridors of my mind,
I wish you would remind me more often,
Just what we had planned to do,
This time around,
The world with its many tricks,
I’m satisfied to sit and watch,
To pretend that it’s all for my pleasure,
To twist my self into believing this new found truth,
True work comes from a true soul,
One that has the heart to reward itself,
And like a swift wind,
You rustled my leaves and went on your way,
I am only a tree you see,
I have no choice but to stay where I am,
Next time stay a little longer dear friend,
Together we can fly,
Perhaps someday I too shall be like the wind,
Free to play upon your curls and sing my song,
The tree in me knows from record,
The folly in such excitement,
It must be a sin,
Why? You come around to ask,
Well I am a tree and I should love to be a tree,
The simplicity of the wind,
It cannot be explained,
Some of us have the simplicity of the wind,
I wish I knew my true sin,
I would live to be a windy tree…

2007-09-06 20:53:12 · 13 answers · asked by likeminded 3

You have no sword
Yet you pierce my heart
You have no heart
Yet it is cold
You are blind
Yet you see right through me
I know your lying
But I believe every word that falls from your lips
You have caused my eyes to dim
But they still behold your beauty
Your actions are callus
Yet your touch is soft
You break my heart
And I still come back for more

2007-09-06 19:30:16 · 12 answers · asked by Cindy 1