[A.Buttle]

Damn, I had to put it in a block quote to preserve the formatting. UBB sucks.

code:

---

          S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse


          a persona che mai tornasse al mondo,


          questa fiamma staria senza pi� scosse.


          Ma perchi�che giammai di questo fondo


          non torn� vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,


          senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.





   Let us go the, you and I,


When the evening is spread out against the sky


Like a patient etherised upon a table;


Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,


The muttering retreats


Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels


And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells :


Streets that follow like a tedious argument


Of insidious intent


To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .


Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"


Let us go and make our visit.





   In the room the women come and go


Talking of Michelangelo.





   The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,


The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,


Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,


Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,


Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,


Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,


And seeing that it was a soft October night,


Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.





   And indeed the will be time


For the yellow smoke that slides along the street


Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;


There will be time, there will be time


To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;


There will be a time to murder and create,


And time for all the works and days of hands


That lift and drop a question on your plate;


Time for you and time for me,


And time yet  for a hundred indecisions,


And for a hundred visions and revisions,


Before the taking of a toast and tea.





   In the room the women come and go


Talking of Michelangelo.





   And indeed there will be time


To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"


Time to turn back and descend the stair,


With a bald spot in the middle of my hair �


(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")


My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,


My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin �


(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")


Do I dare


Disturb the universe?


In a minutes there is time


For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.





   For I have known them all already, known them all �


Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,


I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;


I know the voices with a dying fall


beneath the music from a farther room.


   So how should I presume?





   And I have known the eyes already, known them all �


The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,


And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,


When I am pinned and, wriggling on the wall,


Then how should I begin


To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?


   And how should I presume?





   And I have known the arms already, known them all �


Arms that are braceleted and white and bare


(But in the lamplight, drowned with light brown hair!)


Is it perfume from a dress


That makes me so digress?


Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.


   And how should I presume?


   And how should I begin?





                                           �  �  �  �  �





   Shall I say, I have gone at dusk though narrow streets


And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes


Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .





   I should have been a pair of ragged claws


Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.





                                           �  �  �  �  �





   And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!


Smoothed by long fingers,


Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,


Stretched out on the floor, here beside you and me.


Should I, after tea cakes and ices,


Have the strength to force the movement to its crisis?


But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,


Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald)


   brought in upon a platter,


I am no prophet � and here's no great matter;


I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,


And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,


And in short, I was afraid.





   And it would have been worth it, after all,


After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,


Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,


Would it have been worth while,


To have bitten off the matter with a smile,


To have squeezed the universe into a ball


To roll it towards some overwhelming question,


To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,


Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" �


If one, settling a pillow by her head,


   Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.


   That is not it, at all."





   And would it have been worth while, after all,


Would it have been worth while,


After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,


After the novels, and teacups, after the skirts that trail along


   the floor �


And this, and so much more? �


It is impossible to say just what I mean!


But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen :


Would it have been worth while


If one, settling a pillow or throwing of a shawl,


And turning toward the window, should say :


 "That is not it at all,


   That is not what I meant, at all."





                                           �  �  �  �  �





   No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;


Am an attendant lod, one that will do


To swell a progress, start a scene or two,


Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,


Deferential, glad to be of use,


Politic, cautious, and meticulous;


Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;


At times, indeed, almost ridiculous �


Almost, at times, the Fool.





   I grow old . . . I grow old . . .


I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.





   Shall I wear my hair behind?  Do I dare to eat a peach?


I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.


I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.





I do not think they will sing to me.





I have seen them riding seaward on the waves


Combing the white hair of the waves blown back


When the wind blows the water white and black.





We have lingered in the chambers of the sea


By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown


Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

---

[ May 06, 2001: Message edited by: A.Buttle ]

[A.Buttle]

Oh yeah,

Let me apologize right now for being a huge poetry dork. I think this is the fourth or fifth time I've posted poetry in Random Musings recently.

Suck it up. Get cultured.

[MrPumpernickel]

Poetry is a really nice artform (IMO), too bad I kinda suck at it ;)

This one is one of my favourites, dunno who wrote it because I found it a LOOOONG time ago on the net:

If I were a butterfly, would you set me free?
If I sold my soul, would you buy if back for me?
If I had terrors, would you hold me tight?
If I had wrongs, would you make them right?
If I build a fire, would you guard the flames?
If I said I love you, would you do the same?


(and I have no idea who wrote the poem you posted either...sorry)