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Thread: My favorite poems - miscellaneous authors

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    Gold Member cribby1983's Avatar
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    Post My favorite poems - miscellaneous authors

    I´ll be posting my favorite poems in here.

    Here´s the first one:


    Still I Rise
    by Maya Angelou


    You may write me down in history
    With your bitter, twisted lies,
    You may tread me in the very dirt
    But still, like dust, I'll rise.

    Does my sassiness upset you?
    Why are you beset with gloom?
    'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
    Pumping in my living room.

    Just like moons and like suns,
    With the certainty of tides,
    Just like hopes springing high,
    Still I'll rise.

    Did you want to see me broken?
    Bowed head and lowered eyes?
    Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
    Weakened by my soulful cries.

    Does my haughtiness offend you?
    Don't you take it awful hard
    'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
    Diggin' in my own back yard.

    You may shoot me with your words,
    You may cut me with your eyes,
    You may kill me with your hatefulness,
    But still, like air, I'll rise.

    Does my sexiness upset you?
    Does it come as a surprise
    That I dance like I've got diamonds
    At the meeting of my thighs?

    Out of the huts of history's shame
    I rise
    Up from a past that's rooted in pain
    I rise
    I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
    Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
    Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
    I rise
    Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
    I rise
    Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
    I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
    I rise
    I rise
    I rise.
    Writing a verse every day, keeps the psychologist away.

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    Gold Member cribby1983's Avatar
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    The Detached
    by Maya Angelou


    We die,
    Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets,
    Stranglers to our outstretched necks,
    Stranglers, who neither care nor
    care to know that
    DEATH IS INTERNAL.

    We pray,
    Savoring sweet the teethed lies,
    Bellying the grounds before alien gods,
    Gods, who neither know nor
    wish to know that
    HELL IS INTERNAL.

    We love,
    Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands,
    Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses,
    Kisses that neither touch nor
    care to touch if
    LOVE IS INTERNAL.

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    Legend
    Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


    THERE lived in the desert a holy man

    To whom a goat-footed Faun one day
    Paid a visit, and thus began

    To his surprise: 'I entreat thee to pray
    That grace to me and my friends may be given,
    That we may be able to mount to Heaven,
    For great is our thirst for heav'nly bliss.'
    The holy man made answer to this:
    'Much danger is lurking in thy petition,
    Nor will it be easy to gain admission;
    Thou dost not come with an angel's salute;
    For I see thou wearest a cloven foot.'
    The wild man paused, and then answer'd he:
    'What doth my goat's foot matter to thee?
    Full many I've known into heaven to pass
    Straight and with ease, with the head of an ass!'
    Writing a verse every day, keeps the psychologist away.

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    Mother to Son
    by Langston Hughes


    Well, son, I'll tell you:
    Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
    It's had tacks in it,
    And splinters,
    And boards torn up,
    And places with no carpet on the floor—
    Bare.
    But all the time
    I'se been a-climbin' on,
    And reachin' landin's,
    And turnin' corners,
    And sometimes goin' in the dark
    Where there ain't been no light.
    So, boy, don't you turn back.
    Don't you set down on the steps.
    'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
    Don't you fall now—
    For I'se still goin', honey,
    I'se still climbin',
    And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
    Writing a verse every day, keeps the psychologist away.

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    Gold Member cribby1983's Avatar
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    Dreams
    Langston Hughes, 1902 - 1967


    Hold fast to dreams
    For if dreams die
    Life is a broken-winged bird
    That cannot fly.

    Hold fast to dreams
    For when dreams go
    Life is a barren field
    Frozen with snow.
    Writing a verse every day, keeps the psychologist away.

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    The Ballad of Nat Turner
    by Robert Hayden (1913-1980)


    Then fled, O brethren, the wicked juba
    and wandered wandered far
    from curfew joys in the Dismal's night.
    Fool of St. Elmo's fire

    In scary night I wandered, praying,
    Lord God my harshener,
    speak to me now or let me die;
    speak, Lord, to this mourner.


    And came at length to livid trees
    where Ibo warriors
    hung shadowless, turning in wind
    that moaned like Africa,


    Their belltongue bodies dead, their eyes
    alive with the anger deep
    in my own heart. Is this the sign,
    the sign forepromised me?


    The spirits vanished. Afraid and lonely
    I wandered on in blackness.
    Speak to me now or let me die.
    Die, whispered the blackness.


    And wild things gasped and scuffled in
    the night; seething shapes
    of evil frolicked upon the air.
    I reeled with fear, I prayed.


    Sudden brightness clove the preying
    darkness, brightness that was
    itself a golden darkness, brightness
    so bright that it was darkness.


    And there were angels, their faces hidden
    from me, angels at war
    with one another, angels in dazzling
    combat. And oh the splendor,


    The fearful splendor of that warring.
    Hide me, I cried to rock and bramble.
    Hide me, the rock, the bramble cried. . . .
    How tell you of that holy battle?


    The shock of wing on wing and sword
    on sword was the tumult of
    a taken city burning. I cannot
    say how long they strove,


    For the wheel in a turning wheel which is time
    in eternity had ceased
    its whirling, and owl and moccasin,
    panther and nameless beast


    And I were held like creatures fixed
    in flaming, in fiery amber.
    But I saw I saw oh many of
    those mighty beings waver,


    Waver and fall, go streaking down
    into swamp water, and the water
    hissed and steamed and bubbled and locked
    shuddering shuddering over


    The fallen and soon was motionless.
    Then that massive light
    began a-folding slowly in
    upon itself, and I


    Beheld the conqueror faces and, lo,
    they were like mine, I saw
    they were like mine and in joy and terror
    wept, praising praising Jehovah.


    Oh praised my honer, harshener
    till a sleep came over me,
    a sleep heavy as death. And when
    I awoke at last free


    And purified, I rose and prayed
    and returned after a time
    to the blazing fields, to the humbleness.
    And bided my time.
    Writing a verse every day, keeps the psychologist away.

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