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Deep Stuff

This might seem like a random page but since you opened it, you should stay on it. Here's some poems and videos I found
on the Internet. I hope they hit you deep.

Come Up From the Fields Father   
by Walt Whitman  

 Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete, 
And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy
   dear son.

Lo, 'tis autumn, 
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the
   moderate wind,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the 
   trellis'd vines,
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately 

Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, 
   and with wondrous clouds,
Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm 
   prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well,
But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's 
And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps 
She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.

Open the envelope quickly,
O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd,
O a strange hand writes for our dear son, 0 stricken 
   mother's soul!
All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the
   main words only,
Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry
   skirmish, taken to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah now the single figure to me,
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and 
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, 
By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks 
   through her sobs,
The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd,)
See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.
Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to 
   be better, that brave and simple soul,)
While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, 
The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better, 
She with thin form presently drest in black, 
By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping,
   often waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep 
O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape 
   and withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

I can relate to that poem because my uncle was shot in Iraq 2 years ago.

Bond and Free   
by Robert Frost  

Love has earth to which she clings  
With hills and circling arms about—  
Wall within wall to shut fear out.  
But Thought has need of no such things,  
For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.
On snow and sand and turf, I see  
Where Love has left a printed trace  
With straining in the world’s embrace.  
And such is Love and glad to be.  
But Thought has shaken his ankles free.
Thought cleaves the interstellar gloom  
And sits in Sirius’ disc all night,  
Till day makes him retrace his flight,  
With smell of burning on every plume,  
Back past the sun to an earthly room.
His gains in heaven are what they are.  
Yet some say Love by being thrall  
And simply staying possesses all  
In several beauty that Thought fares far  
To find fused in another star. 

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain  
by Emily Dickinson  

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –  

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –  
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My Mind was going numb –  

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here – 

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –  
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then – 

Because I could not stop for Death (712)   
by Emily Dickinson  

Because I could not stop for Death – 
He kindly stopped for me –  
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –  
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –  
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –  
We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed us – 
The Dews drew quivering and chill – 
For only Gossamer, my Gown – 
My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground – 
The Roof was scarcely visible – 
The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads 
Were toward Eternity – 
A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London   
by Dylan Thomas  


Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking 
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further 
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
Link to this page: copy-paste
  kro3291 — Page created: 16 March 2007  |  Last modified: 30 March 2007
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Faith says :   22 March 2007   294267  
the last poem reminded me of Silent Hill, i liked it

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