The Vacant Sandbox - Clarice Lancaster

Vacant now, the sandbox stands.
No childish feet, no little hands
Sift the still and silent sands
I close my eyes and I can see
Small children, in my memory,
Talking, laughing happily,
Building roads and bridges high,
Forts and castles to the sky.
But since, have many days gone by.
Those children, now to adults grown,
Have scattered far from childhood home
And they have children of their own.
Be patient, sandbox, for some day
When other children pass this way
You’ll be a haven for their play

The Cobweb - Raymond Carver

A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck
of the house. From there I could see and hear the water,
and everything that's happened to me all these years.
It was hot and still. The tide was out.
No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing
a cobweb touched my forehead.
It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned
and went inside. There was no wind. The sea
was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade.
Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath
touches it. A fine thread. Intricate.
Before long, before anyone realizes,
I'll be gone from here.

I just read it, it was totally unknown to me (though it seems to be very famous in the english speaking cultures). Made me think of 'The ballad of the hanged men'.
It's a very old french thing, quite disturbing (in my opinion the translation doesn't convey as much as the original unfortunately).

One of my favourites as well. This stanza was actually quoted by an NPC in Fallout 2; I was pleasantly surprised to see it there.

My friend Anna who I wrote about here and I shared an appreciation for the poet Pablo Neruda.
Oftentimes when a person passes you find yourself remembering things you held dearly in common, and I couldn't believe how appropriate this poem was.

“Only Death,” Pablo Neruda

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

"There is a line by us unseen,
That crosses every path;
The hidden boundary between
God’s patience and his wrath."

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

From an odd odd poem:

One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One longing for the night.

A very interesting thread, and thanks to Ragnarblackmane for bringing it to my attention. I have not read much poetry lately so I will post one of the last I remember reading. Since the forum says favourite lines I have put my favourite line in bold but still included the whole poem.

As for the reason why it is my favourite line, I'm not too sure, it is just a line that has stuck in my mind.


"To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
A hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Invictus:

(Someone already posted Invictus, so I freed up some space.)

Gisli's Final Verse:

Goddess of golden rain,
who gives me great joy,
may boldly hear my report
of her friend's brave stand.
I greet the sword's honed edge
that bites into my flesh,
knowing that this courage
was given me by my father.

(someone already posted If-, freeing up space.)

This one's also pretty good:

The spinner of fate is grim to me:
I hear that Thorolf* has met his end
on a northern isle; too early
the Thunderer** chose the swinger of swords***.
The hag of old age who once wrestled with Thor
has left me unprepared to join
the Valkyries' clash of steel****. Urge as my spirit
may, my revenge will not be swift.

Notes for those who need them:
*Poet's son.
**Odin.
***swinger of swords is a kenning, probably means warrior but certainly references the poet's son.
****warriors killed in battle, or in a battle like manner (particularly Odin worshipers seemed to like doing this, like by hanging themselves I seem to recall) were sent to Valhalla to await Ragnarok. This part I think references how the author is getting old and may not get the chance to die in battle and how he hasn't preceded his son to Valhalla. Of course, that is conjecture on my part.

This one is a follow up of the last one and is pretty good:

The warrior's revenge
is repaid to the king,
wolf and eagle* stalk
over the king's sons;
Hallvard's corpse flew
in pieces into the sea,
the grey eagle tears
at Travel-quick's wounds.

*wolf and eagle are allusions to the poet. Wolf is his father (the previous poet) and eagle is he himself (because he's bald)

William Butler Yeats
Gort na Saileán

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Robert Frost
Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Voluspa
Translated by Lee Milton Hollander

Hear me, all ye_ hallowed beings
both high and low_ of Heimdall's children:
Thou wilt, Valfather_ that I well set forth
the fates of the world_ which as first I recall

I call to mind_ the kin of etins
which long ago_ did give me life.
Nine worlds I know_, the nine abodes
of the glorious world tree_ the ground beneath.

In earliest times_ did Ymir live
was nor sea nor land_ nor salty waves,
neither earth was there_ nor upper heaven,
but a gaping nothing, _and green things nowhere

Was then lifted _aloft by Bur's sons
who made Miðgarð, _the matchless earth;
shone from the south_ the sun on dry land,
on the ground then grew_ the greensward soft.

From the south the sun_ by the side of the moon
heaved his right hand_ over heaven's rim;
the sun knew not_ what seat he had,
the stars knew not_ what seat they held,
the moon knew not_ what might she had.

(I wrote the last poem out properly, but it seems to have been "corrected," an underscore indicates where a pause is necessary now.)

Unfinished work - Iphgix

I've been dead for several years now...
yet here I stand I don't know how.


That is all I am willing to post in its unfinished state for now.

Chor der Toten

Wir Toten, wir Toten sind größere Heere
Als ihr auf der Erde, als ihr auf dem Meere!

Wir pflügten das Feld mit geduldigen Taten,
Ihr schwinget die Sicheln und schneidet die Saaten,

Und was wir vollendet und was wir begonnen,
Das füllt noch dort oben die rauschenden Bronnen,

Und all unser Lieben und Hassen und Hadern,
Das klopft noch dort oben in sterblichen Adern,

Und was wir an gültigen Sätzen gefunden,
Dran bleibt aller irdische Wandel gebunden,

Und unsere Töne, Gebilde, Gedichte
Erkämpfen den Lorbeer im strahlenden Lichte,

Wir suchen noch immer die menschlichen Ziele-
Drum ehret und opfert! Denn unser sind viele!

- Conrad Ferdinand Meyer

I first read this poem when I was around 19 or 20 years old and it was then accompanied with an picture of Arnold Böcklin's "Die Toteninsel" ("The isle of the dead"), and it made a great impression on me.


I'll try to translate it, so you can better understand what it is about, but the rhyme will get lost naturally:

Choir of the dead

We the dead, we the dead are larger armies
than you on earth, than you on sea!

We were plowing the field with acts of patience
you swing the sickles and cut the seeds

And what we accomplished and what we began
still fills the rushing fountains up there

And all our loving and hating and strife
is still knocking up there in mortal veins

And what we found at applicable propositions
thereon all earthly change is bound

And our sounds, structures, poems
win the laurel in the brightest light

We are still looking for the human objectives
so honors and sacrifices, for we are many!

I love it.

Thanks for sharing what you have done so far, I'm looking forward to seeing it when it is completed.

by Hilaire Belloc

The Modern Traveller

Blood thought he knew the native mind;
He said you must be firm, but kind.
A mutiny resulted.
I shall never forget the way
That Blood stood upon this awful day
Preserved us all from death.
He stood upon a little mound
Cast his lethargic eyes around,
And said beneath his breath:
'Whatever happens, we have got
The Maxim Gun, and they have not.'

One of my all time favourites:

The Harlot's House by Oscar Wilde

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.

They took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."

But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.