Page 2 of 2

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: 03 Sep 2019, 09:52
by Roy
mom3 wrote:
20 Jun 2017, 11:19
In honor of Nelson Mandela and You. - I leave you with William Ernest Henley's inspiring poem Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: 03 Sep 2019, 13:13
by mom3
I needed this ^^^ today Roy. I find it amusing that I originally posted it. But I am having a day where I need to pull through and reading it helps.

Thank you.

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: 04 Sep 2019, 09:41
by Roy
I saw this one over at BCC:
The God Who Ranges

Some find comfort in a God who commands.
Others find solace in a God who weeps.
But I am called by the God who ranges:
A Father and a Mother range among the worlds;
they scry the heavens and the earth for signs
of other wills, sparks of self-awareness like themselves.
They sweep the skies for them;
they hunt them from hidden places in deep hollows,
and, finding them, they laugh with delight as they lay them on their shoulders.
They gather them and give them their names,
clothe them and choose them their children,
plant them and provide for them;
and then watch in wonder and delight
to see what strange new things they will grow into,
in the strange new places where they will peregrinate,
when they, the begotten children of rangers,
begin themselves to range.
And when they do, the Mother and the Father go out again to range,
and call their kindred to them,
on the strange new shores where they range.
They hunt them on the hills and in the hollows;
they hunt them even in the outer void
where some try to hide from their Parents, from themselves, and even from being itself.
They call them with their own authority:
not the domination of other wills, but
the authority of a love, born of wonder and delight, that is stronger than force,
a faithfulness that outlasts death, and
a mercy that overwhelms darkness and bewilders unholiness.
By this everlasting authority they release them from their fear of being found
and set them free to range
in the express image and likeness of their Parents.
By Jared Cook

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: 06 Sep 2019, 13:21
by Roy
John of the Cross – The Dark Night of the Soul – The Poem:
One dark night,
fired with love’s urgent longings
– ah, the sheer grace! –
I went out unseen,
my house being now all stilled.
In darkness, and secure,
by the secret ladder, disguised,
– ah, the sheer grace! –
in darkness and concealment,
my house being now all stilled.
On that glad night,
in secret, for no one saw me,
nor did I look at anything,
with no other light or guide
than the one that burned in my heart.
This guided me
more surely than the light of noon
to where he was awaiting me
– him I knew so well –
there in a place where no one appeared.
O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united
the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.
Upon my flowering breast
which I kept wholly for him alone,
there he lay sleeping,
and I caressing him
there in a breeze from the fanning cedars.
When the breeze blew from the turret,
as I parted his hair,
it wounded my neck
with its gentle hand,
suspending all my senses.
I abandoned and forgot myself,
laying my face on my Beloved;
all things ceased; I went out from myself,
leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.

John of the Cross
This one is less self explanatory. It was written by the 16th Century Spanish Poet, Roman Catholic mystic and Carmelite priest, Saint John of the Cross.

"The night in which the journey takes place represents the hardships and problems the soul meets in detaching from the world to achieve union with the Creator, represented by the light.
Successive stanzas relate the steps in this night journey. Central is the painful experience people endure in order to grow in spiritual maturity and union with God.
There are two phases of the dark night: first is a purification of the senses, and second the more intense purification of the spirit."

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: 10 Sep 2019, 14:03
by Roy
dande48 wrote:
29 Mar 2018, 12:27
The last time I really, strongly felt the Spirit was a few weeks ago when reading a favorite poem of mine, "The Garden of Proserpine", by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
I don't know if there is a life after this one, but I don't think there is. Yet, even if there is no life after this one, if I were to die this very moment, I would die happy. I once heard that misery lies in the gap between what we hope to happen, and what we fear might happen; that once we come to terms with the worst that could happen, no matter what everything is going to be okay. All that we have is a gift, and when those gifts are taken away, there is no reason to complain; only gratitude for what we were given.

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: 10 Sep 2019, 14:26
by Roy
FaithfulSkeptic wrote:
20 Jul 2016, 16:20
I love Carol Lynn Pearson's poem, "Pioneers."
My people were Mormon pioneers.

Is the blood still good?

They stood in awe as truth

Flew by like a dove

And dropped a feather in the West.

Where truth flies you follow

If you are a pioneer.

I have searched the skies

And now and then

Another feather has fallen.

I have packed the handcart again

Packed it with the precious things

And thrown away the rest.

I will sing by the fires at night

Out there on uncharted ground

Where I am my own captain of tens

Where I blow the bugle

Bring myself to morning prayer

Map out the miles

And never know when or where

Or if at all I will finally say,

“This is the place,”

I face the plains

On a good day for walking.

The sun rises

And the mist clears.

I will be all right:

My people were Mormon Pioneers.