The Lighthouse Coffee Shop

[duchess of malfi]

It's a cold winter night. We have a huge fire burning in the fireplace and some soft, soothing music playing in the background. Pull up a chair, and help yourself to some coffee, tea, hot chocolate, or hot cider...
Maybe someone will even share a poem or two?

[Dromond]

don't have one of my own right handy, but this'n has always been a favorite of mine when talkin' 'bout bein' cold.

By one of my favorite Poets, Robert W. Service
www.usscouts.org/stories/s_sam.html

[Furls Fire]

I love this idea...

Here's one of my favorites...

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

--Robert Frost

And here is one of my brother's...

When I opened my eyes it was there
Dreamlike in the night, the air filled
With the fragrance of jasmine flowers.
It stood there, spacious, with a thatched roof.
The room cool, lit by inner glow.
And a garden full of flowers, an old well ensconced
With the jasmine.
I drew to its grace, a saint had lived there once,
Whose presence now became the silence enshrined
Within the walls, the divine aura.
And I thought, Heaven must be like this.

--Stephen C. McKinney

[Worm of Despite]

A Fisherman

Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind.
A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure.
Dusk rain on the river, the moon peeking in and out of the clouds;
Elegant beyond words, he chants his songs night after night.

-- Ikkyu

[variol son]

My all time favourite poem:

T'was brillig, and the slithey toves
Did gire and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borrogroves
And the mome wraths outgrabe

Beware the Jabberwock my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious bandersnatch

He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought
Then rested he by the Tum tum tree
And stood awhile in thought

And as in uffish thought he stood
The Jabberwock, with eyes aflame
Came whiffling through the Tulgey wood
And burbled as it came

One two! One two, and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack
He left it dead, and with it's head
He went gallumphing back

Ah hast thou slain the Jabberwock
Come to my arms my beamish boy
Of frabjous day, Calloh Callay
He chortled in his joy

T'was brillig, and the slithey toves
Did gire and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borrogroves
And the mome wraths outgrabe



Sum sui generis
Vs

[Loredoctor]

People, read the poetry of the great Wilfred Owen. Futility, Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori, Exposure . . . Just wonderful poetry.

[duchess of malfi]

For those not familiar with the moving wartime poetry of Owen, here are a couple of my favorites:

A Terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers)

Sit on the bed. I'm blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me,-brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.


I tried to peg out soldierly,-no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals?-Discs to make eyes close.
My glorious ribbons?-Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)


A short life and a merry one, my buck!
We used to say we'd hate to live dead-old,-
Yet now...I'd willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well, that's what I learnt,-that, and making money.


Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.


My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever.
I'd ask no nights off when the bustle's over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan?
I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?


O Life, Life, let me breathe,-a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours the lives rats lead-
Nosing along at night down some safe rut,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death.
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
'I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone'
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned:
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.
'Pushing up daisies' is their creed, you know.


To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if...Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me,-as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.


Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here's the thing's best left at home with friends.


My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.


Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.


About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.


There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.


One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join.-He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.


Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.


Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

[Dani]

ooooOOoooooo...hot chocolate...and poetry! Who can beat that??

I must confess that I am not an avid reader of poetry, so I have no great poets to share

I only have my own humble words. I'm feeling a bit nostalgic, so maybe I'll share one written for someone close to me while I sip my hot chocolate.


THE LAND UP AHEAD

My days were bleak, hollow and gray
until I saw you come walking my way.

Then I held my breath, afraid to try,
but wanting to keep you from walking on by.

But you stopped anyway, turned and said,
“Come with me to the land up ahead.”

“I want to spend my years with you,
always and forever, just we two.”

“Add in a child, well, two or three,
and it will be paradise, just wait and see.”

So, hand in hand, we both tackled life
through passion and pain, happiness and strife.

But times were hard, and tears stained our days.
We turned to others and walked separate ways.

The land up ahead became but a dream,
a vision, an image, a place still unseen.

My days once more became hollow and gray,
until I saw you come walking my way.

This time I stopped you from heading on past,
no longer afraid that we couldn’t last.

As the truth in your heart was plain to see
every time your eyes passed over me.

You still wanted me to visit the land up ahead,
so I took your hand, nothing more to be said.

Three children around us to make quite a horde,
at least we knew we would never be bored.

[Loredoctor]

Duchess! That was wonderful! Thanks for posting some of the poems - I never got around to it.

[Damelon]

I saw some Lewis Carroll here.

I always liked The Walrus and The Carpenter:

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.


The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"


"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."


The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."


"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"


"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"


"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.


"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

[variol son]

Poetry to make you think:

There is a pretty girl
On the cover of the magazine
And all I can see
Is my dirty hand
Turning the page

Jewel Kilcher

Sum sui generis
Vs

[duchess of malfi]

Here's one by William Wordsworth, that always makes me think of spring...

"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
1804.

[duchess of malfi]

Here is another that makes me feel warmer when I read it, by Theodore Rothke

I Knew a Woman

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)


Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)


Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)

[danlo]

W. B. Yeats---

The Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men´s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

[ShadowLurker]

I've always liked this one...

Ulysses

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees; all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; . . .
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

[Skyweir]

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

love that line!! nice poetry dani!!

People, read the poetry of the great Wilfred Owen. Futility, Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori, Exposure . . . Just wonderful poetry.

oh my god .. I love Wilfred Owen .. I love all those you have mentioned and more!!!

Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon (sp?) are both awesome and all time fav war poets .. I love Futility & Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!! totally the best of Owen .. makes me weep just to read it!!

and William Wordsworth .. I was raised on him .. at my grandmothers knee .. Daffodils is a dear poem to me!! She used to recite it .. and I loved to hear her share it with me ..

some lovelly poems being read here this cold winters night LOL .. or summer as the case may be

[duchess of malfi]

Some Robert Burns:

A Red Red Rose.

O MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June :
O my luve's like a melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art though, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I :
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

A fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile

[duchess of malfi]

Here's a famous love poem in honor of Valentine's Day:

Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! -and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

[duchess of malfi]

True love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never dead, never cold,
From itself never turning.


From an anonymous poem of the 16th. Cent.

[Worm of Despite]

UNTITLED POEM by Roger Waters

There is a magic in some books
That sucks a man into connections with
The spirits hard to touch
That join him to his kind
A man will seek the reading out
Guarded like a canteen in the desert heat
But sometimes needs must drink
And then the final drop falls sweet
The last page turns
The end
Not so with you my wife
My love, my life I do not have to seek you out
I read you day and night
And drink and bathe
And share my coat
And droplets spray in rainbows
From that distant age
And we will never
Taste the final drop
Nor turn the final page