Giulia

Favourite Poems

25 posts in this topic

Hello everyone!

I'm quite new to this board and I hope we'll have a very good time together, sharing and chatting away :)

I'm a lover of poetry and I've thought about starting a topic in which we can post our fave poems! Let me know what you think, I love discovering new poets :D

The first one I'd like to share is called On disappearing.

Enjoy! Giulia x

 

by Major Jackson
I have not disappeared.
The boulevard is full of my steps. The sky is
full of my thinking. An archbishop
prays for my soul, even though
we met only once, and even then, he was
busy waving at a congregation.
The ticking clocks in Vermont sway

 

back and forth as though sweeping
up my eyes and my tattoos and my metaphors,
and what comes up are the great paragraphs
of dust, which also carry motes
of my existence. I have not disappeared.
My wife quivers inside a kiss.
My pulse was given to her many times,

 

in many countries. The chunks of bread we dip
in olive oil is communion with our ancestors,
who also have not disappeared. Their delicate songs
I wear on my eyelids. Their smiles have
given me freedom which is a crater
I keep falling in. When I bite into the two halves
of an orange whose cross-section resembles my lungs,

 

a delta of juices burst down my chin, and like magic,
makes me appear to those who think I've
disappeared. It's too bad war makes people
disappear like chess pieces, and that prisons
turn prisoners into movie endings. When I fade
into the mountains on a forest trail,
I still have not disappeared, even though its green façade
turns my arms and legs into branches of oak.
It is then I belong to a southerly wind,
which by now you have mistaken as me nodding back
and forth like a Hasid in prayer or a mother who has just
lost her son to gunfire in Detroit. I have not disappeared.

 

In my children, I see my bulging face
pressing further into the mysteries.

 

In a library in Tucson, on a plane above
Buenos Aires, on a field where nearby burns
a controlled fire, I am held by a professor,
a general, and a photographer.
One burns a finely wrapped cigar, then sniffs
the scented pages of my books, socuring
for the bitter smell of control.
I hold him in my mind like a chalice.
I have not disappeared. I swish the amber
hue of lager on my tongue and ponder the drilling
rigs in the Gulf of Alaska and all the oil-painted plovers.

 

When we talk about limits, we disappear.
In Jasper, TX you can disappear on a strip of gravel.

 

I am a life in sacred language.
Termites toil over a grave,
and my mind is a ravine of yesterdays.
At a glance from across the room, I wear
September on my face,
which is eternal, and does not disappear
even if you close your eyes once and for all
simultaneously like two coffins.
Edited by Giulia
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Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.

Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.

How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To you manufacture fantasy.

But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.

This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks.

This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.

Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.

From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés.

            - Octavio Paz, No More Clichés

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10 hours ago, Akurabis said:



Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
 

            - Octavio Paz, No More Clichés

Beautiful poem, thank you for sharing Akurabis ! I loved this verse!
:)

 

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On 25/6/2016 at 10:18 PM, Garnet said:

You are welcome  @Giulia! It is from the book "Milk and honey" by Rupi Kaur - one of the most beautifully healing books for every woman ❤

I'm definitely going to check it out then ;)

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Thanks for starting this!

Poem by Oodgeroo Noonuccal. Noonuccal, who had previously been known as Kath Walker, was an Aboriginal activist, a communist and a writer who was a key figure in lobbying for Australia's 1967 referendum, along with a number of other things.

Her first book We Are Going in 1964 was not only the first book to be published by an Aboriginal woman, but it also received critical acclaim despite some feeling it was “too black” to succeed

 

NO MORE BOOMERANG

No more boomerang

No more spear;

Now all civilized

Colour bar and beer.

 

No more corroboree,

Gay dance and din.

Now we got movies,

And pay to go in.

 

No more sharing

What the hunter brings.

Now we work for money,

Then pay it back for things.

 

Now we track bosses

To catch a few bob,

Now we go walkabout

On bus to the job.

 

One time naked,

Who never knew shame;

Now we put clothes on

To hide whatsaname.

 

No more gunya,

Now bungalow,

Paid by hire purchase

In twenty year or so.

 

Lay down the stone axe,

Take up the steel,

And work like a nigger

For a white man meal.

 

No more firesticks

That made the whites scoff.

Now all electric,

And no better off.

 

Bunyip he finish,

Now got instead

White fella Bunyip,

Call him Red.

 

Abstract picture now-

What they coming at?

Cripes, in our caves we

Did better than that.

 

Black hunted wallaby,

White hunt dollar;

White fella witch-doctor

Wear dog-collar.

 

No more message-stick;

Lubras and lads

Got television now.

Mostly ads.

 

Lay down the woomera,

Lay down the waddy.

Now we got atom-bomb,

End everybody.

– Oodgeroo Noonuccal (1966)

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Coal
 
I
Is the total black, being spoken
From the earth's inside.
There are many kinds of open.
How a diamond comes into a knot of flame   
How a sound comes into a word, coloured   
By who pays what for speaking.
 
Some words are open
Like a diamond on glass windows
Singing out within the crash of passing sun
Then there are words like stapled wagers
In a perforated book—buy and sign and tear apart—
And come whatever wills all chances
The stub remains
An ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.
Some words live in my throat
Breeding like adders. Others know sun
Seeking like gypsies over my tongue
To explode through my lips
Like young sparrows bursting from shell.
Some words
Bedevil me.
 
Love is a word another kind of open—
As a diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am black because I come from the earth's inside   
Take my word for jewel in your open light.
 
Audre Lorde
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Impossible Friendships
 
For example, with someone who no longer is,
who exists only in yellowed letters.
 
Or long walks beside a stream,
whose depths hold hidden
 
porcelain cups—and the talks about philosophy
with a timid student or the postman.
 
A passerby with proud eyes
whom you'll never know.
 
Friendship with this world, ever more perfect
(if not for the salty smell of blood).
 
The old man sipping coffee
in St.-Lazare, who reminds you of someone.
 
Faces flashing by
in local trains—
 
the happy faces of travelers headed perhaps
for a splendid ball, or a beheading.
 
And friendship with yourself
—since after all you don't know who you are
 

Adam Zagajewski

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On 8 July 2016 at 8:11 AM, Giulia said:
Coal
 
I
Is the total black, being spoken
From the earth's inside.
There are many kinds of open.
How a diamond comes into a knot of flame   
How a sound comes into a word, coloured   
By who pays what for speaking.
 
Some words are open
Like a diamond on glass windows
Singing out within the crash of passing sun
Then there are words like stapled wagers
In a perforated book—buy and sign and tear apart—
And come whatever wills all chances
The stub remains
An ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.
Some words live in my throat
Breeding like adders. Others know sun
Seeking like gypsies over my tongue
To explode through my lips
Like young sparrows bursting from shell.
Some words
Bedevil me.
 
Love is a word another kind of open—
As a diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am black because I come from the earth's inside   
Take my word for jewel in your open light.
 
Audre Lorde

Magnificent!

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 As at the far edge of Circling  
 
      As at the far edge of circling the country,

facing suddenly the other ocean,

the boundless edge of what I had wanted

to know, I stepped

      into my answers’ shadow ocean,

 

the tightening curl of the corners

of outdated old paperbacks,    breakers,

a crumble surf of tiny dry triangles around

       my ankles sinking in my stand

 

taken      that the horizon written

by the spin of my compass is          that this is

is not enough         a point to turn around on,

 

       is like a skin      that falls short of edge

as a rug,     that covers a no longer

natural spot, no longer existent

to live on from,    the map of my person

        come to the end of,       but not done.

 

        That country crossed was what I could imagine,

and that little spit of answer is the shadow—

not the ocean which casts it—      that I step next

into       to be cleansed of question.

 

      But not of seeking      …it as

if simplified for the seeking,

       come to its end at this body.

 

ED ROBERSON

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Rain
 
With thick strokes of ink the sky fills with rain.
Pretending to run for cover but secretly praying for more rain.
 
Over the echo of the water, I hear a voice saying my name.
No one in the city moves under the quick sightless rain.
 
The pages of my notebook soak, then curl. I’ve written:
“Yogis opened their mouths for hours to drink the rain.”
 
The sky is a bowl of dark water, rinsing your face.
The window trembles; liquid glass could shatter into rain.
 
I am a dark bowl, waiting to be filled.
If I open my mouth now, I could drown in the rain.
 
I hurry home as though someone is there waiting for me.
The night collapses into your skin. I am the rain.
 
Kazim Ali
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