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[Trilby]

This thread is just for stuff you like - a poem, a painting, a photo, some music. No commentary - just what you like!

Let's see how long it takes to devolve into some weird, horrid rant, shall we?

[Trilby]

The Straightforward Mermaid
by Matthea Harvey


The straightforward mermaid starts every sentence with “Look . . . ” This comes from being raised in a sea full of hooks. She wants to get points 1, 2, and 3 across, doesn’t want to disappear like a river into the ocean. When she’s feeling despairing, she goes to eddies at the mouth of the river and tries to comb the water apart with her fingers. The straightforward mermaid has already said to five sailors, “Look, I don’t think this is going to work,” before sinking like a sullen stone. She’s supposed to teach Rock Impersonation to the younger mermaids, but every beach field trip devolves into them trying to find shells to match their tail scales. They really love braiding. “Look,” says the straightforward mermaid. “Your high ponytails make you look like fountains, not rocks.” Sometimes she feels like a third gender—preferring primary colors to pastels, the radio to singing. At least she’s all mermaid: never gets tired of swimming, hates the thought of socks.

[classicman]

Somebody here took this a picture couple years ago.

I made it my background as it reminds me of many good times
walking with my kids along the river and the beautiful colors of the fall.

Its peaceful, serene and evokes much needed calming vibes for me.

[Shawnee123]

Originally Posted by Brianna

This thread is just for stuff you like - a poem, a painting, a photo, some music. No commentary - just what you like!

Let's see how long it takes to devolve into some weird, horrid rant, shall we?

One Can Miss Mountains
and pine. One

can dismiss
a whisper’s

revelations
and go on as

before as if
everything were

perfectly fine.
One does. One

loses wonder
among stores

of things.
One can even miss

the basso boom
of the ocean’s

rumpus room
and its rhythm.

A man can leave
this earth

and take nothing
—not even

longing—along
with him.

by Todd Boss

[Sundae]

Yeah?
Fuck you.

[Pete Zicato]

Western Wind

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again.



One of the earliest known examples of English and an evocative poem in its own right.

[BigV]

"I love you Dad."

"I love you too son." "I love you too sugar."

[Juniper]

I was gonna say: ME!!!! (oh wait, I just did)

But I'll post this instead.

[DanaC]

Puppehs!

[wolf]

Originally Posted by Pete Zicato

Western Wind

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again.



One of the earliest known examples of English and an evocative poem in its own right.

I hear that in Maddy Prior's voice. I'm pretty sure Steeleye Span recorded it.

[HungLikeJesus]

The opening scenes from the movie "The Mechanic," with Charles Bronson, where there's almost no dialogue for the first 17 minutes and 20 seconds.

[spudcon]

-

[Trilby]

On the Inevitable Decline Into Mediocity of the Popular Musician Who Attains A Comfortable Middle Age

O Sting, where is thy death?

---David Musgrave

[Gravdigr]

Originally Posted by Brianna

At least she’s all mermaid...hates the thought of socks.

______________________

An Indian At The Burial Place Of His Fathers
by William Cullen Bryant

It is the spot I came to seek,--
My fathers' ancient burial-place
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot--I know it well--
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river-side;
I know the shaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide,--
The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not--I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight
To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er hills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,
The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid
Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the god of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie
The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth--
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth,
That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us--ay--like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day,--
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,
To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,
And leave no trace behind,
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed;
The melody of waters filled
The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more,
The springs are silent in the sun;
The rivers, by the blackened shore,
With lessening current run;
The realm our tribes are crushed to get
May be a barren desert yet.

[Griff]

Originally Posted by Brianna

On the Inevitable Decline Into Mediocity of the Popular Musician Who Attains A Comfortable Middle Age

O Sting, where is thy death?

---David Musgrave

HA!