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Thread: Poetry books you love

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    rio's Avatar
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    Poetry books you love

    I am just reading Rupi Kaur's newest, "home body" and I need to talk about it! She is such a talent and the little illustrations bring such life to them. The progression of her books are wonderful too. I think "milk and honey" chapters resonated with me most (hurting, loving, breaking, healing) but the opening of "home body" ("i am in the darkest room of my life") is so powerful.

    Another wonderful collection in a similar style to Rupi's is "whisky words & a shovel I" by r.h. Sin.

    "Swimming Lessons" by Lili Reinhart is high on my list to read too, I had a quick flick through in the bookstore and there were some really beautiful sentences in there.

    Lastly, I have a book of E.E Cummings poetry which I believe there are a few editions of and may be country dependent, but his work is brilliant too. He is said to have written almost 3,000 poems! I recommend looking up his "let it go" and "i carry your heart" poems. Fun fact, I have a tattoo of the final line of "let it go" ("let all go dear so comes love").

    Please share your favourite poets and their books!

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    There's a portuguese poet named Florbela Espanca.
    Her poetry is melancholic and beautiful, and there's one specific that touches me a lot. It was published in a book named Livro de Mágoas (meaning: Book of sorrow):

    Passo pálida e triste. Oiço dizer:
    “Que branca que ela é! Parece morta!”
    e eu que vou sonhando, vaga, absorta,
    não tenho um gesto, ou um olhar sequer ...

    Que diga o mundo e a gente o que quiser!
    – O que é que isso me faz? O que me importa? ...
    O frio que trago dentro gela e corta
    Tudo que é sonho e graça na mulher!

    O que é que me importa?! Essa tristeza
    É menos dor intensa que frieza,
    É um tédio profundo de viver!

    E é tudo sempre o mesmo, eternamente ...
    O mesmo lago plácido, dormente ...
    E os dias, sempre os mesmos, a correr ...


    The translation (it lost the rhymes but it kept the essence):


    I walk pale and sad. I hear:
    "How white she is! She looks dead!"
    And I am dreaming, vague, absorbed,
    I don't have a gesture, or even a look ...

    Let the world and the people say what they want!
    -What does that do to me? ... what do I care? ...
    The cold that I bring inside freezes and cuts
    Everything that is dream and grace in a woman!

    What does it matter to me?! This sadness
    It’s a less intense pain than coldness,
    It is a profound tedium to live!

    And it's all the same, forever ...
    The same placid lake, dormant...
    And the days, always the same, are always running ...
    Last edited by Menine; 1 Week Ago at 03:31 PM.

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    rio (3 Days Ago)

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    I don't really read poetry but I read this when I was 14 and it's been my favorite poem ever since. It's by Longfellow

    The Reaper and the Flowers

    There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
    And, with his sickle keen,
    He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between.

    "Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
    "Have naught but the bearded grain?
    Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
    I will give them all back again."

    He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
    He kissed their drooping leaves;
    It was for the Lord of Paradise
    He bound them in his sheaves.

    "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
    The Reaper said, and smiled;
    "Dear tokens of the earth are they,
    Where He was once a child.

    "They shall all bloom in fields of light,
    Transplanted by my care,
    And saints, upon their garments white,
    These sacred blossoms wear."

    And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
    The flowers she most did love;
    She knew she should find them all again
    In the fields of light above.

    Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
    The Reaper came that day;
    'T was an angel visited the green earth,
    And took the flowers away.

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