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Favorite Poet and poem from them.

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Jim Morrison is my favorite.

The Severed Garden by Jim Morrison.

Wow, I'm sick of doubt
Live in the light of certain
South
Cruel bindings.
The servants have the power
Dog-men and their mean women
Pulling poor blankets over
Our sailors

I'm sick of dour faces
Staring at me from the tv
Tower, I want roses in
My garden bower; dig? 
Royal babies, rubies

Must now replace aborted
Strangers in the mud
These mutants, blood-meal
For the plant that's plowed.

They are waiting to take us into
The severed garden
Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful
Comes death on a strange hour
Unannounced, unplanned for
Like a scaring over-friendly guest you've
Brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all
And gives us wings
Where we had shoulders
Smooth as raven's
Claws

No more money, no more fancy dress
This other kingdom seems by far the best
Until it's other jaw reveals incest
And loose obedience to a vegetable law.

I will not go
Prefer a feast of friends
To the giant family.

 

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somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me,i and

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

 

e.e cummings

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20 minutes ago, lostinthesauce said:

 

 

 

 

 

 

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me,i and

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

 

e.e cummings

Beautiful 

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3 minutes ago, Emily Harlan said:

Edgar Alan Poe

 

The Raven

Lovely 

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Charles Bukowski 

Spring Swan

swans die in the Spring too
and there it floated
dead on a Sunday
sideways
circling in current
and I walked to the rotunda
and overhead
gods in chariots
dogs, women
circled
and death
ran down my throat
like a mouse,
and I heard the people coming
with their picnic bags
and laughter,
and I felt guilty
for the swan
as if death
were a thing of shame
and like a fool
I walked away
and left them
my beautiful swan.

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      Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

                           The Female of the Species

    WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, 
    He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. 
    But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail. 
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, 
    He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can. 
    But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail. 
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, 
    They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws. 
    'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale. 
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, 
    For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; 
    But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale— 
    The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,— 
    Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. 
    Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact 
    To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

    Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, 
    To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. 
    Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex 
    Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The s●●!

    But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame 
    Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same; 
    And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, 
    The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

    She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast 
    May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest. 
    These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells— 
    She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

    She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great 
    As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate. 
    And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim 
    Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

    She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties; 
    Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!— 
    He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, 
    Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

    Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights, 
    Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites, 
    Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw 
    And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

    So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer 
    With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her 
    Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands 
    To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

    And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him 
    Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him. 
    And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, 
    That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

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