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In this thread you may post, discuss and analyze your favorite poem. Feel free to include bio's and images, or anything else that you may feel shares a connection with the poem you're posting.
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Re: poetry-General

Summer Peri
My first HUGE post here!

Odysseas Elytis

Odysseas Elytis (Greek: Οδυσσέας Ελύτης; real name: Odysseas Alepoudellis, Οδυσσέας Αλεπουδέλλης) (November 2, 1911 – March 18, 1996) was a Greek poet regarded as a major exponent of poetic modernism in Greece. In 1979, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

The Monogram

I will always mourn–hear me?–for you, alone, in Paradise.


Fate, like a switchman, will turn
Elsewhere the lines of the palm
Time will concede for one moment

How else, since man loves and is loved

The heavens will perform our insides
And innocence will strike the world
With the scythe of death’s blackness.


I mourn the sun and I mourn the time that comes
Without us and I sing of others who’ve passed
If this is true

The bodies addressed and boats sweetly gliding by
The guitars that flicker under the waters
The “believe me” and the “don’t”
One in the air and one in the music

The two small animals, our hands
That tried to climb one another in secret
The flowerpot cool through the open garden gate
And the parts of sea coming together
Beyond the dry-stone wall, beyond the hedge
The windflower you held in your hand
Whose purple shuddered three times for three days above the waterfall

If this is all true, I sing
The wooden beam and square tapestry
On the wall, the Mermaid with tresses unbraided
The cat that watched us in the dark

A child with incense and the red cross
The hour when night falls on unapproachable rocks
I mourn the garment that I fingered and the world came to me.


Like so I speak of you and me

Because I love you and in love I know
How to enter in like the full moon
From everywhere, about your small foot in the boundless sheets
How to pluck the jasmine–and I have the power
To blow the wind and take you in sleep through the moon’s passages and the sea’s secret colonnade
–Hypnotized tree of silvering spiders

The waves have heard of you
How you caress, how you kiss
Around the neck, around the bay
How you whisper the “what” and the “eh”
Always we the light and the shadow

Always you the little star and always I the dark vessel
Always you the harbor and always I the light shining from the right
The wet jetty and the glint on the oars
High on the vine-laden house
The bound roses and cooling water
Always you the stone statue and always I the shadow that grows
You the hanging shutter and I the wind that blows it open
Because I love you and I love you
Always you the coin and I the worship that gives it value

So much the night, so much the humming in the wind
So much the mist in the air, so much the stillness
Around the despotic sea
Heavenly arch full of stars
So much your faintest breath

That I no longer have anything else
Within these four walls, this ceiling and floor
But to call for you and for my own voice to hit me
To smell your scent and for people to fear
Because people can’t bear the untried
And foreign and it’s early you hear
It’s early still in the world my love

To speak of you and me.


It’s early still in this world, do you hear me
They haven’t tamed the beast, do you hear me
My wasted blood and sharp, hear me, knife
Like a ram running across the heavens
Breaking the tails of comets, hear me
I am, hear me
I love you, hear me
I hold you and I take you and I dress you
In the white gown of Ophelia, hear me
Where do you leave me, where do you go and who, hear me

Holds your hand above the flood
The enormous flames and volcanic lava
Will bury us, hear me, and the day will come
A thousand years later when we will be, hear me
Shining fossils, hear me
For the heartlessness of men to burnish, hear me
And throw above them in a thousand pieces
And on the waters one by one, hear me
I measure my bitter pebbles, hear me
And time is a great church, hear me
Where once the forms
Of saints
Shed true tears, hear me
The bells ring loudly, hear me
I cross a deep ford
Where the angels wait with candles and funeral psalms
I go nowhere, hear me
Neither or both together, hear me

This flower of the storm and, hear me
Of love
Once and for all, we pick it
And it never comes to flower anywhere else, hear me
On another earth, on another star, hear me
There isn’t soil, there isn’t air
That we touch, the same, hear me

And no gardener was ever so lucky

To produce such a flower from such a winter, hear me
And such northern winds, only we, hear me,
In the middle of the sea
Only from the mere wish for love, hear me
Raised an entire island, hear me
With caves and capes and crags in bloom
Listen, listen
Who speaks in the waters and who cries, hear
Who seeks the other, who calls, hear
I am the one who calls and I am the one who cries, you hear me
I love you and I love you, hear me.


I have spoken of you in old times
With wet nurses and veteran rebels
From where your beastly sorrow comes
The brilliance of trembling water on your face
And why it must be that I come near you
I who don’t want love but want the wind
But want the gallop of the uncovered, upright sea

And none had heard of you
Neither dittany nor wild mushroom
Of Cretan highlands, none
Only God grants and guides your hand to me

Here and there, carefully around the whole turn
Of the face’s seashore, the bay, the hair
On the hill rippling off to the left

Your body in the stance of the solitary pine
Eyes of pride and of transparent
Depth, in the house with an old china cabinet
Of yellow lace and cypress wood
Alone I wait for where you’ll first appear
High on the veranda or under the garden’s cobblestones
With the horse of the saint and the egg of Easter

Like from a wrecked wall painting
Big as the little life wanted you,
To hold within a little candle the stentorian volcanic glow

So no one will have seen or heard
Anything about you in the wilderness of dilapidated houses
Neither the buried ancestors at the edge of the garden fence
Nor the old woman with all her herbs

Of you, only I, and maybe the music
That is concealed inside me but shall return more strongly
Of you, the unformed breast of twelve years
Turning toward the future and the red crater
Of you, a bitter odor finds the body
And like a pin punctures memory
And here the soil, here the doves, here our ancient earth.


I have seen much and the earth to my mind seems more beautiful
More beautiful in the golden breath
The sharp stone, more beautiful
The dark blue of the isthmuses and the roofs among the waves
More beautiful, the rays where you pass without stepping
Unbeaten like the goddess of Samothrace atop the sea’s hills

Like so I have seen you and that will suffice
For all and time will be exonerated
In the wake of your passage
My soul like a green dolphin follows

And plays with the white and azure

Triumph, triumph, where I have been conquered
Before love and together
With the hibiscus and passion-flower
Go, go, and let me be lost

Alone, and let the sun be a newborn that you hold.
Alone, and let me be the homeland that mourns
Let it be the word that I sent to hold the laurel leaf for you
Alone, the lone, strong wind and the full
Pebble under the eyelid of dark depths
The fisherman who caught then threw Paradise back into Time.


In Paradise I have marked out an island
Akin to you and a house by the sea

With a large bed and a small door
I have thrown an echo into the depths
To see myself every morning when I rise

Half to see you passing through the waters
Half to weep for you in Paradise.

From THE AXION ESTI, by Odysseus Elytis (1911-1996)

THE BLOOD of love has robed me in purple
And joys never seen before have covered me in shade.
I've become corroded in the south wind of humankind
Mother far away, my Everlasting Rose.

On the open sea they lay in wait for me,
With triple-masted men-of-war they bombarded me,
My sin that I too had a love of my own
Mother far away, my Everlasting Rose.

Once in July her large eyes
Half-opened, deep down my entrails, to light up
The virgin life for a single moment
Mother far away, my Everlasting Rose.

And since that day the wrath of ages
Has turned on me, shouting out the curse:
"He who saw you, let him live in blood and stone"
Mother far away, my Everlasting Rose.

Once again I took the shape of my native country,
I grew and flowered among the stones.
And the blood of killers I redeem with light
Mother far away, my Everlasting Rose.

"You have your brush, you have your colors, you paint the paradise, then in you go."

— Nikos Kazantzakis
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Re: poetry-General

In reply to this post by VURAngeL
 I will share my absolute favorite poet.

Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda (July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973) was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose his pen name after Czech poet Jan Neruda.
Neruda wrote in a variety of styles such as erotically charged love poems as in his collection Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair, surrealist poems, historical epics, and overtly political manifestos. In 1971 Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez once called him "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language."  Neruda always wrote in green ink as it was his personal color of hope.

"Love is so short, forgetting is so long."
— Pablo Neruda (Love: Ten Poems By Pablo Neruda)

"Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life"
— Pablo Neruda


 I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life!

XV From:’ Veinte poemas de amor’

I like you calm, as if you were absent,
and you hear me far-off, and my voice does not touch you.
It seems that your eyelids have taken to flying:
it seems that a kiss has sealed up your mouth.
Since all these things are filled with my spirit,
you come from things, filled with my spirit.
You appear as my soul, as the butterfly’s dreaming,
and you appear as Sadness’s word.
I like you calm, as if you were distant,
you are a moaning, a butterfly’s cooing.
You hear me far-off, my voice does not reach you.
Let me be calmed, then, calmed by your silence.
Let me commune, then, commune with your silence,
clear as a light, and pure as a ring.
You are like night, calmed, constellated.
Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.
I like you calm, as if you were absent:
distant and saddened, as if you were dead.
One word at that moment, a smile, is sufficient.
And I thrill, then, I thrill: that it cannot be so.
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Re: poetry-General

Summer Peri
I love Pablo Neruda too!!You guys always post something i love!

"You have your brush, you have your colors, you paint the paradise, then in you go."

— Nikos Kazantzakis
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Re: poetry-General

I love Neruda too. The first poem Angel, that speaks about unconditional love, reminds me of a poem I greatly love.
It a poet of Theoni Drakopoulou widely known as Myrtiotissa.(1881-1968)

She was born in Istanbul and was the daughter of a diplomat. She was one of the most important female personalities of poetry in Greece.
She had a son that was an actor and she lost him early(he died in 1958 being only 39 years old).


I love you

I love you!
No more words can I say
That are deeper or simpler
Or greater!

Here at your feet
I longingly spread
The petals of the flower
Of my life.

See, both my hands bound
And outstretched to you;
So that sweetly you may
Cradle your head in them .

And this jealous heart
Is leaping and yearns,
Just like them,
Your pillow to be.

O honeybee, drink
All the sweetness therein,
All fragrances pure
Of my heart and my soul.

I love you! What more
can I say to you, dearest,
that is deeper or simpler
Or greater!

And another one by the same poet(The translation is mine, so you understand that it's not the best.
I couldn't find any proper translations but I felt I should bring this poem here):

Is this love?

Is this disaster or love
That some angel's feathers
It has worn
And it comes once more
With tender gifts
To seduce me?

Is this silence love
That whenever I see you
It closes firmly my mouth
And even when I'm alone
I stand wordless and ecstatic
For hours?

But whatever it is
I crave it
And evil is welcome
If it is from you
It will turn into supreme good
When I'll collapse to your beloved feet.
I can resist anything but temptation..
-Oscar Wilde
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Re: poetry-General

In reply to this post by VURAngeL
I will read a comment on your poems in a bit

In Early Memoriam

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In reply to this post by VURAngeL

Maya Angelou- American

Still I Rise  
by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude.
-Maya Angelou
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Re: poetry-General


Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994)
was an American poet, novelist and short story writer.
His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.
It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing,
alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work.
Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels,
eventually publishing over sixty books.

"The Laughing Heart" by Charles Bukowski

Your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
Be on the watch. There are ways out.
There is a light somewhere.
It may not be much light but it beats the darkness.
Be on the watch. The gods will offer you chances.
Know them. Take them.
You can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes.
And the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be.
Your life is your life. Know it while you have it.
You are marvelous, the gods wait to delight in you.

Here Tom Waits reads this poem:

I can resist anything but temptation..
-Oscar Wilde
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by John Donne

I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then ?
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den ?
'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ;
Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.

*dies at the last stanza...*

COURAGE Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
CARELESSLY over the plain away,
Where by the boldest man no path
Cut before thee thou canst discern,
Make for thyself a path!

Silence, loved one, my heart!
Cracking, let it not break!
Breaking, break not with thee!

THE FISHERMAN.  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
THE waters rush'd, the waters rose,

A fisherman sat by,
While on his line in calm repose

He cast his patient eye.
And as he sat, and hearken'd there,

The flood was cleft in twain,
And, lo! a dripping mermaid fair

Sprang from the troubled main.

She sang to him, and spake the while:

"Why lurest thou my brood,
With human wit and human guile

From out their native flood?
Oh, couldst thou know how gladly dart

The fish across the sea,
Thou wouldst descend, e'en as thou art,

And truly happy be!

"Do not the sun and moon with grace

Their forms in ocean lave?
Shines not with twofold charms their face,

When rising from the wave?
The deep, deep heavens, then lure thee not,--

The moist yet radiant blue,--
Not thine own form,--to tempt thy lot

'Midst this eternal dew?"

The waters rush'd, the waters rose,

Wetting his naked feet;
As if his true love's words were those,

His heart with longing beat.
She sang to him, to him spake she,

His doom was fix'd, I ween;
Half drew she him, and half sank he,

And ne'er again was seen.
Bana sakın söyleme hayatta kalamayacağımı
sen benim felaketimden kaçarken o bana sahip çıktı.
ne kadar aşağılık bir adam olursa olsun; yaptığının bedelini ödemeye
göze aldı.
senin gibi kaçıp gitmedi.
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Re: poetry-General

In reply to this post by VURAngeL

Nâzım Hikmet-  born January 17, 1902 in Selânik, Ottoman Empire (present-day Thessaloniki) – died June 3, 1963 in Moscow, Soviet Union), commonly known as Nâzım Hikmet  was a Turkish poet, playwright, novelist and memoirist. He was acclaimed for the "lyrical flow of his statements". Described as a "romantic communist" and "romantic revolutionary", he was repeatedly arrested for his political beliefs and spent much of his adult life in prison or in exile. His poetry has been translated into more than fifty languages.

Don Quixote

The knight of immortal youth
at the age of fifty found his mind in his heart
and on July morning went out to capture
the right, the beautiful, the just.

Facing him a world of silly and arrogant giants,
he on his sad but brave Rocinante.
I know what it means to be longing for something,
but if your heart weighs only a pound and sixteen ounces,
there's no sense, my Don, in fighting these senseless windmills.

But you are right, of course, Dulcinea is your woman,
the most beautiful in the world;
I'm sure you'll shout this fact
at the face of street-traders;
but they'll pull you down from your horse
and beat you up.
But you, the unbeatable knight of our curse,
will continue to glow behind the heavy iron visor
and Dulcinea will become even more beautiful.

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In reply to this post by Summer Peri
Stunning poetry. I will share this poet with my poetry-loving friends, for sure. Thank you SO much

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In reply to this post by Münir-ViviSoraya
 Münir-ViviSoraya:  HA!  I am SO liking that you posted Bukowski! I was obsessed with him in my youth, and actually MET him at a poetry reading he gave in Laguna Beach, California. He was just as you would picture him - rough, gruff, warm, drunk (he chugged a couple bottles of wine during the reading), flirtatious, and sooo talented. I collected everything he wrote. Alas, it now just collects dust in long-forgotten boxes back home