e.e.cummings poem 95 I love e.e. cummings. do you have any more obscurer poems that you like?...

Brown Penny
by
William Butler Yeats

I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

**********************************

"I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself."
-D.H. Lawrence,

**********************************

The sounds, normally go unheard. But in the realm of in betweens, my heartbeat reverberates like a bass drum, my breath like that of a warm autumn breeze, and the wings of a moth, like a ceiling fan in slow motion. To behold the sound of a kiss, the feel, the touch, the taste, soft as a cloud, hard as Passion allowed. Savoring the intensity. It's a shame that other's take all this for granted, never knowing what they will miss. The rustle of anxious dreams.
And the touch of wet lip flesh upon flesh, tongues dancing, heart romancing, naked neck anticipation, yes, neck kisses sending electric signals, and they quickly travel south. A soft decadent moan from your mouth...
And the rustle of anxious dreams.

-Kelly (Me)
Montana😎

Pfuzylogic · M

He refused to capitalize many words.
Two of my favorites poems are written by T.S. Eliot: “The naming of cats” and “The Hollow Men”.

Abstraction · 61-69, M

This is stunning. Brings me to tears.

[b]Burial Ceremony [/b][i]Hungary 1956-62[/i]

Bury them deep
under the muffling weight
of six years’ trivia

Heap over them
the shining excrement of those
who feed on forgetting.

Under the bright
inconsequence of headlines
shut them up good.

Under the recurring
tragedy of the football star’s
slipped cartilage,

Under the ticker-taped
processionals of beauty-queens, all
gloriously living,

Under the fretful barrage
of politicians breaking public wind
to ease the embarrassment

Of breathing when so many
better men lie
elsewhere breathless

Under the brute siesta
of nation-states where freedom
remains a quaint local custom...

[b]...and beat drum, beat
For these Hungarian souls
Whom anger simplified
Until all answers seemed
The same, a bloody sum,
And every schoolboy in the torn-up streets
Wept to see fulfilled
The aching paradox
That life belongs to those alone
Who loving it, stand ready
To pay it the smoke-blackened
Compliment of their death...

Beat, drum, beat.
[/b]
(Vale Bruce Dawe, Poet, 15 February 1930 – 1 April 2020)