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+---- Thread: Poetry (/Thread-Poetry--586)
Poetry - Spacegirl - 20-05-2004
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Poetry - The Phoenix - 20-05-2004
Hi SG:
Quote:Originally posted by Spacegirl
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Interesting writing.
However - and just my personal opinion - I have to say it is not often that I see some poetry writing so much of which I basically, fundamentally disagree!
TP
Poetry - Spacegirl - 20-05-2004
Quote:Originally posted by The Phoenix
Hi SG:
Interesting writing.
However - and just my personal opinion - I have to say it is not often that I see some poetry writing so much of which I basically, fundamentally disagree!
TP
to each their own TP, but as a parent I find that the words are VERY true... it is not up to me to dictate to my children what they will wish for or create their dreams for them... they are on loan to me as much as I am on loan to my parents... perhaps read the words again and view them in the light of how some parents stifle the growth of their children by subjecting them to their past failures and hopes for themselves.... my children are free to dream whatever they want... and I will support them even if they want to be something say like an artist and I may have reservations because I mistakenly believe they will not be able to survive on an artists wage... thats what the poem says to me... and I love it, all of Kahlil Gibran's book "The Prophet" is fantastic... I wish more people would read his work and ponder the meaning of it.
but hey - we are all entitled to our own opinions....you have yours, I have mine!
Poetry - Almitra - 20-05-2004
Spacegirl, Kahlil Gibran is my favourite favourite !!!
Everything he writes is so true and thoughtful, whether it's about love, life, death, eating, drinking, etc.
I love his work - I have "The Prophet" in English and Afrikaans - and that's where I got my name from ......
Poetry - whirlpool - 27-05-2004
it was in the local school letter!
There go the grown ups
To the office,
To the store,
Subway rush, traffic crush,
Hurry, scurry
Worry, flurry,
No wonder grown ups don't grow up any more.
It takes a lot of slow to grow.
(source unknown)
Poetry - Jillibeans - 07-06-2004
TO REALIZE
To realize
The value of a sister
Ask someone
Who doesn't have one.
To realize
The value of ten years:
Ask a newly
Divorced couple.
To realize
The value of four years:
Ask a graduate.
To realize
The value of one year:
Ask a student who
Has failed a final exam.
To realize
The value of nine months:
Ask a mother who gave birth to a still born.
To realize
The value of one month:
Ask a mother who has given birth to a premature baby.
To realize
The value of one week:
Ask an editor of a weekly newspaper.
To realize
The value of one hour:
Ask the lovers who are waiting to Meet.
To realize
The value of one minute:
Ask a person
Who has missed the train, bus or plane.
To realize
The value of one-second:
Ask a person
Who has survived an accident.
To realize
The value of one millisecond:
Ask the person who has won a silver medal in the Olympics.
To realize the value of a friend:
Lose one.
(Origin Unknown)
Poetry - PomBok - 15-06-2004
One of the most moving poems for me is Before Action by William Noel Hodgeson. It was published just a few days before Hodgeson's death on the first day of the Battle of the Somme (1st June 1916). Hodgeson is burried in the Devonshire Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery close to where he and the rest of his Battalion went 'over the top' at 0730 on 1st July, most of them made it no further than a few yards from their trench.
BY all the glories of the day,
And the cool eveningÂ’s benison:
By the last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done:
By beauty lavishly outpoured,
And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived,
Make me a soldier, Lord.
By all of all menÂ’s hopes and fears,
And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing:
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavour that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes,
Make me a man, O Lord.
I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of Thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this:—
By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.
Poetry - Jillibeans - 15-06-2004
Very Good Pombok
Poetry - whirlpool - 16-06-2004
PB, good poem
it looks like he got what he prayed for! the adage "be careful of what you wish for!!"
"Make me a soldier, Lord"..."By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord"
Poetry - Tank - 16-07-2004
African Blood - Anonymous
Within my soul, within my mind,
There lies a place I cannot find.
Home of my heart. Land of my birth.
Smoke-coloured stone
and flame-coloured earth.
Electric skies. Shivering heat.
Blood-red clay beneath my feet.
At night when finally alone,
I close my eyes -- and I am home.
I kneel and touch the blood-warm sand
And feel the pulse beneath my hand
Of an ancient life too old to name,
In an ancient land too wild to tame.
How can I show you what I feel?
How can I make this essence real?
I search for words in dumb frustration
To try and form some explanation,
But how can heart and soul be caught
In one-dimensional written thought?
If love and longing are a "fire"
And man "consumed" by his desire,
Then this love is no simple flame
That mortal thought can hold or tame.
As deep within the earth's own core
The love of home burns evermore.
But what is home? I hear them say,
This never was yours anyway.
You have no birthright to this place,
Descendant from another race.
An immigrant? A pioneer?
You are no longer welcome here.
Whoever said that love made sense?
"I love" is an "imperfect" tense.
To love in vain has been man's fate
From history to present date.
I have no grounds for dispensation,
I know I have no home or nation.
For just one moment in the night
I am complete, my soul takes flight.
For just one moment ... then it's gone
and I am once again undone.
Never complete. Never whole.
White skin and an African soul.