A Poem Thread

It's a poem about love...the guy I'm seeing, sent it to me because he knows I like Edgar Allan Poe.
Here's a detailed account as to the meaning behind it.

First published in the New York Evening Mirror's February 21, 1846 issue, "A Valentine" was written specifically for Frances Sargent Osgood, whose name is hidden within the lines of the poem. In its first publication, it had the title "To Her Whose Name Is Written Below." To find the name, take the first letter of the first line, then the second letter of the second line, then the third letter of the third line, and so on. Before its publication, it was presented at a private literary salon at the home of Anne Lynch Botta on February 14, 1846. Though Poe was not in attendance, it was a very public revelation of his affection for Osgood.
 
Edgar allen poe and the orgin
word etymology poet

is it that these days the better poet doesn't accolade distortion or depression in expression, unless to attend to solve a social problem.
 
wegs said:
It's a poem about love...the guy I'm seeing, sent it to me because he knows I like Edgar Allan Poe.
Here's a detailed account as to the meaning behind it.

First published in the New York Evening Mirror's February 21, 1846 issue, "A Valentine" was written specifically for Frances Sargent Osgood, whose name is hidden within the lines of the poem. In its first publication, it had the title "To Her Whose Name Is Written Below." To find the name, take the first letter of the first line, then the second letter of the second line, then the third letter of the third line, and so on. Before its publication, it was presented at a private literary salon at the home of Anne Lynch Botta on February 14, 1846. Though Poe was not in attendance, it was a very public revelation of his affection for Osgood.
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I'd do the same for you,
if I knew.
But I don't
so I won't.

Will I or won't I?
He debated.
wegs wasn't the word he wanted.
Toss it into the too hard basket.
 
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i'm not a 'the better poet. I see & can find empathy for some form of social solution in anything I read. the need for integrity is vast.
 
Anew said:
i'm not a 'the better poet. I see & can find empathy for some form of social solution in anything I read. the need for integrity is vast.
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What did you mean by your statement "is it that these days the better poet doesn't accolade distortion or depression in expression, unless to attend to solve a social problem."?
 
I guess I have been concerned about social,health and wellness matters since I was a young girl,,hence my inventions of the words humaneity and eccoficiency.
 
Plight of the Carver Marriage

the dogs are no longer really on pharmaseuticals.
yet the parents still do
the parents still control their homesteads with retrition of sibling rivalry
submission, by sexx
a mother does rumplestilskin with her husband
the scratch on the back looks like hatred
the dogs are no longer really on pharmaseuticals.
mom and dad manage themselves with adult tawdrysocial drinks
because
they didn't do what they could have done
because they like getting high
and their character has become jagged and errat
an evening family walk outside is the better high
ma ma is da da
da da likes everything
'carver marriages are really no longer fashionable
because some believe that pleasure doesn't involve scarring pain.
 
Powerless to clench
the current of Now today
A crest of a wave

Breaks through bars and doors
to an immortality
we will never know

Inescapable
beyond the peak of Present
lies True Tomorrow
 
Out

Out of the trap of tawdry challenging mouths.

Are you taking bird house pictures
out of the dog house zoo

celebrate the words
realativity
eccoficiency
Humaneity

Trust

choose not to forget

A long time ago it was said that Jesus said
"forgive them for they do not know

?!What is wrong with people

*nonviolence is happening
to be unthreatening is happening
not to challenge others is happening

I celebrate the words

:) realativity
ecccoficiency
& humaneity
for the relatives should not be killed.
 
A Message from the Wanderer

By William E. Stafford 1914–1993

"Today outside your prison I stand
and rattle my walking stick: Prisoners, listen;
you have relatives outside. And there are
thousands of ways to escape.


Years ago I bent my skill to keep my
cell locked, had chains smuggled to me in pies,
and shouted my plans to jailers;
but always new plans occured to me,
or the new heavy locks bent hinges off,
or some stupid jailer would forget
and leave the keys.


Inside, I dreamed of constellations—
those feeding creatures outlined by stars,
their skeletons a darkness between jewels,
heroes that exist only where they are not.


Thus freedom always came nibbling my thought,
just as—often, in light, on the open hills—
you can pass an antelope and not know
and look back, and then—even before you see—
there is something wrong about the grass.
And then you see.


That’s the way everything in the world is waiting.


Now—these few more words, and then I’m
gone: Tell everyone just to remember
their names, and remind others, later, when we
find each other. Tell the little ones
to cry and then go to sleep, curled up
where they can. And if any of us get lost,
if any of us cannot come all the way—
remember: there will come a time when
all we have said and all we have hoped
will be all right.


There will be that form in the grass."

mh6dmc.jpg
 
Without the option to delete my post—I've had a change of heart—I'll simply delete its content. Same thing, but a bit of an eyesore—but that's not my problem.
 
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The Last Piecemeal

They led a merry dance
the serpent and the king
the eleventh hour
with madness in the spring

Planting, placement, and perception
of a tiny mustard seed
a species of persistence
a malignant weed

Emotional content
bundled and souled
through whispering wishes
of stories well told

Hearts stop pumping
the great cerebral vein
blood stops flowing
senses steadily drain

The drip-drop
of pain killing herbs
the tick-tock
of hollow hallow words

Eat their food
drink their wine
hurry up and wait
wither on the vine

Spatially slurred speech
with a certain air
motives and thoughts
The Great Banquet Snare
 
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Trooper said:
The Last Piecemeal

They lead a merry dance
the serpent and the king
the eleventh hour
with madness in the spring

Planting, placement, and perception
of a tiny mustard seed
a species of persistence
a malignant weed

Emotional content
bundled and souled
through whisperings wishes
of stories well told

Hearts stop pumping
the great cerebral vein
blood stops flowing
senses steadily drain

The drip-drop
of pain killing herbs
the tick-tock
of hollow hallow words

Eat their food
drink their wine
hurry up and wait
wither on the vine

Spatially slurred speech
with a certain air
motives and thoughts
The Great Banquet Snare
Click to expand...
One of your best!
 
Roger Whittaker - The Last Farewell 1975

There's a ship lies rigged and ready in the harbour
Tomorrow for old England she sails
Far away from your land of endless sunshine
To my land full of rainy skies and gales
And I shall be aboard that ship tomorrow
Though my heart is full of tears at this farewell

For you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell
For you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell

I've heard there's a wicked war a-blazing
And the taste of war I know so very well
Even now I see the foreign flag a-raising
Their guns on fire as we sail into hell
I have no fear of death, it brings no sorrow
But how bitter will be this last farewell

For you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell
For you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell

Though death and darkness gather all about me
My ship be torn apart upon the seas
I shall smell again the fragrance of these islands
And the heaving waves that brought me once to thee
And should I return home safe again to England
I shall watch the English mist roll through the dale

For you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell
For you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell
 
The Haunted Palace
By Edgar Allan Poe

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.
 
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