Poems that give you goosebumps

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  • #29242

    Unseen
    Participant

    I’m not even female and this love poem gives me goosebumps:

    THE LOOK by Sara Teasdale

    Strephon kissed me in the spring,
    Robin in the fall,
    But Colin only looked at me
    And never kissed at all.

    Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest,
    Robin’s lost in play,
    But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
    Haunts me night and day.

     

    • This topic was modified 6 days, 23 hours ago by  Unseen.
    #29245

    Unseen
    Participant

    I had the loveliest, most loving, and most Christian (in every good sense of that word) father. This e.e. cummings poem reminds me so much of him, especially the fourth verse (“and should some why…”). I miss him more than anyone could know.

    My Father Moved Through Dooms Of Love by e.e. cummings

    my father moved through dooms of love
    through sames of am through haves of give,
    singing each morning out of each night
    my father moved through depths of height

    this motionless forgetful where
    turned at his glance to shining here;
    that if (so timid air is firm)
    under his eyes would stir and squirm

    newly as from unburied which
    floats the first who, his april touch
    drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
    woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

    and should some why completely weep
    my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
    vainly no smallest voice might cry
    for he could feel the mountains grow.

    Lifting the valleys of the sea
    my father moved through griefs of joy;
    praising a forehead called the moon
    singing desire into begin

    joy was his song and joy so pure
    a heart of star by him could steer
    and pure so now and now so yes
    the wrists of twilight would rejoice

    keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
    conceiving mind of sun will stand,
    so strictly (over utmost him
    so hugely) stood my father’s dream

    his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
    no hungry man but wished him food;
    no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
    uphill to only see him smile.

    Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
    my father moved through dooms of feel;
    his anger was as right as rain
    his pity was as green as grain

    septembering arms of year extend
    less humbly wealth to foe and friend
    than he to foolish and to wise
    offered immeasurable is

    proudly and (by octobering flame
    beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
    so naked for immortal work
    his shoulders marched against the dark

    his sorrow was as true as bread:
    no liar looked him in the head;
    if every friend became his foe
    he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

    My father moved through theys of we,
    singing each new leaf out of each tree
    (and every child was sure that spring
    danced when she heard my father sing)

    then let men kill which cannot share,
    let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
    scheming imagine, passion willed,
    freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

    giving to steal and cruel kind,
    a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
    to differ a disease of same,
    conform the pinnacle of am

    though dull were all we taste as bright,
    bitter all utterly things sweet,
    maggoty minus and dumb death
    all we inherit, all bequeath

    and nothing quite so least as truth
    —i say though hate were why men breathe—
    because my Father lived his soul
    love is the whole and more than all

    • This reply was modified 6 days, 23 hours ago by  Unseen.
    #29246

    Unseen
    Participant

    One more by e.e. cummings, and then it’s someone else’s turn.

    There are many poems about a lost love, but few are better than this.

    It May Not Always Be So; And I Say by e.e. cummings

    it may not always be so; and i say
    that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
    another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
    his heart,as mine in time not far away;
    if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
    in such silence as i know,or such
    great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
    stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

    if this should be,i say if this should be—
    you of my heart,send me a little word;
    that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
    saying,Accept all happiness from me.
    Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
    sing terribly afar in the lost lands

    #29250

    _Robert_
    Participant

    I’m not even female and this love poem gives me goosebumps: THE LOOK by Sara Teasdale Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest, Robin’s lost in play, But the kiss in Colin’s eyes Haunts me night and day.

    good stuff

    #29265

    Jody Lee
    Participant

    I enjoy Sara Teasdale. This is one of my favorites.

    I am not yours, not lost in you,
    Not lost, although I long to be
    Lost as a candle lit at noon,
    Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

    You love me, and I find you still
    A spirit beautiful and bright,
    Yet I am I, who long to be
    Lost as a light is lost in light.

    Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
    My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
    Swept by the tempest of your love,
    A taper in a rushing wind.

    #29270

    Here is one from an Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh, that Unseen’s poem above brought to mind.

    Memory Of My Father

    Every old man I see
    Reminds me of my father
    When he had fallen in love with death
    One time when sheaves were gathered.

    That man I saw in Gardner Street
    Stumbled on the kerb was one,
    He stared at me half-eyed,
    I might have been his son.

    And I remember the musician
    Faltering over his fiddle
    In Bayswater, London,
    He too set me the riddle.

    Every old man I see
    In October-coloured weather
    Seems to say to me:
    “I was once your father.”

     

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