Going away party! contest (Complete!)

Hello fellow cardsmiths, I thought since I was going away for awhile, it would be nice to see some of your favorite poems.

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour"

- William Blake by Alexander Gilchrist

Just post any number of your favorite poems in the comments for a chance to win a premium subscription for you and a friend.

Due date: 7PM on April 27th, 2018. (Canada Central Time)

Current Prizes:
A) One of the poems' uploaders will get the following...
- 1 month of premium subscription.
- 1 month of premium subscription to gift to a friend. (If no friend is chosen, I'll gift it to a participant of the thread.)

Reminder Rules:
1) Post some of your favorite poems.
2) Poems can be text or on cards.
3) No limit to amount of entries.

Subscriptions Notice: Subscriptions may be redeemed up until the end of April. Any undistributed subscriptions at that time will default to the respective winning user's account. This is to avoid having to delay gifting of prizes as I have to leave soon.


  • @Everyone @Manachrome
    I'll be bumping everyone who I see is looking for a subscription.
  • @modnation675 do you mean in the form of cards or just poems
  • @DoctorFro
    Either works. I just wanna see what people like! :)
  • Okay...

    In that case...
  • Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
    In the forests of the night;
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies.
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand, dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder, & what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? & what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain,
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp,
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

    When the stars threw down their spears
    And water'd heaven with their tears:
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger Tyger burning bright,
    In the forests of the night:
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
  • edited April 2018
    Irreplaceable By Lastjustice

    I look for you, but you're not there
    You said you loved me, doesn't seem you care
    Even now you've been gone for awhile
    Even so I think of you and try to smile
    I stay stong, I try not to give into sorrow
    I continue to hope I'll see you again tomorrow
    I don't want you to leave I want you to stay
    But you left, regardless of whatever I say
    I once felt important, that I mattered
    Now our friendship is broken and shattered
    I find myself standing alone in the summer rain
    it doesnt seem to help, or wash away the pain
    I wish for this nightmare come to soon an end
    as I deeply want back, my irreplaceable friend.

    Something I wrote when I had a close friend step out of my life years ago. Felt in line with the theme of the thread. I might have go back and try work it on to a card instead.
  • Wonderful. You're much better at poetry than us! XD
  • I had my heart broken out, so my feelings had go somewhere. I wrote a second piece later. I consider myself a decent but lazy writer as I have yet to finish my stories.

    If you only knew…

    If you only knew what your love means to me.
    How much my life is incomplete like a world with out a sea.
    I wish for your embrace more than anything I can receive
    No matter who you're with, its in our love I believe

    If you only knew the length I go for you
    I'd climb the highest mountain if that’s what I had to do.
    If you only had for me one moment, one precious night
    Id find a way to forever block the suns light.

    I wish somehow things were different that I was the one
    I wish you d see me for more for all the things I’ve done.
    So I want your happiness no matter where you may go
    But I fear it's my love you may never know.
  • My name is Cow
    and wen it's nite,
    or wen the moon
    is shyning brite,
    an all the men
    haf gon to bed,
    I stay up late.
    I lik the bread.

    Look it up, i couldn't stop laughing for five minutes.
  • Invictus
    Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeonings of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years
    Finds and shall find me unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate,
    I am the captain of my soul.

    -William Ernest Henley

    I spend way too much time thinking about all the troubles in the world, and reciting this poem is one of my favorite ways to remain optimistic
  • Bonus card for the poem!
  • edited April 2018
    On Peasantry

    It is among the animals and plants
    Upon the Earth, and dirt and pestilence;
    And pestilent doth make the men who on
    The land do longwise gashes meant to make.

    Behind the ox, ten grooves each Spring, for far-
    ther than the grooves an ox cannot his plough
    To goodly bring. And rather he, the far-
    mer, then play bones with Fate for fate of ox

    And for his fam'ly's weal doth make, he stops
    The ox, and pauses, in fair sunshine or foul rain,
    And turns the beast about and then they
    Do depart again.

    Ten times in one
    The grooves within his Mother Earth dost Ev'-
    ry peasant make; ten rows for planting, and
    Then do his fam'ly members tuck the seeds
    And under do they go.

    The seeds to sleep,
    And in so slumbering, push do they
    With fingers down, and touch the thing which gives
    Us gain within The hallowed Globe there what's
    beneath this place.

    And after three-score years,
    The man doth follow aft the oxen and
    Make grooves, and plant the seeds, and then repeat
    It, does he pass to sweet relief, and ne'er
    Has he re-act the dreary thing. Adieu!

    I wrote one about being a knight and another about being a clergyman, but this one is my favorite
  • Does it have to be our own poetry?
  • The Moon and the Yew Tree

    This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
    The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
    The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
    Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
    Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
    Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
    I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

    The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
    White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
    It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
    With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
    Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
    Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
    At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

    The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
    The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
    The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
    Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
    How I would like to believe in tenderness -
    The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
    Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

    I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
    Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
    Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
    Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
    Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
    The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
    And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

    - Sylvia Plath

    Take care guys hope you come back soon!
  • edited April 2018
    This one is so very sad, but I love it 'cause everybody can relate without spending hours of working with the text:

    Funeral Blues

    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
    Silence the pianos and with muffled drums
    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
    Scribbling in the sky the message 'He is dead',
    Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves
    Let the policemen wear black cotton gloves.

    He was my North, my South, my East and West,
    My working week and my sunday rest,
    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
    I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

    The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
    For nothing now can ever come to any good.

    W. A. Auden

    Auden wrote this one, after his boyfriend died. I first heard it in the film 'four weddings and a funeral' to be true, and I liked it like everyone else did. But I started to read other stuff, Auden wrote, poems and essays. So being a sheep among sheeps made me find some really interesting literature and that's ok I guess.
  • edited April 2018
    The Mind Of Madness. (An Ode To Lord Sheogorath.)

    Always remember;
    Those who dwell
    In stone houses
    Should not throw glass.
    It'll cut your feet,
    You'll bleed on the cheese.
    But again, Blood Cheese
    Is a delicacy among us normal ones.


    Now I have somethin'
    A little somethin'
    A cynic feelin'
    And quite revealin'
    About me stance,
    And about me dance,
    And skippin' the days' rope,
    With the entrails of a dope,
    Perhaps not that last,
    That's far too passed,
    Casual conversin'
    And time's birds be chirppin'
    So you'll sit and wonder,
    Of things and blunder.


    Ya think you're free but lemme
    Speak of that bein' ill advised;
    Ya sit there shocked
    At a world provoked,
    Well this is my world, revised.


    They tried to match an army equivalent to mine,
    They tried, they tried,
    Admirable and amiable,
    I hate when masses gather against me.
    Their intestines and other assorted guts
    Adorned my dining table and sweetroll plates.


    The Greymarch couldn't have happened at an odder time,
    Inconvenience is madness rhyme,
    Therefore I purchased a hero of suspicious sanity,
    Unfortunately though, he turned to depravity.
    Me servant stood and told him what,
    To do and there and when and such,
    Sheoth has seen some better days,
    Although it hasn't yet seen worsened days...


    Brilliance of Pelagius himself,
    That awful Breton pissed himself,.
    Although the conversin' was enthrallin'
    To say the least,
    To rise up once and flay the beast,
    Me Wabbajack corrected all the physicality.


    Doin' the best on behalf of a master,
    But not doin' the most he could endeavor,
    It don't befront what he could affront,
    The contradictions
    Of his existence
    Were at the very least concernin'.


    Correct me if I'm wrong,
    But I wouldn't advise it.
    A hero could always do better,
    Unless he couldn't,
    Unless he dies. then another
    To replace em'
    These things tend to happen when
    The entanglements come along.


    Whether it be better to
    Affront under certain weather,
    Has nether to be seen on this endeavor,
    But forever will be never unseen,
    And clever.


    Forgive them with revenge, for
    It has yet to be determined in
    Their extermination for the wrath of
    Passed sensation, pray blocks their
    Affiliation to Jyggalag and affirmation
    Of recreation in Order, and abomination.


    Hear me with your mortal deaf ears,
    Pray tell, how have you got lizards and not gizzards?
    It seems undauntin' that you may have hauntin'
    Dreams of His return but not of the others?


    You must wait on your own cheese,
    For cheese be earned not given,
    Unless given after earned,
    But earned is the important part.


    You're livin' in a glorious world of hellish rules,
    The damnable expectation of sanity come freedom,
    Though, I am the freest bein' who I be,
    Demented Mania be the only way to go,
    The only road,
    Unless there be another in the way,
    For if you know where you're goin',
    There's no point in goin'.

    By Andrew P Marheine
  • Dearly Departed by sorinjace

    You left suddenly in a big flurry
    I'm lost without you as you fly
    Seemed like you was in a hurry
    I just wish I could have said goodbye.

    You helped direct me to finding the right road
    I know, I know, I didn't always stay the course
    I'm in such a shock my minds on overload
    The water was shown to me, guess I was the stubborn horse

    If I could've said one last thing to you
    I would have said thank you, and that I love you and until it's my time to die, I'll be missing you.

    I made this in memory of my uncle Tom.
  • @sorinjace You're going to make me cry for you.
  • @modnation675 Just any poem? Or do we have to make it? The directions are not clear.
  • XD Wow, thanks for the special mention lol. Here's one of the pieces that I had to do for a declamation contest that I had to participate in school! I don't know if any of you westerners had to do this or not, but it was really fun to do XD Even if I did stammer and mix up the stanzas DURING the competition. Lol


    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

    If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
  • Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
    That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
    And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
    And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
    The work of hunters is another thing:
    I have come after them and made repair
    Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
    But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
    To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
    No one has seen them made or heard them made,
    But at spring mending-time we find them there.
    I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
    And on a day we meet to walk the line
    And set the wall between us once again.
    We keep the wall between us as we go.
    To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
    And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
    We have to use a spell to make them balance:
    "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
    We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
    Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
    One on a side. It comes to little more:
    There where it is we do not need the wall:
    He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
    My apple trees will never get across
    And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
    He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
    Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
    If I could put a notion in his head:
    "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
    Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
    Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
    What I was walling in or walling out,
    And to whom I was like to give offence.
    Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
    That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
    But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
    He said it for himself. I see him there
    Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
    In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
    He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
    Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
    He will not go behind his father's saying,
    And he likes having thought of it so well
    He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."

    My Favorite of all time
  • edited April 2018
    To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
    One clover, and a bee.
    And revery.
    The revery alone will do
    If bees are few.

    - Emily Dickinson
    Awesome poem that's a Magic flavor text too (Karakas). I'm kind of a bee fiend.

    A particular shade of darkness
    Greets me every morning as I
    Drink a jug of milk, some boiled
    Bacon. This dark is profound, the
    Shade of a man's love unrequited.
    The soul of an accountant. The
    Hair of a particular dog that may
    Have never existed at all. As I
    Stare out at the darkness, I feel
    A thousand stings from some
    Spiteful hornet that decided to
    Stick his stinger into everything
    This heart holds dear. I wish
    Upon a shooting star that
    Something will change this sad
    And lonely life.

    A man never knows what he loves until he loses it.

    I wrote this poem with a friend, who provided some of the abstracts from his own experiences with heartbreak. I'm a sucky poet who writes crappy surrealism.

    The bear stares at you angrily.
    State your name and business, he growls.
    I am nobody, you quietly affirm, and the bear dissipates
    Into nothingness, revealing an area filled with clouds.
    You bounce from cloud to cloud, affirming your status as a cosmic being.
    A gun fires off into the sky. You leap, and suddenly your neighborhood is a battleground
    And you the flag, the prize they wish to obtain.
    Swearing, you leap into the woods and quietly become a tree,
    As the train roars past, and you leap out into the ocean and wish upon a shooting star.
    You saddle the star, mount it, and roar off into space, to the sound of a merry tune.
    The abyss swallows you up, but it cannot defeat you,
    For you are the king of all things
    That were
    That are
    That have yet to be.

    Woke up from a dream and jotted this one down immediately. It's my worst one yet, but I kinda like it in a way.
  • edited April 2018
    "All that is gold does not glitter,
    Not all those who wander are lost;
    The old that is strong does not wither,
    Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
    From the ashes, a fire shall be woken,
    A light from the shadows shall spring;
    Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
    The crownless again shall be king.
    - J.R.R. Tolkien

    Also, these:
  • edited April 2018
    Just any poem you like works.
  • Hello, friend
    The days have gone by
    No letters sent
    I came to say goodbye

  • Heres one I wrote in Highschool

    The Battle of Yourde
    An Epic Poem by Krampiszman

    In the Kingdom of Polesaw
    In Eastern Europe
    The Shamans Foresaw
    An army
    Who came in full force
    To the hills of Yourde
    Then with a flash
    We engaged the Silver Horde

    For one second let me hop out of my tale
    So I may introduce my self.
    Without my Epic Rhyme Scale!
    I am Albin
    I am a Hussar

    Albin in his Armor, Ready for Battle

    A Winged Hussar in Fact
    You’ve never heard of us?
    Winged Hussars have large metal wings attached to our back
    Which makes an interesting whistling noise when our horses run
    It scares off the lightning drakes, too
    Anyways back to my tale

    The Horde’s Orcs attacked with their might
    Taking us for dorks
    Thinking that they can flatten us with their oversized fists
    But we Polsawans are no wimps
    So we pushed on
    The Battle raged
    With arrows whizzing by
    Like Chick-a-Dees in the Sky

    On my lance
    The stains of war
    Turn the once brass spear
    A Metallic red

    All of the sudden the Dork- Orcs retreated
    And I
    Looking to the sky
    I understood why

    A Lightning Drake chased the Orcs

    A Lightning Drake, Much like the one from Yourde

    With a Green blast
    The Shamans signal for us to come back
    The other Hussars retreated
    For lightning Drakes are a danger
    Even if you have wings like us
    But I did not retreat
    The point of the battle was to keep the hill
    And I would not allow the Orcs to hold their position
    I charged with my horse
    Up the hill
    I planted a Polesaw flag
    While the Orcish hags
    Kept on there steady retreat
    As they got scarfed down by the drake

    This story has a happy ending don’t you see
    Because now Yourde is safe for my Family!

  • --- Closed for judging! ---
  • Sestina, by Elizabeth Bishop

    September rain falls on the house.
    In the failing light, the old grandmother
    sits in the kitchen with the child
    beside the Little Marvel Stove,
    reading the jokes from the almanac,
    laughing and talking to hide her tears.

    She thinks that her equinoctial tears
    and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
    were both foretold by the almanac,
    but only known to a grandmother.
    The iron kettle sings on the stove.
    She cuts some bread and says to the child,

    It's time for tea now; but the child
    is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
    dance like mad on the hot black stove,
    the way the rain must dance on the house.
    Tidying up, the old grandmother
    hangs up the clever almanac

    on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
    hovers half open above the child,
    hovers above the old grandmother
    and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
    She shivers and says she thinks the house
    feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

    It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
    I know what I know, says the almanac.
    With crayons the child draws a rigid house
    and a winding pathway. Then the child
    puts in a man with buttons like tears
    and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

    But secretly, while the grandmother
    busies herself about the stove,
    the little moons fall down like tears
    from between the pages of the almanac
    into the flower bed the child
    has carefully placed in the front of the house.

    Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
    The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
    and the child draws another inscrutable house.
  • edited April 2018
    I'll accept yours still, since you were close to the deadline! :)
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