Ernya.com

Dance

Death is nice when love is a knife.
I've danced with Death, we've danced a long while,
Although It seems as though, that I grow old.
And I cannot dance forever more.

But I fear if I stop so will my heart.
So I dance and dance and dance away the night,
With Death as my partner at the ball this eve.
I will dance and dance until I can barley breathe.
Foolishly hoping, that Death will leave.
And I cannot dance forever more.

So maybe someday with lungs full of air,
I will not beware what comes round the corner.
Wishing, hoping that death will leave me.
To be at peace with me, While I rot away.
And I cannot dance forever more.

Yours Truly,

Savagery and Eloquence wrote:D.A. Powell. I'd post a favourite, but there's too many to choose from. But defintiely, the man is a brilliant poet.

Yea, I love him too. ^.^

Eloquentx wrote:The Tyger by William Blake is my favorite.
It contemplates on the true nature of god, is he fierce or is he forgiving?

Oh my gosh, I love that Poem.

Tiger,Tiger
Burning Bright, In the forest of the night
Oh what fearful symmetry!

Foenix Fyre wrote:E.E. Cummings is my absolute favorite. He's a nut job XD but his work is still so easy to relate to.

Damn, I thought was just the little dork who my mom called "dark and depressing" because I was listening to "The Door" by Margret Atwood.
I'm glad I'm not alone in this fight against the majority of stupidity in the world!
This is My Personal Favorite:
"At Last no one decided
And no one knocked
And no one jumped
And no one opened
And there stood no one
And no one said: Welcome
And no one answered: At Last"

The Passing Strange by John Masefield

• Show Spoiler

• Out of the earth to rest or range
  Perpetual in perpetual change,
  The unknown passing through the strange.
  
  Water and saltness held together
  To tread the dust and stand the weather,
  And plough the field and stretch the tether,
  
  To pass the wine-cup and be witty,
  Water the sands and build the city,
  Slaughter like devils and have pity,
  
  Be red with rage and pale with lust,
  Make beauty come, make peace, make trust,
  Water and saltness mixed with dust;
  
  Drive over earth, swim under sea,
  Fly in the eagles secrecy,
  Guess where the hidden comets be;
  
  Know all the deathy seeds that still
  Queen Helens beauty, Caesars will,
  And slay them even as they kill;
  
  Fashion an altar for a rood,
  Defile a continent with blood,
  And watch a brother starve for food:
  
  Love like a madman, shaking, blind,
  Till self is burnt into a kind
  Possession of another mind;
  
  Brood upon beauty, till the grace
  Of beauty with the holy face
  Brings peace into the bitter place;
  
  Prove in the lifeless granites, scan
  The stars for hope, for guide, for plan;
  Live as a woman or a man;
  
  Fasten to lover or to friend,
  Until the heart break at the end:
  The break of death that cannot mend;
  
  Then to lie useless, helpless, still,
  Down in the earth, in dark, to fill
  The roots of grass or daffodil.
  
  Down in the earth, in dark, alone,
  A mockery of the ghost in bone,
  The strangeness, passing the unknown.
  
  Time will go by, that outlasts clocks,
  Dawn in the thorps will rouse the cocks,
  Sunset be glory on the rocks:
  
  But it, the thing, will never heed
  Even the rootling from the seed
  Thrusting to suck it for its need.
  
  Since moons decay and suns decline,
  How else should end this life of mine?
  Water and saltness are not wine.
  
  But in the darkest hour of night,
  When even the foxes peer for sight,
  The byre-cock crows; he feels the light.
  
  So, in this water mixed with dust,
  The byre-cock spirit crows from trust
  That death will change because it must;
  
  For all things change, the darkness changes,
  The wandering spirits change their ranges,
  The corn is gathered to the granges.
  
  The corn is sown again, it grows;
  The stars burn out, the darkness goes;
  The rhythms change, they do not close.
  
  They change, and we, who pass like foam,
  Like dust blown through the streets of Rome,
  Change ever, too; we have no home,
  
  Only a beauty, only a power,
  Sad in the fruit, bright in the flower,
  Endlessly erring for its hour,
  
  But gathering, as we stray, a sense
  Of Life, so lovely and intense,
  It lingers when we wander hence,
  
  That those who follow feel behind
  Their backs, when all before is blind,
  Our joy, a rampart to the mind.

My all-time favorite

Tanuki wrote:The Passing Strange by John Masefield

• Show Spoiler

• Out of the earth to rest or range
  Perpetual in perpetual change,
  The unknown passing through the strange.
  
  Water and saltness held together
  To tread the dust and stand the weather,
  And plough the field and stretch the tether,
  
  To pass the wine-cup and be witty,
  Water the sands and build the city,
  Slaughter like devils and have pity,
  
  Be red with rage and pale with lust,
  Make beauty come, make peace, make trust,
  Water and saltness mixed with dust;
  
  Drive over earth, swim under sea,
  Fly in the eagles secrecy,
  Guess where the hidden comets be;
  
  Know all the deathy seeds that still
  Queen Helens beauty, Caesars will,
  And slay them even as they kill;
  
  Fashion an altar for a rood,
  Defile a continent with blood,
  And watch a brother starve for food:
  
  Love like a madman, shaking, blind,
  Till self is burnt into a kind
  Possession of another mind;
  
  Brood upon beauty, till the grace
  Of beauty with the holy face
  Brings peace into the bitter place;
  
  Prove in the lifeless granites, scan
  The stars for hope, for guide, for plan;
  Live as a woman or a man;
  
  Fasten to lover or to friend,
  Until the heart break at the end:
  The break of death that cannot mend;
  
  Then to lie useless, helpless, still,
  Down in the earth, in dark, to fill
  The roots of grass or daffodil.
  
  Down in the earth, in dark, alone,
  A mockery of the ghost in bone,
  The strangeness, passing the unknown.
  
  Time will go by, that outlasts clocks,
  Dawn in the thorps will rouse the cocks,
  Sunset be glory on the rocks:
  
  But it, the thing, will never heed
  Even the rootling from the seed
  Thrusting to suck it for its need.
  
  Since moons decay and suns decline,
  How else should end this life of mine?
  Water and saltness are not wine.
  
  But in the darkest hour of night,
  When even the foxes peer for sight,
  The byre-cock crows; he feels the light.
  
  So, in this water mixed with dust,
  The byre-cock spirit crows from trust
  That death will change because it must;
  
  For all things change, the darkness changes,
  The wandering spirits change their ranges,
  The corn is gathered to the granges.
  
  The corn is sown again, it grows;
  The stars burn out, the darkness goes;
  The rhythms change, they do not close.
  
  They change, and we, who pass like foam,
  Like dust blown through the streets of Rome,
  Change ever, too; we have no home,
  
  Only a beauty, only a power,
  Sad in the fruit, bright in the flower,
  Endlessly erring for its hour,
  
  But gathering, as we stray, a sense
  Of Life, so lovely and intense,
  It lingers when we wander hence,
  
  That those who follow feel behind
  Their backs, when all before is blind,
  Our joy, a rampart to the mind.

My all-time favorite

That ones pretty cool, I read a lot of light stuff. My Second Favorite Poet now is Gary Soto, especially his book partly cloudy.
Mirror by Gary Soto

• Show Spoiler

• 
  I walk to my bedroom mirror
  And find you there, a reflection
  Some assembled light. I run my hands
  though my hair, and smile
  Then stop smile. Your miles away,
  On Vacation at a lake that eats at the shore.
  But let me believe, let me believe
  This afternoon hour
  You're pulling the hair behind you ear
  And stepping knee-deep in the lake
  And you baby brother, naked as cupid,
  Is shoving mud into a pail
  I see you skip a stone over the water,
  See you march into the lake, chills on your arms.
  You call me cute, but how long will you be mine?
  My breath fogs the glass.
  When I wipe it, you gone.

My life is black and white, But the poetry I right is gray.
Here, Haven't given it a name yet, There's more, But I'll post that later.

• Show Spoiler

• 
  I am a penny tossed
  in the wishing well of dreams.
  And you are a nickel,
  flying right beside me.
  
  I am a pebble, on the ground
  Beneath someone's foot.
  And you are the rock,
  Who prods the foot that sits on me.
  
  I am a mouse, caught between paws
  On a linoleum floor.
  And you are the cat,
  Who freed me.
  

I really like, thought of it on my way home.

Edgar Allan Poe's the man O;
My favourite has always been his The Raven.
I like how ominous it is.