Anything Goes : One of my favorite poems~ share yours by LB McGill

LB McGill

One of my favorite poems~ share yours

My grandmother Jeanette Lownsbury McGill self published a book of her poems in 1948, through the years they have been a guide to me and a comfort... I wanted to share one. MY OTHER SELF "You somehow are to me A kind of other self My thoughts bubble up to you As limpid waters from thier fount. I find no joy Like sharing with you Books and Rhymes and violets. A bit of poem three lines long Which I found in the dusty corner Of the long library shelf. The picture of a pug nosed boy From a scrap book I made when a child. A scarlet-tipped cloud Touching the face Of the setting sun. The sound of the rain As it beats on the tin roof Outside your window. The hand organ's sound As it pours its forlorn sound Into my waiting ear. You somehow are to me A kind of other self. I find no joy Like sharing with you Winds and trees and bobolinks" Please feel free to share your favorite poem :)

Andrew Gruffudd

Love Is... What is Love? Let me tell you. But first, let me tell you what it isn’t. Love is not pity. Pity is akin to Love, but is to Love what Freya is to Loki. Pity is an empty shell, a thing devoid of feeling, cold as Arctic winter and pickpocketing of dignity. Do not, therefore, dress pity up as Love, for Love is too noble to allow pity its disguise for long. Love is not jealousy, possessiveness or greed. This evil triumvirate is anathema, each foul component the sworn enemy of Love, each slowly, painfully killing Love and all the joys Love brings. These impostors also disguise themselves as Love, but the seeds of Love will never flourish in a soil that also hosts these weeds. Love is not selfishness, nor is it envy. These ogres share the beds of jealousy and possessiveness, but will not allow the sharing of life’s joys. These ruthless highwaymen linger on the lanes of Love and loot Love’s very heart, leaving but a trail of bitterness and hatred. And Love is not religion where every action is controlled covertly for the filling of the bellies of the few. For Love’s bird thrives in freedom, but in a cage it goes to dust. So let no evangelical pretender threaten your supply of Love with the promise of prosperity in the vacuum of his Love-less leech, for the light of Love shines better if naked and wild, untrained to the wiles of bigotry. And Love shines not within the bounds of guilt edged contract: it must be given freely without coercion, force, or blackmail under law. The many who fall out of Love might still hold dear their companions if only they had the option of an amicable split – yet the teachings of religion, as endorsed by civil statute, thus the deep-held leanings of a sheep-society dictate that marriage is the only real option for an everlasting Love. But this is not a good solution in a partnership of equals, for there is no Love in the bonds of prescription. What is Love? I will tell you. Love is the beauty of the soul, a gelling of two spirits into affectionate wholeness. For surely, one is not yet a half until one has Love, and the acts of Loving make more than just two Lovers – Love is yet a being unto itself, and being the product of two adoring souls, is as beautiful a being as the Lovers will allow. True Love – true, Loving Love devoid of the petty bindings of condition and selfish consideration; true Love, devoid of pity, ego, and I-Love-you-ifs; Loving Love reflecting the true beauty of each Lover’s sacredness – pure, unbridled, naked of the hang-ups of the modern idiom of living, free of the ogres of politicoreligious creed. This true Love is beautiful beyond the boundless bounds of eloquent description. But is this such idealistic fancy? Is this the fabled realm of Thomas More? Is this – Gods, how I hate the death-knell word – impossible? Scoff as you may, but I believe it not, for such Love is the product of the shining life within us all: and though unpalatable truth suggests that we may never see it on a global scale, methinks that two, or three, or four – or thousands – can manifest this beauty amongst themselves. How do I know but that I Love as much already? Such intensity that burns the mark of well-borne, joyous sensitivity upon my willing heart is surely not a thing so easily mistaken. And, if we but recognise the beauty of a Loving soul, it is the beauty of a living soul: for life is best served by Love. Without Love, we will wither into uselessness.

LB McGill

Wow Andrew! Did you write that? Reminds me of something I once read... "Love comfortith like sunshine after the rain, but lust’s effect is tempest after sun. Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain, lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done. Love surfeits not, lust like glutton dies, love is all truth, lust forged lies." Shakespeare Venus and Adonis

Andrew Gruffudd

Yes - that was one of mine from about 14 years ago. I wasn't really that into Shakespeare at the time, nor, obviousy (as one of my critics compared it to) Biblical text. It was just written for the benefit of my then girlfriend who was having trouble with the concept of Love.

LB McGill

well it was lovely...

Andrew Gruffudd

Thank you - here's another: In Search of Paradise There is enough ugliness: - I look for beauty. - There is enough agony: - I look to heal. Where there is suffering - I provide comfort; - Where there is darkness - I shine a light. Bitterness everywhere: - I provide honey; - Irreconcilable – - I’ll build a bridge. I am the inner spark - In every one of you – - I am your life force, - And my name is Love.

Andrew Gruffudd

The Wheel Winter - Solstice - Beginning - Anew - On the eternal wheel: a gate - Convenient: for passing through, - Adventuring life's framework Cold - Dark - Rebellious - Dead - But with the new year spark: this - Brutal hallway: decked with treacherous beauty, - Drawing life awake again. Spring - Reborn - Alive - Fresh - Earth rejuvenated, warming: - The increased light greets: fingers - Of Apollo energise and feed arrivals. Summer - Loving - Caressing - Undressing - Relieving of clothing and inhibitions - By adding temperature: ignited by Ra, - Tempers flare, as well as passioned love. Autumn - Closing - Weakened - Dying - Chill winds blow: changing in a menopausal thrashing, - Trees to slumber, leaves to brittle-dead, - Animals sleep at temperature’s fall. Winter - Stark - Darkened - Death - Summoned by the chill, taking weak souls: but - Trees sleep au-naturelle, death's detritus changing - For its new audition: immortality assured. Eternal - Immortal - Revolving - Turning - As it bids the closing year, the solstice - Wishes well: promising eternity and life: each revolution - Sows and knows, for wisdom is divine.

Andrew Gruffudd

Hieros Gamos Devoid of remorse - In bodily perfection: - Her soft skin excites, - Her temple doors are opened: - She invites me to worship.

Andrew Gruffudd

Sorry - it's a nightmare trying to work out the algorithm which will allow me to properly space my verse. I'll see if I can put the pdf of my book on here somehow...

LB McGill

very lovely Andrew. Thank you for sharing!

Durand Saint-Hilaire

wow - beautiful!!!

Alby Zink

My grandfather used to say this to me when I was a little boy while watching the moon: I see the moon, the moon sees me. God bless the moon, And God bless me. May not be a poem but I thought I'd share.

LB McGill

I love it :)

Ann H Barlow

Rabbie Burns - To A Mouse I just love this poem.

Clive McDonald

Hmm, i thought it was getting a bit fruity or am i lowering the tone. I've always liked prose= gatsby staring off into the distance- but if i had to go with one, then the highwayman where the girl shoots herself, kipling's if, and dylan thomas raging against the dying of the light. No one reads or takes any notice of poems these days. I suppose song lyrics might be a bit more relevant, candle in the wind, is not bad.

LB McGill

I do! and I love the Highwayman by Alfred Noyes! The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

James Holzrichter

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 'Tis some visitor,' I muttered,tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,Sir,' said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. 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!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven,Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than mutteredOther friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,Doubtless,' said I, what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croakingNevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch,' I cried,thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, Nevermore.'Prophet!' said I, thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven,Nevermore.' Prophet!' said I,thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, Nevermore.'Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven,Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! E.A.P.

LB McGill

well you can never go wrong with Poe!

Rene Claveau

Invictus, by William Ernest Henley: Out of the night that covers me,/ Black as the Pit from pole to pole,/ I thank whatever gods may be/ For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance/ I have not winced nor cried aloud./ Under the bludgeonings of chance/ My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears/ Looms but the Horror of the shade,/ And yet the menace of the years/ Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate,/ How charged with punishments the scroll./ I am the master of my fate:/ I am the captain of my soul.

LB McGill

such a powerful piece...

JM Mars

I have been circling around God that primordial tower for years and still I do not know am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song? Rilke

Andrew Gruffudd

I must say that I'm quite in awe of my fellow Welshman, Dylan Thomas (for whom a certain Robert Zimmerman changed his name), even if he did say "land of my fathers? My fathers can keep it!" One of my favourite pieces is Under Milk Wood... "It is spring, moonless ight in the small town, starless and Bible-black. The cobbled streets silent and the hunched, courters-and-rabbits wood limping invisible down to the sloe-black, slow, black, crow black fishing-boat bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles - 'though moles see fine tonight, in the snouting, velvet dingles. Or blind as Captain Cat, there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the welfare hall in widows weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now." Stirring stuff - I love the wordplay, the painting of pictures with words, the alliteration etc. Shakespeare appeals on much the same level, 'though his appeal is also in the antiquity of his language - old enough to intrigue, but modern enough to be understood without too much difficulty - unlike Chaucer.

Clive McDonald

I'd forgotten how powerfull a good poem can be, but there aren't likely to be any more.Anyone with that kind of talent would find something better to do, screenplays? A poem is about ideas and emotions- and great word play- but so many other meduims are more effective and easier.Poetry is a dead langauge partly because no one speaks it and partly because if you take the literary racket as whole it's the real arse end of the business.Even the best poets were vanity published, who is the last greeting card hack you ever heard of? I'd sooner a poet wrote basic instinct or pale rider or city slickers.At least we get to see it and they get paid. Think of any stuck up magazine-lets take the new yorker- when did they ever publish a poem you could understand?And even if they'd held a couple of shakespeare's best ones back all these years it wouldn't impact the print run. What movie ever has a plot line that involves a poem.Even the dead poets society wasn't about any poetry.If had to cobble a plot line showing the relevance of poetry what would i do? Two rappers?a literary professor? Sorry for rambling, not clearly expressed (I'm a writer what do you expect) but you get what i'm saying.

LB McGill

I made a movie with the plot line as a poem. I adapted Venus and Adonis Shakespeare's mini epic poem into a movie. If you would like to see it I can send you a private link. I'd also like to adapt other epic poems... I have one in mind, but I think I'll keep that to myself lol as I am among such talent.

LB McGill

@Laura. Wow that's wonderful to be able to perform your poem live!

Clive McDonald

i just googled it. So he accidedntaly catches her with an arrow.Was your plot in the real world? How did catching someone with an arrow make them credibly fall in love?

Clive McDonald

found the you tube teaser. very good. you speak in verse costume and period. If you think of the highwayman plot, she would merely ring him on her mobile and tell him not to come.

LB McGill

Shakespeare's poem was adapted into a poem from a Greek story that goes Venus was caught by one of Cupid's arrows accidentally. So when she falls in love with Adonis, there is no reason for it other than magic. Shakespeare decided to leave all that out and picks up the story with just Venus falling all over Adonis to try and capture his heart by any means possible, which I think is kind of funny, as many women do fall in love for no credible reason and do pretty much the same thing. He does eventually at least kiss her, but regrets it almost immediately because it only makes her crazier. (Also funny) He leaves the scene, she becomes despondent and decides to search for him the next day (presumably to continue her pursuit of imaginary love. Only he had gone hunting that morning and was killed by a boar. Venus finds his dead body in the woods and curses love. With words that are beautiful and filled with a sort of universal truth that we all accept as the tragedy of love. So I called my movie, Venus and Adonis The Curse of Love.

LB McGill

@Clive, haha that's funny, but most men seem to be rather conveniently unavailable when it comes to their cell phones anyway. It most likely would have been "charging" :p

Clive McDonald

Impressed with your explanation.It does ring true with human nature the way you explain it.

LB McGill

why thank you Clive. I did strive to tell the story by bringing out the universal truths that would make it relevant and interesting. :)

LB McGill

Clive got me thinking about "why poems"? My grandmother had an answer for that. WORDS WITH VOICES To write a poem is like listening To faint, far voices that must have their say; Sometimes they interrupt-each glistening With fire and wit enough to push his way Through mists that burn in sudden swift surprise. Sometimes they crackle, snap and char, consumed By their own heat, before they crystallize. Sometimes they are like blossoms that are doomed To die before they flutter to the page. Sometimes they come to weep, sometimes to sing, But when they catch the echo of an age, There is no world in which they may not ring. To write a poem is to find a way To hear what words with voices have to say. Jeanette Lownsbury McGill

LB McGill

I think Clive's point was that poetry no longer holds the commercial value (strictly poetry that is) that it once held. I cannot dispute that fact. I think you have agreed upon the central issue: that it has taken another form to make it more commercially viable. And my love for old poetry is no marker for the general public as the worlds economy would fall to pieces if it relied upon my model of living. Poetry was at one time published for sale, and really no longer is, but the fact remains that in that time when so much of it was created, there are some remarkably bright pieces that should be transferred to another medium so that they may not die out altogether. :)

LB McGill

PS I loved the movie the man from snowy river, I didn't know it was based on a poem either :)

LB McGill

ah yes I see your point...

Durand Saint-Hilaire

@LAURA - WELL PUT!!!

LB McGill

I understand what you're saying Laura, it should be about the art and not the money. :) I totally get that.

LB McGill

or maybe you're saying that even if you don't make a lot of money doing what you love, that should be okay. Now that I re read it, I think that's what you're saying. I've been looked at as irresponsible my whole life because I refused to do "normal" things to make a living. You just have to be true to yourself and if others don't like it, well~ oh well. :)

Clive McDonald

What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. The Beatles. And me. (quote) I blubed just about all the way through that film-book-poem; whatever it was. What made it powerfull was the subtext.At one point he goes along with a lie to his father, agreeing that ne needs money because he got a girl into trouble. I think that broke the heart of anybody. The point being that this was both great poetry and a nice little earner.Win win. So you can have the money and the poetry, Even bad peotry (Love means never having to say you're sorry.) I think what i'm trying to say is that when something masquerades as a book or a film; but is really a poem, the results can be explosive. For my money taking a poem and filming it is what hitchcock would call too on the nose.I'd much sooner sneak up on people, say look at this trashy western, and then give them shane or pale rider, and they leave the theatre not knowing what the hell just hit them.

LB McGill

yeah, you mean based on the poem rather than the poem itself. And yes, it is hard to get people to listen to poetry, no matter how beautifully it's filmed.

Clive McDonald

Couple of other points, just to show what an ignoramous i am. A famous book called poetics hasn't got any poems in it, and if you tweaked your film (by film i mean teaser)- your very good film- with pypf ending you could pitch it to lynx.Then they'd get both funny and class.

LB McGill

I looked up the book poetics, basically a study of form, yes? What do you mean by "pypf ending" and who is lynx? please forgive my stupidity :p

Clive McDonald

Lynx is a deodarant with a famous series of ads thematically very similar to your film.Your film is classier, you in particular deliver the verse very well, and also seem- well a handfull-.pypf piss your pants funny.

LB McGill

haha that would be funny. Using my trailer as a deodorant commercial. So I can assume you're from the UK? You have no information on your page.

Alan White

A favorite from my child hood is Robert Service's The Cremation of Sam McGee There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

LB McGill

ah my father used to recite that one...

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