Favorite Poems/Classic Stories

I Want You- Arthur L. Gillom

I want you when the shades of eve are falling
And purple shadows drift across the land,
When sleepy birds to loving mates are calling -
I want the soothing softness of your hand.

I want you when the stars shine up above me,
And Heanven's flooded with the bright moonlight
I want you with your arms and lips to love me
Throughout the wonder watches of the night.

I want you when in dreams I still remember
The ling'ring of your kiss - for old times sake -
With all your gentle ways, so sweetly tender,
I want you in the morning when I wake.

I want you when the day is at its noontime,
Sun steeped and quiet, or drenched with sheets of rain
I want you when the roses bloom in June-time;
I want you when the violets come again.

I want you when my soul is thrilled with passion;
I want you when I'm weary and depressed;
I want you when in lazy, slumbrous fashion
My senses need the haven of your breast.

I want you when through field and wood I'm roaming;
I want you when I 'm standing on the shore;
I want you when the summer birds are homing -
And when they've flown - I want you more and more.

I want you, dear through every changing season;
I want you with a tear or with a smile;
I want you more than any rhyme or reason -
I want you want you want you all the while.

[quote="Lamia":bpfzjqd9][color=#FF0080:bpfzjqd9]I Want You- Arthur L. Gillom

I want you when the shades of eve are falling
And purple shadows drift across the land,
When sleepy birds to loving mates are calling -
I want the soothing softness of your hand.

I want you when the stars shine up above me,
And Heanven's flooded with the bright moonlight
I want you with your arms and lips to love me
Throughout the wonder watches of the night.

I want you when in dreams I still remember
The ling'ring of your kiss - for old times sake -
With all your gentle ways, so sweetly tender,
I want you in the morning when I wake.

I want you when the day is at its noontime,
Sun steeped and quiet, or drenched with sheets of rain
I want you when the roses bloom in June-time;
I want you when the violets come again.

I want you when my soul is thrilled with passion;
I want you when I'm weary and depressed;
I want you when in lazy, slumbrous fashion
My senses need the haven of your breast.

I want you when through field and wood I'm roaming;
I want you when I 'm standing on the shore;
I want you when the summer birds are homing -
And when they've flown - I want you more and more.

I want you, dear through every changing season;
I want you with a tear or with a smile;
I want you more than any rhyme or reason -
I want you want you want you all the while.
[/color:bpfzjqd9][/quote:bpfzjqd9]


I like that.

Leda and the Swan- William Butler Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

"A loveless world is a dead world and always there comes an hour when one is weary of prisons, and all one craves for is a warm face, the warmth and wonder of a loving heart." - Albert Camus

You lay there, vulnerable to my power.
Staring at me with pleading eyes.
Your gaze piercing through to my mind
your body exposed to my attentions.
I breathe deep, inhaling the heady scent of your need, equal parts lust and fear.

you are mine now, beloved
you cannot resist.

My body overshadows you
blocking all light.
I feel the warmth of your thighs,
your legs clinging in quiet desperatiom.
I stand poised atop you,
stalling slightly, savoring your lust.
Feel my power, my strength
as it finds you.
Your body resists a moment,
before hungrily giving way.
I feel you force yourself against me
I feel the warmth you keep within
My hips thrust forward,
a ragged gasp escapes your lips.

Your body writhes under mine,
as I approach ever closer unto you.
My arms are hooked behind your back,
pulling your body up to me,
not an inch between our searing flesh.

How does this feel to you?
Is it everything you wanted?

Feel my body as it connects to yours,
as I tangle my hands in your hair.
I jerk your head aside,
exposing the soft flesh of your throat.
You feel my teeth brushing your neck,
your shiver tells me all I need to hear.
I feel your nails digging into me,

Tear me, rip me,
draw forth my blood.
I feel the sudden warmth on my back,
that says you obeyed.

I lose myself in the ecstasy,
as your body writhes against mine.
Tear me harder my sweet,
bring the sweet catharsis of pain.
My hungered lips trail down your neck,
alighting upon the sanctum of your breast.
It is there I make my next feast,
and revel in your flesh.
It all becomes too great,
we sound out in exultation
two pieces of one being.
As we pant our pleasure,
I lay down next to you.
I love you, my sweet.
We press our bodies together, and drift into sleep.

Its 3 a.m. and still I live,
a wreath of smoke around my head,
and whiskey on my breath.
The bottle lies tipped over, it's contents long since drained,
dulling my senses,
yet sharpening my heart.
All I have to show this night, like so many others
is a drained bottle of whiskey
and an empty pack of cigarettes.
The whiskey doesn't save me,
the smokes only kill me.
Why is it that I cant resist them?
I spend this night like so many others
in the deep embrace of whiskey
my only true lover.
Bathed in the heat of smoke,
my one constant friend.
Its 3 a.m and still I live,
with a wreath of smoke around my head,
and whiskey on my breath.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of the easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.
The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.
Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.
The chance of battle changes -- so may all battle be;
I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me.
I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise,
More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes.
She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine.
Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse?
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress.
O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown,
You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown.

The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day,
They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way,
I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers,
As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.
How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave,
Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave.
Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie,
When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky.
The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, --
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.

Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich uncounted loans,
What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones?
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease,
Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas.
To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given,
The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven.
The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see,
To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me;
One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath:
You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.

[quote:ebgkw0no][i:ebgkw0no][b:ebgkw0no]And Caesar's spirit, raging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war,
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.[/b:ebgkw0no][/i:ebgkw0no][/quote:ebgkw0no]
[color=#FFFF80:ebgkw0no][size=85:ebgkw0no][i:ebgkw0no]Julius Caesar Act 3, scene 1, 270├óÔé¼ÔÇ£275[/i:ebgkw0no][/size:ebgkw0no][/color:ebgkw0no]



...because who doesn't love that line; "Cry 'Havoc' and let slip the dogs of war!"? Epic...

[Shaman Anaxilea]

Women├óÔé¼Ôäós Novels

By Margaret Atwood

Men├óÔé¼Ôäós novels are about men. Women├óÔé¼Ôäós novels are about men too but from a different point of view. You can have a men├óÔé¼Ôäós novel with no women in it except possibly the landlady or the horse, but you can├óÔé¼Ôäót have a women├óÔé¼Ôäós novel with no men in it. Sometimes men put women in men├óÔé¼Ôäós novels but they leave out some of the parts: the heads, for instance, or the hands. Women├óÔé¼Ôäós novels leave out parts of the men as well. Sometimes it├óÔé¼Ôäós the stretch between the belly button and the knees, sometimes it├óÔé¼Ôäós the sense of humor. It├óÔé¼Ôäós hard to have a sense of humor in a cloak, in a high wind, on a moor. Women do not usually write novels of the type favored by men but men are known to write novels of the type favored by women. Some people find this odd.

I like to read novels in which the heroine has a costume rustling discreetly over her breasts, or discreet breasts rustling under her costume; in any case there must be a costume, some breasts, some rustling, and, over all, discretion. Discretion over all, like a fog, a miasma through which the outlines of things appear only vaguely. A glimpse of pink through the gloom, the sound of breathing, satin slithering to the floor, revealing what? Never mind, I say. Never never mind.

Men favor heroes who are tough and hard: tough with men, hard with women. Sometimes the hero goes soft on a woman but this is always a mistake. Women do not favor heroines who are tough and hard. Instead they have to be tough and soft. This leads to linguistic difficulties. Last time we looked, monosyllables were male, still dominant but sinking fast, wrapped in the octopoid arms of labial polysyllables, whispering to them with arachnoid grace: darling, darling.

Men├óÔé¼Ôäós novels are about how to get power. Killing and so on, or winning and so on. So are women├óÔé¼Ôäós novels, though the method is different. In men├óÔé¼Ôäós novels, getting the woman or women goes along with getting the power. It├óÔé¼Ôäós a perk, not a means. In women├óÔé¼Ôäós novels you get the power by getting the man. The man is the power. But sex won├óÔé¼Ôäót do, he has to love you. What do you think all that kneeling├óÔé¼Ôäós about, down among the crinolines, on the Persian carpet? Or at least say it. When all else is lacking, verbalization can be enough. Love. There, you can stand up now, it didn├óÔé¼Ôäót kill you. Did it?

I no longer want to read about anything sad. Anything violent, anything disturbing, anything like that. No funerals at the end, though there can be some in the middle. If there must be deaths, let there be resurrections, or at least a Heaven so we know where we are. Depression and squalor are for those under twenty-five, they can take it, they even like it, they still have enough time left. But real life is bad for you, hold it in your hand long enough and you├óÔé¼Ôäóll get pimples and become feeble-minded. You├óÔé¼Ôäóll go blind.

I want happiness, guaranteed, joy all round, covers with nurses on them or brides, intelligent girls but not too intelligent, with regular teeth and pluck and both breasts the same size and no excess facial hair, someone you can depend on to know where the bandages are and to turn the hero, that potential rake and killer, into a well-groomed country gentleman with clean fingernails and the right vocabulary. Always, he has to say, Forever. I no longer want to read books that don├óÔé¼Ôäót end with the word forever. I want to be stroked between the eyes, one way only.

Some people think a woman├óÔé¼Ôäós novel is anything without politics in it. Some think it├óÔé¼Ôäós anything about relationships. Some think it├óÔé¼Ôäós anything with a lot of operations in it, medical ones I mean. Some think it├óÔé¼Ôäós anything that doesn├óÔé¼Ôäót give you a broad panoramic view of our exciting times. Me, well, I just want something you can leave on the coffee table and not be too worried if the kids get into it. You think that├óÔé¼Ôäós not a real consideration? You├óÔé¼Ôäóre wrong.

She had the startled eyes of a wild bird. This is the kind of sentence I go mad for. I would like to be able to write such sentences, without embarrassment. I would like to be able to read them without embarrassment. If I could only do these two simple things, I feel, I would be able to pass my allotted time on this earth like a pearl wrapped in velvet.

She had the startled eyes of a wild bird. Ah, but which one? A screech owl, perhaps, or a cuckoo? It does make a difference. We do not need more literalists of the imagination. They cannot read a body like a gazelle├óÔé¼Ôäós without thinking of intestinal parasites, zoos, and smells.

She had a feral gaze like that of an untamed animal, I read. Reluctantly I put down the book, thumb still inserted at the exciting moment. He├óÔé¼Ôäós about to crush her in his arms, pressing his hot, devouring, hard, demanding mouth to hers as her breasts squish out the top of her dress, but I can├óÔé¼Ôäót concentrate. Metaphor leads me by the nose, into the maze, and suddenly all Eden lies before me. Porcupines, weasels, warthogs, and skunks, their feral gazes malicious or bland or stolid or piggy and sly. Agony, to see the romantic frission quivering just out of reach, a dark-winged butterfly stuck to an overripe peach, and not be able to swallow, or wallow. Which one? I murmur to the unresponding air. Which one?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Survivor_Type

One of Kings best short stories

Best one is The Mist.

"Faith is a Fine Invention" - Emily D.ickinson.

"Faith" is a fine invention
When Gentlemen can see├óÔé¼ÔÇØ
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.

.
My Love ~ By William Reign
(Dedicated to all those jvs ladies whose beauty captured Reign's imagination and ignited his pulse)

Were I to live a thousand years and travel all the worlds,
And visit sites of beauty beyond the realm of words;

Were I to dive beneath the sea and marvel at its depths,
And uncover all its mysteries and travel all its breadth;

Were I to fly into the sky and travel throughout space,
And learn all of its secrets and revel in its grace;

Were I to find a lantern with a genie for a wish,
Who offered up the galaxy on a silver-plated dish;

I would trade away those years my dear, and trade away the sea;
I would trade away the sky my love, and my wish would be for thee.

"Two households, both alike in dignity,
in fair Verona, where we lay our scene.
From ancient grudge breaks to new mutiny,
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
whose misadventured, piteous overthrows,
do, with their death, bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
and the continuance of their parents rage,
which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which, if you, with patient ears attend,
what here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."

William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, act 1 sc 1, lines 1-14.

Spoilerific to the max (for reals, the whole plot is in there), but imagine it in yellow text and floating up through a star field, and bam; Shakespeare was using the same, classical chorus based dramatic technique as George Lucas drew on when he created the Star Wars opening crawl.

Pretty iconic piece of text, too.

P.s.; it's also a sonnet.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
William Butler Yeats

HAD I the heavens├óÔé¼Ôäó embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams

A Man Young And Old: VI. His Memories
W.B. Yeats

We should be hidden from their eyes,
Being but holy shows
And bodies broken like a thorn
Whereon the bleak north blows,
To think of buried Hector
And that none living knows.

The women take so little stock
In what I do or say
They'd sooner leave their cosseting
To hear a jackass bray;
My arms are like the twisted thorn
And yet there beauty lay;

The first of all the tribe lay there
And did such pleasure take -
She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck -
That she cried into this ear,
'Strike me if I shriek.'

[Shaman Anaxilea]

You Fit Into Me
Margaret Atwood


You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

[Whill Shaman Odin]

├óÔé¼┼ôLo, there do I see my father.
Lo, there do I see my mother,
and my sisters, and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people,
Back to the beginning!

Lo, they do call to me.
They bid me take my place among them,
In the halls of Valhalla!
Where the brave may live forever!├óÔé¼┬Ø

├óÔé¼ÔÇó The Viking Prayer

[quote:q8wya8oo][i:q8wya8oo][color=#BFBF00:q8wya8oo]Yar har, fiddle di dee,
Being a pirate[/color:q8wya8oo] [color=#80BF00:q8wya8oo]is all right with me,
Do what you want 'cause a pirate is [/color:q8wya8oo][color=#60BF00:q8wya8oo]free,
You are a pirate!
Yo[/color:q8wya8oo] [color=#40BF00:q8wya8oo]Ho, ahoy and avast,
Being a pirate is really[/color:q8wya8oo] [color=#20BF00:q8wya8oo]badass!
Hang the black flag at the e[/color:q8wya8oo][color=#00BF00:q8wya8oo]nd of the mast!
You are a pirate![/color:q8wya8oo]

[size=65:q8wya8oo][color=#FFBF00:q8wya8oo]You are a pirate! Ya Sithspit![/size:q8wya8oo][/color:q8wya8oo][/i:q8wya8oo][/quote:q8wya8oo]
Alestorm. "You are a Pirate!"
[url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86InpTyB3mw:q8wya8oo]Link.[/url:q8wya8oo]

Ode to Autumn
by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,├óÔé¼ÔÇØ
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.