ITT: your favorite poem(s)

[Anonymous No.15273080]

post em

[Anonymous No.15273096]

OP here, I am a highschool girl not sure if it matters

[Anonymous No.15273105]

[« Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ » !!oI3er5KKetj No.15273106]

If
If … at the sound of wish
The summer sun would shine
And if … just a smile would do
To brush all the clouds from the sky

If … at the blink of an eye
The autumn leaves would whirl
And if … you could sigh a deep sigh
To scatter them over the earth

I'd blink my eyes
And wave my arms
I'd wish a wish
To stop all harm

If … at the wave of a hand
The winter snows would start
And if … you could just light a candle
To change people's feelings and hearts

I'd whisper love
In every land
To every child
Woman and man

That's what I'd do
If my wishes would come true
That's what I'd do
If my wishes could come true

Why
We ask our father why
Why people can not love
Why people hate all day and night
Spoiling children's dreams

We ask our mother why
Why people can not live
Why they won't let the children be
Crushing their belief

Tell us why, Papa
Your children want to know
"Someday you'll find out"
Leaves us lonely and cold

Tell us why, Papa
Your children want to know
"You shouldn't ask such things"
Leaves no rooms to grow

We ask our parents Why
Why children can not grow
Don't look away from us
Don't lie … please don't lie
Your children need to know

Tell me why, somebody
We children need an answer
Why adults fight over God
Why adults fight over colour
Why adults go to war

[Anonymous No.15273122]

>>15273080
Adam
by William Carlos Williams
He grew up by the sea
on a hot island
inhabited by negroes—mostly.
There he built himself
a boat and a separate room
close to the water
for a piano on which he practiced—
by sheer doggedness
and strength of purpose
striving
like an Englishman
to emulate his Spanish friend
and idol—the weather!

And there he learned
to play the flute—not very well—

Thence he was driven—
out of Paradise—to taste
the death that duty brings
so daintily, so mincingly,
with such a noble air—
that enslaved him all his life
thereafter—

And he left behind
all the curious memories that come
with shells and hurricanes—
the smells
and sounds and glancing looks
that Latins know belong
to boredom and long torrid hours
and Englishmen
will never understand—whom
duty has marked
for special mention—with
a tropic of its own
and its own heavy-winged fowl
and flowers that vomit beauty
at midnight—

[Anonymous No.15273131]

>>15273122

But the Latin has turned romance
to a purpose cold as ice.
He never sees
or seldom
what melted Adam's knees
to jelly and despair—and
held them up pontifically—

Underneath the whisperings
of tropic nights
there is a darker whispering
that death invents especially
for northern men
whom the tropics
have come to hold.

It would have been enough
to know that never,
never, never, never would
peace come as the sun comes
in the hot islands.
But there was
a special hell besides
where black women lie waiting
for a boy—

Naked on a raft
he could see the barracudas
waiting to castrate him
so the saying went—
Circumstances take longer—

But being an Englishman
though he had not lived in England
desde que tenia cinco años
he never turned back
but kept a cold eye always
on the inevitable end
never wincing—never to unbend—
God's handyman
going quietly into hell's mouth
for a paper of reference—
fetching water to posterity
a British passport
always in his pocket—
muleback over Costa Rica
eating pâtés of black ants

And the Latin ladies admired him
and under their smiles
dartled the dagger of despair—
in spite of
a most thorough trial—
found his English heart safe
in the roseate steel. Duty
the angel
which with whip in hand . . .
—along the low wall of paradise
where they sat and smiled
and flipped their fans
at him—

He never had but the one home
Staring Him in the eye
coldly
and with patience—
without a murmur, silently
a desperate, unvarying silence
to the unhurried last.