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    Poems thread

    The Noosphere
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    • ThinPickingT
      ThinPicking @gg12
      last edited by

      Aren't you claiming to be a poet. I'm not.

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      • NoeticJuiceN
        NoeticJuice
        last edited by NoeticJuice

        The Musicians
        by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

        The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
        And I laughed when the music fell on my ear,
        For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
        And they played so loud that I could not hear
        The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary -
        The strains of sorrow that floated around,
        For my heart's notes rang out loud and cheery,
        And I heard no other sound.

        Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
        Played louder and louder in joyful glee;
        But sometimes a discord was heard by others -
        Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
        Louder and louder, faster and faster
        The hands of the brothers played strain on strain,
        When all of a sudden a Mighty Master
        Swept them aside; and Pain,

        Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
        Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
        And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
        So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;
        Each note was an echo of awful anguish,
        As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow,
        And my soul for a reason seemed to languish
        And faint with its weight of woe.

        With skilful hands that were never weary,
        This Master of Music played strain on strain,
        And between the bars of the miserere,
        He drew up the strings of my heart again,
        And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
        To see that they did not snap in two.
        'They are drawn so tight, they will break assunder, '
        I thought, but instead, they grew,

        In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;
        And I could hear on the stilly air -
        Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer -
        The sound of sorrow, and grief, and despair;
        And my soul grew kinder and tender to others,
        My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad,
        And I held all men to be my brothers,
        Linked by the chastening rod.

        My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
        And when on my heart-strings fell again
        The hands of Mirth, and Pleasure, even,
        There was never a discord to mar the strain.
        For Pain, the musician, and soul-refiner,
        Attuned the strings with a master hand,
        And whether the music be major or minor,
        It is always sweet and grand.

        "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

        🎧🎶24/7

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        • NoeticJuiceN
          NoeticJuice
          last edited by NoeticJuice

          Miracles
          by Walt Whitman

          Why, who makes much of a miracle?
          As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
          Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
          Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
          Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
          Or stand under trees in the woods,
          Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
          Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
          Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
          Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
          Or animals feeding in the fields,
          Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
          Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
          Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
          These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
          The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

          To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
          Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
          Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
          Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

          To me the sea is a continual miracle,
          The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the
          ships with men in them,
          What stranger miracles are there?

          "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

          🎧🎶24/7

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          • NoeticJuiceN
            NoeticJuice
            last edited by NoeticJuice

            The Kind Moon
            by Sara Teasdale

            I think the moon is very kind
            To take such trouble just for me.
            He came along with me from home
            To keep me company.

            He went as fast as I could run;
            I wonder how he crossed the sky?
            I'm sure he hasn't legs and feet
            Or any wings to fly.

            Yet here he is above their roof;
            Perhaps he thinks it isn't right
            For me to go so far alone,
            Tho' mother said I might.

            "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

            🎧🎶24/7

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            • NoeticJuiceN
              NoeticJuice
              last edited by NoeticJuice

              Our Blessings
              by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

              Sitting to-day in the sunshine,
              That touched me with fingers of love,
              I thought of the manifold blessings
              God scatters on earth, from above;
              And they seemed, as I numbered them over,
              Far more than we merit, or need,
              And all that we lack is the angels
              To make earth a heaven indeed.

              The winter brings long, pleasant evenings,
              The spring brings a promise of flowers
              That summer breathes to fruition,
              And autumn brings glad, golden hours.
              The woodlands re-echo with music,
              The moonbeams ensilver the sea;
              There is sunlight and beauty about us,
              And the world is as fair as can be.

              But mortals are always complaining,
              Each one thinks his own a sad lot;
              And forgetting the good things about him,
              Goes mourning for those he has not.
              Instead of the star-spangled heavens,
              We look on the dust at our feet;
              We drain out the cup that is bitter,
              Forgetting the one that is sweet.

              We mourn o'er the thorn in the flower,
              Forgetting its odour and bloom;
              We pass by a garden of blossoms,
              To weep o'er the dust of the tomb.
              There are blessings unnumbered about us, -
              Like the leaves of the forest they grow;
              And the fault is our own - not the Giver's -
              That we have not an Eden below.

              "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

              🎧🎶24/7

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              • NoeticJuiceN
                NoeticJuice
                last edited by NoeticJuice

                To hear an Oriole sing
                by Emily Dickinson

                To hear an Oriole sing
                May be a common thing—
                Or only a divine.

                It is not of the Bird
                Who sings the same, unheard,
                As unto Crowd—

                The Fashion of the Ear
                Attireth that it hear
                In Dun, or fair—

                So whether it be Rune,
                Or whether it be none
                Is of within.

                The "Tune is in the Tree—"
                The Skeptic—showeth me—
                "No Sir! In Thee!"

                "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

                🎧🎶24/7

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                • NoeticJuiceN
                  NoeticJuice
                  last edited by

                  Thank you for the inspiration to start reading poetry, @gg12

                  "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

                  🎧🎶24/7

                  1 Reply Last reply Reply Quote 0
                  • NoeticJuiceN
                    NoeticJuice
                    last edited by NoeticJuice

                    I see the Four-fold Man
                    by William Blake

                    I see the Four-fold Man, The Humanity in deadly sleep
                    And its fallen Emanation, the Spectre and its cruel Shadow.
                    I see the Past, Present and Future existing all at once
                    Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me on thy wings,
                    That I may awake Albion from his long and cold repose;
                    For Bacon and Newton, sheath'd in dismal steel, their terrors hang
                    Like iron scourges over Albion: reasonings like vast serpents
                    Infold around my limbs, bruising my minute articulations.

                    I turn my eyes to the schools and universities of Europe
                    And there behold the Loom of Locke, whose Woof rages dire,
                    Wash'd by the Water-wheels of Newton: black the cloth
                    In heavy wreaths folds over every nation: cruel works
                    Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic
                    Moving by compulsion each other, not as those in Eden, which,
                    Wheel within wheel, in freedom revolve in harmony and peace.

                    "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

                    🎧🎶24/7

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                    • NoeticJuiceN
                      NoeticJuice
                      last edited by

                      Here And Now
                      by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

                      Here, in the heart of the world,
                      Here, in the noise and the din,
                      Here, where our spirits were hurled
                      To battle with sorrow and sin,
                      This is the place and the spot
                      For knowledge of infinite things;
                      This is the kingdom where Thought
                      Can conquer the prowess of kings.

                      Wait for no heavenly life,
                      Seek for no temple alone;
                      Here, in the midst of the strife,
                      Know what the sages have known.
                      See what the Perfect Ones saw-
                      God in the depth of each soul,
                      God as the light and the law,
                      God as beginning and goal.

                      Earth is one chamber of Heaven,
                      Death is no grander than birth.
                      Joy in the life that was given,
                      Strive for perfection on earth.
                      Here, in the turmoil and roar,
                      Show what it is to be calm;
                      Show how the spirit can soar
                      And bring back its healing and balm.

                      Stand not aloof nor apart,
                      Plunge in the thick of the fight.
                      There in the street and the mart,
                      That is the place to do right.
                      Not in some cloister or cave,
                      Not in some kingdom above,
                      Here, on this side of the grave,
                      Here, should we labor and love.

                      "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

                      🎧🎶24/7

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                      • NoeticJuiceN NoeticJuice referenced this topic
                      • NoeticJuiceN
                        NoeticJuice
                        last edited by

                        Untitled
                        by me

                        I hear you speak, and I listen
                        But I’ve heard it all before
                        I say a word, hoping for something new
                        But your ears are gone
                        I’m speaking all alone
                        No point speaking at all

                        "We must remember that the only instrument of investigation we possess is our mind . . . The quality and condition of the telescope govern the observation resulting from its use. If there is dust on our lens, we see dark spots in the heavens."

                        🎧🎶24/7

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