My Vicky Life

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Posts tagged with "poems"

Apr 8

Since the subject of beauty (and the perception of it) has popped up on my blog again, and also since it’s National Poetry Month, I give you one of my favorite poems, My Mistress’ Eyes by William Shakespeare. First, though, you might want to check out a lyrical little number called There is a Garden in Her Face. It was written by one of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, Thomas Campion, who gushes on about his lady’s rosy cheeks, pearly white teeth, and cherry red lips. To which Shakespeare responds, “Well, my girlfriend isn’t much to look at, but I’m nuts about her anyway.” What a guy.

There Is A Garden In Her Face
by Thomas Campion (1567-1620)

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav’nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
      There cherries grow which none may buy,
      Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow;
      Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
      Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
      Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
      Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
      And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
      As any she belied with false compare.

Feb 6

A student in the library just asked me for this poem. I thought I’d post it, because it makes me think of Tumblr.

Spellbound

by Emily Brontë

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

…and while we’re on the subject of poetry, James Franco, and Allen Ginsberg, here’s some more of the real thing.

Now THIS an an inauguration poem: Maya Angelou at President Clinton’s first go-round.

James Franco Reads a Strange Inauguration Poem From His Bed

I had posted this video but had to take it down, because I couldn’t keep it from opening automatically on my blog. (In other words, I couldn’t get James Franco to shut up.) Here’s a link instead. 

My comment: “He’s so cute, but Allen Ginsberg he’s not.”

"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou…”
—Omar Khayyám
(illustration by Edmund Dulac)

"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou…”

—Omar Khayyám

(illustration by Edmund Dulac)

Sep 4

Somehow a poem by Pablo Neruda got mixed up in the Incubus tag, and like a gift from heaven it reminded me of this video, just exactly when I needed it. How’s this for erotic, huh? Pablo Neruda’s Love Sonnet XI (yes, XI, not IX). Nighty night, people. I’ll be in my bunk.

Jul 2

George Carlin - Hair Piece

A poetic anthem for our Incuhair movement. If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m pretty serious about this.

Apr 6

It’s National Poetry Month, so here’s my favorite poem:

To a Traveler
    —by Su Tung P’o

Last year when I accompanied you
As far as the Yang Chou Gate,
The snow was flying, like white willow cotton.
This year, Spring has come again,
And the willow cotton is like snow,
But you have not come back.
Alone before the open window,
I raise my wine cup to the shining moon.
The wind, moist with evening dew,
Blows the gauze curtains.
Maybe Chang-O the moon goddess,
Will pity this single swallow
And join us together with the cord of light
That reaches beneath the painted eaves of your home.