My Little Book of Poetry

• DeadPoet

  18 Jun 04, 00:56

  Welcome to 'My Little Book of Poetry'.
  
  This thread is for you to post your favourite poems. If it is good enough to be your favourite poems, it is good enough to be shared.
  
  There are many poems that I really like, let me start off this thread with one of my favourite.
  
  Worms
  
  It isnÂ’t the kind of illness
  That pushes one
  Down flat; she still reports,
  Like everyone,
  To the office, and the rest
  Of her time she lives
  The way she must, holding on
  To what she believes.
  But, somehow, word has seeped out
  That Miss Ver is sick,
  She may not last the year.
  ‘A dirty trick!’
  Said a voice in the room
  Where meets the board;
  Miss Ver has fed the firm
  Much of its hoard
  Of profit and prestige,
  All the while ago
  Has crept after her in that
  Huge air-cooled cage
  That has become her home,
  And now her sickbed.
  Management will care for her
  Till she falls dead;
  SheÂ’s listed under assets,
  But, more than this,
  It is laws that hire the doctor –
  She knows it is.
  Meantime, a few have dreams
  About her chair;
  Worms dream – she laughs – of corpses
  that they can share.
  
  G. Burce Bunao
  
• DeadPoet

  19 Jun 04, 04:04

  Horseshoe Crab
  
  The horseshoe crabs
  carry their husbands
  on the back
  and roam the salty earth
  nibbling sea-weeds.
  Men catch them alive
  But take only the wives.
  The husbands are no good
  they are set loose on the shore.
  Alone and blind, they go nowhere,
  Starved in the stomach and pining at heart,
  they die in heaps
  on the sea ground.
  
  Nrin (Translated by Narong Ketudat)
• DeadPoet

  22 Jun 04, 00:32

  On the Death of my Child
  
  The distant clocks are striking,
  It is already late,
  The lamp is burning dimly,
  Your little bed is made.
  
  The winds are blowing still,
  They wail around the house,
  Inside we sit here lonely
  And often listen out.
  
  It is as if that must be
  You tapping on the door,
  You lost your way a little,
  But now youÂ’ve made it home.
  
  What silly foolish folk we are!
  It’s we who are misled –
  While weÂ’re still lost in darkness
  YouÂ’ve long since found your bed.
  
  (1832) by Joseph von Eichendorff, translated by Aodhagán O’Broin (2000)