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A rose is an -ism is a rose is an -ism is a rose is not is...
... the theatre of the absurd
Dark and morbid poems written by foreign poets. The first pat of them. The second poet is another one of of my most favourite poems. I enjoy the first guy's as well, but you can see the different styles. Anyway, succumb to my dark and morbid mood. *grin*

(by George Bacovia)

Like vast tears of blood
Leaves from the branches flow
And slowly the bloodied dusk
Penetrates the window.

Over the blue hills
A moon of blood rises,
The lake looks like blood,
A deeper red always.

At the window, in the sick
Dusk, a girl coughs.
And now her handkerchief
Looks like the flowing leaves.

(by George Bacovia)

It was snowing richly, sadly ; it was late
When in the street at a window I was stopped
By a piano ; caught by delirium, there I wept
Bitterly the desolate wind whistled through the night.

I saw a wide, bare drawing-room through the drapes,
And at a piano, in a mourning cloak
A woman sat, dishevelled and dark,
And played sadly, moaning between the lamps.

She would insanely repeat
Chopin's lugubrious march
By the window the funeral tune
Echoed, and the wind whistled like a train's shriek.

Then a blonde girl came into the room
And almost naked she took, in her sleep,
A blackened fiddle from the piano top
And lost, accompanied the monotonous march.

Tall, dishevelled, white as ash,
She seemed a mad Ophelia... and long
Now groaned the bow drawing across the string
That terrible lugubrious funeral march.

It was delirium ; they played bitterly
The piano sadly moaned, and the violin
The candles struggled in their throes
And slowly a night of eternity spread out,
And last, I heard a body's heavy fall.

Since then, alas, the world seems more downcast
Than ever ; life is a funeral tune
And I cannot forget the insane
Fiddler, and the sad, transfigured pianist

(by George Bacovia)

I'm stuck here... and the slush drips, water, mud
To know nothing again, there'd be one method
A gas lamp's in the throes, it's there, it's not there,
An alcoholic crosses the dismal square.

Soaked in the heavy dampness the town sleeps.
Between these walls she too sleeps, perhaps,
Houses of iron in brick houses,
And the heavy doors close.
Upstairs the quiet humming of a piano;
Stuck like a gloomy sack in the clouds, my shadow
Drop spurt,
It's snowind slops,
From a window, in a vase,
A yellow rose looks down.

Down Where The Lonely Poplars Grow
Mihai Eminescu

Down where the lonely poplars grow
How often have I erred;
My steps that all the neighbours know
You only have not heard.

Towards your window lighted through
How oft my gaze has flown;
A world entire my secret knew
You only have not known.

A word, a murmur of reply
How often did I pray!
What matters then if I should die,
Enough to live that day;

To know one hour of tenderness,
One hour of lovers' night;
To hear you whisper's soft caress
One hour, then come what might!

Had you but granted me a glance
That was not filles with scorn,
Out of its shinning radiance
A new star hab been born.

You would have lived through lives untold
Beyond the ends of time;
O deity with arms so cold,
O marble form sublime!

An idol of some pagan lore
As now no more is seen,
Come down to us from times yore,
From times that long have been.

My worship was of ages gone,
Sad eyes by faith beguiled,
Each generation handed on
From father unto child.

But now I very little care
To walk along that lane,
Nor heed the face I found so fair
Looks out for me in vain;

For you are like them today
In bearing and in guise,
And I but look on your display
With cold and lifeless eyes.

You should have known to value right
With wondering intent,
And lit your candela at night
To Love that God had sent.

One Wish Alone Have I
Mihai Eminescu

One wish alone have I:
In some calm land
Beside the sea to die;
Upon its strand
That I forever sleep,
The forest near,
A heaven near,
Stretched over the peaceful deep.
No candles shine,
Nor tomb I need, instead
Let them for me a bed
Of twigs entwine.

That no one weeps my end,
Nor for me grieves,
But let the autumn lend
Tongues to the leaves,
When brooklet ripples fall
With murmuring sound,
And moon is found
Among the pine-trees tall,
While softly rings
The wind its trembling chime
And over me the lime
Its blossom flings.

As I will then no more
A wanderer be,
Let them with fondness store
My memory.
And Lucifer the while,
Above the pine.
Good comrade mine,
Will on me gently smile;
In mournful mood,
The sea sings sad refrain ...
And I be earth again
In solitude.

If you read no other poem, read this one. It is one of the most beautiful pieces of poetry I have come across, as well as a very unique display of creativity. By the way, the author lived between 1850-1889. So it's a pretty ancient poetry these last few poems.

Mihai Eminescu

Time goes by, time comes along,
All is old and all is new;
What is right and what is wrong,
You must think and ask of you;
Have no hope and have no fear,
Waves that rise can never hold;
If they urge or if they cheer,
You remain aloof and cold.
To our sight a lot will glisten,
Many sounds will reach our ear;
Who could take the time to listen
And remember all we hear?
Keep aside from all that patter,
Seek yourself, far from the throng
When with loud and idle clatter
Time goes by, time comes along.

Nor forget the tongue of reason
Or its even scales depress
When the moment, changing season,
Wears the mask of happiness -
It is born of reason's slumber
And may last a wink as true:
For the one who knows its number
All is old and all is new.

Be as to a play, spectator,
As the world unfolds before:
You will know the heart of matter
Should they act two parts or four;
When they cry or tear asunder
From your seat enjoy along
And you'll learn from art to wonder
What is right and what is wrong.

Past and future, ever blending,
Are the twin sides of same page:
New start will begin with ending
When you know to learn from age;
All that was or be tomorrow
We have in the present, too;
But what's vain and futile sorrow
You must think and ask of you;

For the living cannot sever
From the means we've always had:
Now, as years ago, and ever,
Men are happy or are sad:
Other masks, same play repeated;
Diff'rent tongues, same words to hear;
Of your dreams so often cheated,
Have no hope and have no fear.

Hope not when the villains cluster
By success and glory drawn:
Fools with perfect lack of luster
Will outshine Hyperion!
Fear it not, they'll push each other
To reach higher in the fold,
Do not side with them as brother,
Waves that rise can never hold.

Sounds of siren songs call steady
Toward golden nets, astray;
Life attracts you into eddies
To change actors in the play;
Steal aside from crowd and bustle,
Do not look, seem not to hear
From your path, away from hustle,
If they urge or if they cheer;

If they reach for you, go faster,
Hold your tongue when slanders yell;
Your advice they cannot master,
Don't you know their measure well?
Let them talk and let them chatter,
Let all go past, young and old;
Unattached to man or matter,
You remain aloof and cold.

You remain aloof and cold
If they urge or if they cheer;
Waves that rise can never hold,
Have no hope and have no fear;
You must think and ask of you
What is right and what is wrong;
All is old and all is new,
Time goes by, time comes along.

Now I go sleep. Good night.
7 Pleonasms or You Can't Have Any Pudding!
I've always liked Kipling as a poet. And since I'm feeling awfully melancholic, here's some of his poems I adore.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

The Sea-Wife

There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
And a wealthy wife is she;
She breeds a breed o' rovin' men
And casts them over sea.

And some are drowned in deep water,
And some in sight o' shore,
And word goes back to the weary wife
And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate or gear,
Or hearth or garth or bield,
She willed her sons to the white harvest,
And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,
To ride the horse of tree,
And syne her sons come back again
Far-spent from out the sea.

The good wife's sons come home again
With little into their hands,
But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men
In the new and naked lands;

But the faith of men that ha' brothered men
By more than easy breath,
And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men
In the open books of death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,
But poor in the goods o' men;
So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth
They sell for their teeth again.

For whether they lose to the naked life
Or win to their hearts' desire,
They tell it all to the weary wife
That nods beside the fire.

Her hearth is wide to every wind
That makes the white ash spin;
And tide and tide and 'tween the tides
Her sons go out and in;

(Out with great mirth that do desire
Hazard of trackless ways,
In with content to wait their watch
And warm before the blaze);

And some return by failing light,
And some in waking dream,
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
That ride the rough roof-beam.

Home, they come home from all the ports,
The living and the dead;
The good wife's sons come home again
For her blessing on their head!

A Death-Bed

"This is the State above the Law.
The State exists for the State alone."
[This is a gland at the back of the jaw,
And an answering lump by the collar-bone.],

Some die shouting in gas or fire;
Some die silent, by shell and shot.
Some die desperate, caught on the wire;
Some die suddenly. This will not.

"Regis suprema voluntas Lex"
[It will follow the regular course of--throats.]
Some die pinned by the broken decks,
Some die sobbing between the boats.

Some die eloquent, pressed to death
By the sliding trench, as their friends can hear.
Some die wholly in half a breath.
Some--give trouble for half a year.

"There is neither Evil nor Good in life
Except as the needs of the State ordain."
[Since it is rather too late for the knife,
All we can do is to mask the pain.]

Some die saintly in faith and hope--
One died thus in a prison-yard--
Some die broken by rape or the rope;
Some die easily. This dies hard.

"I will dash to pieces who bar my way.
Woe to the traitor! Woe to the weak!"
[Let him write what he wishes to say.
It tires him out if he tries to speak.]

Some die quietly. Some abound
In loud self-pity. Others spread
Bad morale through the cots around...
This is a type that is better dead.

"The war was forced on me by my foes.
All that I sought was the right to live."
[Don't be afraid of a triple dose;
The pain will neutralize all we give.

Here are the needles. See that he dies
While the effects of the drug endure....
What is the question he asks with his eyes?--
Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure.]
2 Pleonasms or You Can't Have Any Pudding!