Lizzie Borden Society Forum

I am a great lover of poetry, and I could tell from reading some of the posts on the forum that alot of you like poetry also.So I thought I would share two of my shorters ones with you all. They aren't anything related to Lizzie, I havent gotten the courage to try one about her yet. I was afraid I would not do her justice


Christmas Eve
----------------------
Deck the town with lights a-twinkling,
With wreaths and holly and sleigh bells tinkling,
Shops a - light with Christmas cheer,
The day of joy is almost here!
Snowflakes dance in the crisp winter air,
Last minute presents are wrapped with care,
Carolers fill the night with song,
This Eve we wait for all year long.


Titanic
---------------------
Most set sail with hope in their hearts,
They were sailing toward their dreams,
But on a cold and starry April night,
The air was filled with screams,
God saw fit to bring them home,
And the ship was torn asunder,
All those saved from the watery grave,
Were left in fear and wonder.

by Melissa Allen

They are both really good- the first one would make a wonderful Christmas card verse. Next year, you should use it as your card.

Do you have more?

I've been writing poetry since I was about 15 and I've kept the biggest part of them in a scrap book. So I have quite a few more. I would like to know if anyone else has some they would like to share as well?

Yes those were very good. They are simple and to the point and that makes them universal.
Maybe you might design a personal web-site thru your server and add your stuff there and supply a link.
If you feel like it.
Haulover/Eugene has one. It's very interesting, with drawings and photos too.
I bet you could have fun doing that if you had time?

I write poetry also- or had written I should say.
I have a personal site but I don't share it except with a couple of people, family- I'm just too private.

If one went to "Memberlist" on the left and clicked there, you can see the names. As you scroll down, you see some have web addresses (www).
Here is Eugene's

profile.php?mode=viewprofile&u=26

There are others there too.
Very interesting.

I had wanted to post a couple more after weber asked if I had any, but it slipped my mind until I was looking through my scrapbooks earlier. Kat suggested I make a site, which would be kind of fun, but I really don't know much about making one.These are some of my favorites, I posted them on poetry.com along with some others, and they are published by the International Library of Poetry through that site, which I thought was really great.I was so excited.I would say you could read my poems there, but they are not all listed together.I had to use different home addresses, due to moving, so it listed them in different groups like they were from different people. So no one would know which ones were mine unless I told them, you would not believe how many other Melissa Allen's are listed on that site

My Friend
I looked her over carefully,
As we sat there face to face,
There was a shadow of sadness in her eyes,
Which made her smile seem out of place.
A single tear slid down her cheek ,
I reached to brush it away,
We regarded each other in silence,
As I fumbled for something to say.
Life had not been kind to her,
She carried a lot of pain inside,
She tried to push the world away,
But from me she could not hide.
I promised I'd take care of her,
I've kept my promise as time has passed,
Finally I've made friends with her,
That girl inside the glass.


Release
Theres a beautiful full moon in the sky,
A million stars are shining bright,
The wind blows gently though my hair,
The smell of jasmin fills the night.
Its quiet here among the trees,
A place of familiar silent peace,
This will someday be my home,
A place where I can find release.

Living In Today
Yesterday I cried for you,
Tears of pain and regret,
Today I will only smile for you,
Because my mind is set.
You are not worthy of my pain,
With your weakness and your lies,
Not worthy of my tears,
Not worthy in my eyes.
Why should I let you hurt me?
Let you break my heart once more?
Let you plunge me into the darkness,
Of the hell that I endure?
Today I will only smile for you,
You will never again see me cry,
Never again see my weakness,
I think I would rather die.

I ran across this poem today and it made me think of Lizzie. Its not quite Lizzie's story, but, its about a woman that sold her soul all the same.


Why Are You Weeping, Sister?

Why are you weeping, Sister?
Why are you sitting alone?

I'm bent and gray
And I've lost the way!
All my tomorrows were yesterday!
I traded them off for a wanton's pay.
I bartered my graces for silks and laces
My heart I sold for a pot of gold--
Now I'm old.

Why did you do it, Sister,
Why did you sell your soul?

I was foolish and fair and my form was rare!
I longed for life's baubles and did not care!
When we know not the price to be paid, we dare.
I listened when Vanity lied to me
And I ate the fruit of the Bitter Tree--
Now I'm old.

Why are you lonely, Sister?
Where have your friends all gone?

Friends I have none, for I went the road
Where women must harvest what men have sowed
And they never come back when the field is mowed.
They gave the lee of the cup to me
But I was blind and would not see--
Now I'm old.

Where are your lovers, Sister,
Where are your lovers now?

My lovers were many but all have run
I betrayed and deceived them every one
And they lived to learn what I had done.
A poisoned draught from my lips they quaffed
And I who knew it was poisoned, laughed--
Now I'm old.

Will they not help you, Sister,
In the name of your common sin?

There is no debt, for my lovers bought.
They paid my price for the things I brought.
I made the terms so they owe me naught.
I have no hold for ‘t was I who sold.
One offered his heart, but mine was cold--
Now I'm old.

Where is that lover, Sister?
He will come when he knows your need.

I broke his hope and I stained his pride.
I dragged him down in the undertide.
Alone and forsaken by me he died.
The blood that he shed is on my head
For all the while I knew that he bled--
Now I'm old.

Is there no mercy, Sister,
For the wanton whose course is spent?

When a woman is lovely the world will fawn.
But now when her beauty and grace are gone,
When her face is seamed and her limbs are drawn.
I've had my day and I've had my play.
In my winter of loneliness I must pay--
Now I'm old.

What of the morrow, Sister?
How shall the morrow be?

I must feed to the end upon remorse.
I must falter alone in my self-made course.
I must stagger alone with my self-made cross.
For I bartered my graces for silks and laces
My heart I sold for a pot of gold--
Now I'm old.

By Herbert Kaufman in Fighting the Traffic in Young Girls, or, War on the White Slave Trade, 1911

That was a really lovely poem Susan. Thank you for sharing it.

I like that too, Susan. I think it definitely echoes Lizzie's plight.

I'm glad you both liked it, it just spoke to me when I read it. I could picture Lizzie sitting in Maplecroft, alone, and pondering the course her life took after the murders and the choices she had made along the way, right or wrong. It just really got under my skin.

MY HEART AND I

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,
As if such colors could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune's end,
We loved too true to keep a friend;
At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang gray and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet:
What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said:
I, smiling at him, shook my head.
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:
Disdain them, break them, throw them by!
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used, - well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

Wow..we have some amazingly talented folks in our little forum ! Thanks for sharing !


Tracy...

Thanks "Herbert Kaufman" and "Elizabeth Barrett Browning ?" Yes, I guess so

Thanks "Herbert Kaufman" and "Elizabeth Barrett Browning ?" Yes, I guess so

My apologies for my error. I was not referring to Kaufman or Browning, but to the poetry Melissa posted. I should have been more clear as to which of the authors I was commenting on. Sorry for the confusion.


Tracy...

Oh from January? I see. I was confused.
Allen has started her own site with poetry and music added. It's very nice.

I'm doing poetry in English 2 and I've been writing it for quite a few years it's just something I inherited from my mother

Sylvia Plath

Metaphors

I'm a riddle of nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils,
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers,
This loaf's big with it's yeasty rising,
Money's new minted in this fat purse,
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

I know you guys can guess what she refers to in this little ditty.

The Beckoning

Muffled whispers tunnel upwards
Penetrate sand and clay
Break the surface... there take respite
Amid etched stone slabs of gray

Stilled, they wait, in shadowed clusters
'Neath the pale moon's guiding light
Soon, breezes blow and scatter whispers...
Windswept whispers, through the night

Gliding down dim streets and alleys
Through leaves on trees they creep
Seeking out the cracks in doorways
Through windowsills they seep

Calling out to those who loved them...
Those souls left behind
Those whose hearts have hardened over
Devoid of ties that bind

Yes, those who've lost the joy of laughter
Who scoff at life and love
Who live each day in abject sadness
And shun their god, above

To these lost souls the whispers beckon,
"I long no more to roam...
I've tracked each teardrop, shared your anguish...
Now I've come to take you home

Very lovely Manderlay: Did you write it?



Poetry can be very controversial in it's construction and the words choosen to convey a point of view. Everyone has an opionion, whether you are the author or reader, many times not very kind. If I am not mistaken I think it was Dylan Thomas who said that writing poetry is like dropping your pants for the public. Confidence must be utmost if one is brave enough to put it out there, especially over the public airways such as the Net, where appreciation may not always be shared.

However you look at it, poetry is very subjective. Like art, be it Impressionism, cubism or pop art. Poetry is the same, it may be conceptual, flowery, enigmatic or very straight forward. Whether idosyncratic or repulsive poetry and so called lovers of poetry love what they love, and in doing so, does not give them credentials or make one poem lovelier or more significant than another.

Though very confident about the poetry I write, I find myself thin skin when displaying it. Some write for the masses, others, like myself, write for other reasons. But like the proverbial cave man who is fasinated by the flame and insists on testing it with his finger, at times, I will post. But, I find everytime I do display my poetry it stings. Thus, I rarely post it in public, though I am at work on a poetry project I hope to publish one day.

Like beauty poetry is in the eye of the beholder. As a true lover of poetry my worst critisizm is usually, "Hmmmm?" Everyone has something to say, and its all of value. When I rejected someone's writing I feel it deminishes me as a person.

Thank you very much; and yes, I did write that. I suffered the loss of my boyfriend when I was quite young, and the poem was born out of that experience. I was thinking of all the people whose lives have been irrevocably changed through the death of a loved one, and who cannot seem to rise above that grief. I didn't know if my poem was a bit too cryptic. The "etched stones slabs of gray" are headstones, and the "whispers" are that of the deceased loved ones who are searching for those grieving.

Your post was so beautifully expressed, and so very true.

Yes, Manderlay

Yes, the best poetry ever written is an extration of personal loss. Your poem was beautiful and reminiscent of Longfellow or Browning, done in old style rarely used today, so the reason I needed ask whether you wrote it. Not cryptic but even if it was the meaning could easily be transalated to mean something of value in the readers mind, that is to say, something the reader could relate to or make his own.

And, thanks for the kind words.

The Height of the Ridiculous


I WROTE some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb.

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added, (as a trifling jest,)
"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.

......Oliver Wendell Holmes

From your heart you say you love me
with words so sweet and kind
but in your eyes I see
the happiness that will never be
____

I wrote that one this morning.

-1bigsteve (o:

touché Steve, kudos are in order for that one.......I really like it.

You know, much of poetry, especially very short poems, are signposts-in-time displaying how we feel at that moment or period in our lives. Even a few short lines can tell a lot about a person's state of mind, or better yet, heart; what is happening in our life or how strongly we feel about a certain matter or topic cannot help but bleed through.

I seem to see a little of that in your short verse? No?

Thank you, Michael. I think you are right when you say our words come from within ourselves. I heard someone on the radio say the words "from your heart" and so I just created the rest of the line. I remember the "Don Juans" that one of my relatives had trouble with so her experiences gave me the idea for the rest of it.

One of my hobbies is changing the lyrics in popular songs. There are some beautiful songs that I really love but to my ear some of them seem to stumble over themselves because of a missing lyric(s) or they end too abruptly or reach the peak too soon. So I have a lot of fun tinkering with them. I would like to learn how to read and write music so I could change the notes too. I'm tempted to send a few to Judy Collins and see what she says. She writes music.

I have yet to figure out how to lengthen Henry Mancini's "The Sweetheart Tree." I fell in love with that song when I saw "The Great Race" in '65. It's a beautiful waltz but it's much too short. I love his stuff!

-1bigsteve (o: