arietti
the sentient Ry Bread, at your service!
I just wanted to create a thread where I could share some of my favorite poems, as well as ones written by me, where other people could discuss and share poetry as well!
Without further ado, here are two poems, one by me and one of my favorites by Robert Frost!
Without further ado, here are two poems, one by me and one of my favorites by Robert Frost!
Humanization
by Me (aka Ry/Arietti)
If one was to purge the amenities
laying stiff and noiselessly
between sheets of perfection
and desirability,
they would discover
a thing called Human.
Sheets of rocks slamming into skulls
harder than when they hit the pavement
are what jolts awake the nerves and senses
in this docile creature
that we claim is breathing.
They go into battle
with paper printouts of shields,
thoughts of
‘You can’t break what’s already been broken’
flashing like neon bar signs
at the front line of their minds.
Yet the poems and laments of the ones
who have survived those battles
say otherwise.
Saying they are fickle things
is forever an understatement.
their voices are woven into webs
where spiders sit and wait,
hoping to grasp on to
any sense of reality someone holds
In the palm of their hand,
Twisting and morphing it into a lie
Seen as a sin even by those
Who are deemed unholy.
You cannot trust the reflections
They spit at you through gritted teeth,
For I should know.
I am one of them.
by Me (aka Ry/Arietti)
If one was to purge the amenities
laying stiff and noiselessly
between sheets of perfection
and desirability,
they would discover
a thing called Human.
Sheets of rocks slamming into skulls
harder than when they hit the pavement
are what jolts awake the nerves and senses
in this docile creature
that we claim is breathing.
They go into battle
with paper printouts of shields,
thoughts of
‘You can’t break what’s already been broken’
flashing like neon bar signs
at the front line of their minds.
Yet the poems and laments of the ones
who have survived those battles
say otherwise.
Saying they are fickle things
is forever an understatement.
their voices are woven into webs
where spiders sit and wait,
hoping to grasp on to
any sense of reality someone holds
In the palm of their hand,
Twisting and morphing it into a lie
Seen as a sin even by those
Who are deemed unholy.
You cannot trust the reflections
They spit at you through gritted teeth,
For I should know.
I am one of them.
Mending Wall
By Robert Frost
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
By Robert Frost
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
