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| Poetry | Started by: Keats on Jan 23, '08 21:14 |
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The evening sky is the purplish hue of a fading sunset, as the last traces of light flee beyond the horizon into darkness. Walking down the streets, Keats slowly moves amongst the shouting crowds. The suits in his way rush towards him, in a hurry, only to fall back like waves, acknowledging their mortality when they meet his eyes. Street signs and business advertisements pass by unnoticed, as the young Mafioso instead explores the avenues of his mind as he travels. Slowing, with the sky bathed in blackness, Keats hears the clicking of his shoes on the concrete disappear as he walks over nature's carpet. A semicircular group of a couple dozen trees provides a skirmish line, shielding the city from the park beyond their branches. Walking past a pond and following its small stream towards the ocean, Keats stops and stares quietly at the full moon shining majestically over the sea. Sitting down on the grassy hill overlooking the beach, with the night sky shining above him and the water lapping gently beneath him, he is at peace. Breathing deeply, relaxed, the young man removes his jacket and his shoes and turns on his hip to place them behind him. Noticing a shadow in the trees, he freezes. Sensing no danger from the slowly approaching figure, and knowing he could nothing to save himself if he was wrong, he instead continues to gaze at the moon. Turning his head slightly, he speaks. I often come out here to get away from the world. Just to be alone, to appreciate the beauty this place offers, and to think. With a full moon in the sky like this, I often bring a book of poetry to read. I know men and women in my line of work are often focused on their business, but I also believe many of them appreciate poetry in some form as well. I feel like I am part of an often silent minority, perhaps only of one, though I hope not. Often there has been only the moon for me to speak to, but perhaps tonight a fellow lover of poems will make their presence known. Perhaps even yourself, would you like to share one? Well sure, I'll go first. This is a poem by a man named Robert Frost, titled "For once, Then, Something" Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs Always wrong to the light, so never seeing Deeper down in the well than where the water Gives me back in a shining surface picture My myself in the summer heaven, godlike Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs. Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb, I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture, Through the picture, a something white, uncertain, Something more of the depths—and then I lost it. Water came to rebuke the too clear water. One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom, Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness? Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something. |
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Altitude approaches the podium to speak Frost was indeed a true legend. Rather than read one from his collection i have decided to choose one i am hoping will be new to you.. clears his throat This is a poem written by: Sylvia Plath entitled "The Dead" Revolving in oval loops of solar speed, Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes, Dead men render love and war no heed, Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe. No spiritual Caesars are these dead; They want no proud paternal kingdom come; And when at last they blunder into bed World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion. Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep, These bone shanks will not wake immaculate To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day : They loll forever in colossal sleep; Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up From their fond, final, infamous decay. slowly steps down from the podium and melts back into the crowd |
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| Reply by: Altitude at Jan 23, '08 21:33 | |
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Strega listens with eyes turned to the sky as Keats speaks and then recites. She thinks of how she used to read and write poetry but has lost the enjoyment of a lot of things wondrous and beautiful since entering the sordid life of a thug. Shyly approaching the gentleman, she speaks quietly It is good to see someone who can still cling to what beauty and peace there is to be found in this world, for me of late when I am awake during the night, the only poem I think of is a bit of "A Dream" by Edgar Allan Poe - In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. |
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| Reply by: Strega at Jan 23, '08 23:28 | |
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Kerowyn steps up, listening then adds her voice to those speaking. My mother was a poet, as am I, This is one by her. Dancing with death. Let me dance with death in the morning, and on into after noon, Let me be with you forever, As we court with the dark moon. Let my breath in your taste, and lap up your voice, Let me listen to your living, I'll happily obey your choice. If this is heaven, Then let eternal bliss come soon, If this is death, Let me bleed, and let it drink me in... |
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| Reply by: Ms_Kerowyn at Jan 24, '08 01:04 | |
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