@--,-- Poetry --,--@




Okk, people have been asking me to put more of my poems up lol but I'm afraid that someones gonna copy them..
I'll put up some of my fave from Maya Angelou, Jewel, E.E.Cummings and all those other fine people..
AND THEN I might add in a few of my own.. if people dont copy them sniff

~Recovery~
Maya Angelou
A Last Love,
Proper in conclusion
Should snip the wings
Forbidding further flight
But, I, now,
Reft of that confusion,
Am lifted up
And speeding toward the light.

J.R.R. Tolkien
From Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship Of The Ring
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away;
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corset, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And the at the gates the trumpets rang

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dum.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies in crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

Tai Pei
Jewel
Midnight.
Blackest sky
Outside my window I can see
Astrangers tongue
Wagging and winding its wahy
through the native streets.

But this is not my home.

I am the stranger here.
with no language but my pen.

Sex fills the air.
It is humid and ancient.
Many lovers have been taken down
exalted, fallen, risen
kissed by the purple finger
that seeks the plum blossomed Love.

I have no Lover
Only my pen and an
answering machine
Back in the States which
no one calls.

I am told
I am adored by millions
but no one calls.

Phenomenal Woman
Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
Like a hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's in the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my wasit,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered,
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
Its in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care.
'Cause I am woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

J.R.R.Tolkien
From Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship Of The Ring
When evening in the Shire was grey
His footsteps on theHill were heard;
Before the dawn he went away
On journey long, without a word.

From Wilderland to Western shore,
From Northern waste to Southern hill,
Through dragon-lair and hidden door
and darkling woods he walked at will.

With Dwarf and Hobit, Elves and Men,
With mortal and immortal folk,
With bird on bough and beast in den,
In their own secret tongues hes spoke.

A deadly sword, a healing hand,
A back that bent beneath its load;
A trumpet-voice, a burning brand,
A weary pilgrim on the road.

A lord in wisdom throned he sat,
Swift in anger, quick to laugh;
An old man in a battered hat,
Who leaned upon a thorny staff.

He stood upon the bridge alone
And fire and shadow both defied;
His staff was broken on the stone,
In Khazad-dum his wisdom died.

Taking The Slave
Jewel
Burn

her eyes
without hope
of understanding them

Kiss

her mouth
that you may
fathom
its strange tongue

Indulge

in her brown skin
because
it reminds you
of mother

Rape

her mind
because it is not your own
but so sweet
so unfamiliar

like coming home

to a native land
your pale inbred hands
can only faintly fathom

The Spirit
Kelly Lee Phipps
She is the deepest abyss in my heart
and I'm falling forever into her depths.
Her icy warm fingers keep burning my skin
as I struggle and yearn to feel again.
The weight of her presence crushes my spine,
and I fear that I might fail to look into her eyes.

Once my faith was brilliant,
a blazing star illuminating life.
But now it's dashed, drooped, and torn,
the last embers smoldering afar.

I used to soar through the heavens
singing of journeys above.
But when the Spirit ignited in my heart,
my imaginary wings melted,
and I crashed to the earth,
my blood flowing into the cosmic blood.

All of her is painful now!
Yet I feel that in the end
she will save me like a child in distress,
her shadowy eyes will keep penetrating
the crumbling layers of my mind.

And although I once abhorred her,
I'm growing to love her...

The Swan
Rilke
This clumsy living that moves lumbering
as if in ropes through what is not done
reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks
and to die, and to die, which is the letting go
of the ground we stand on and cling to everyday
is like the swan when he nervously lets himself
down into the water which receives him gaily
and which flows under and after him wave after wave
while the swan, unmoving and marvelously calm,
is pleased to be carried, each moment,
more fully grown, more like a king, farther and farther on...




~Poets Worth Reading~

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