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Poetry thread

Immersed in the Wall of Sleep
And for that reason, Immured in that Wall
Of Sleep
I cannot move out an inch
My will is weak
My thought is confined
To Nowhere
Mindless, Brainless
In Bondage to Fatigue
Someone Wrest Me
From this Silent Bondage
Of Suffocated Fret
Give me one Ray
Of Shining Will
To Enliven and Electrify
The Feeling of Life in Me
That I may Freely Accept
The Way of Tapas and
Make such a Deep
Habit of Life
So as to
Turn my Back on Sleep
And Be a Conqueror
For Life.



  • JeroenJeroen Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter Netherlands Veteran
    edited February 2023

    I think this was our most recent attempt at a poetry thread, it has a few links in it to older poetry threads, for those who are interested… Not meaning to be negative :)

    I will add a fragment of a poem by a poet I like, Hakim Sanai

    On Being Silent

    The path of religion is neither in works nor words;
    there are no buildings thereon, but only desolation.
    Whoso becomes silent to pursue the path,
    his speech is life and sweetness;
    if he speaks, it will not be out of ignorance, and
    if he is silent, it will not be from sloth;
    when silent, he is not devising frivolity;
    when speaking, he scatters abroad no trifling talk.

  • Flower no flower
    mist no mist

    arrives at midnight
    and leaves at dawn

    arrives like a spring dream – how many times
    leaves like a morning cloud – nowhere to find

    Bai Juyi

  • federicafederica Seeker of the clear blue sky... Its better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak out and remove all doubt Moderator


    Though Winter still asserts his right to reign,
    He sways his sceptre now with gentler hand;
    Nay, sometimes softens to a zephyr bland
    The hurrying blast, which erst along the plain
    Drove the skin-piercing sleet and pelting rain
    In headlong rage; while, ever and anon,
    He draws aside his veil of vapours dun,
    That the bright sun may smile on us again.
    To-day 't would seem (so soft the west wind's sigh)
    That the mild spirit of the infant Spring
    Was brooding o'er the spots where hidden lie
    Such early flowers as are the first to fling
    On earth's green lap their wreaths of various dye—
    Flowers, round whose forms sweet hopes and sweeter memories cling.

    Rebecca Hey


    Morning Sun
    The storm has passed
    Dark clouds
    Seeming endless
    Darkness and storm
    Yields to the ever present
    Sun and light
    For even the storm
    With all it's fury
    Passes beneath the
    Ever shining Sun
    You are the Sun
    The storm your challenge
    The Sun prevails

    RC 03/02/2023
    Peace to all

  • A post I came across reminded me of this poem by Charles Bukowski.
    I think beauty can be found in the sorrow of self-squeezing to produce juice, knowingly or not.


    There's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I'm not going
    to let anybody see
    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the whores and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    in there.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    you want to blow my book sales in
    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody's asleep.
    I say, I know that you're there,
    so don't be
    then I put him back,
    but he's singing a little
    in there, I haven't quite let him
    and we sleep together like
    with our
    secret pact
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do

    -Charles Bukowski

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