h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Hey, JAR, I regularly look back on the writings I've done to see what I was thinking way back when. They were mostly assignments, of course, but still, it gives me some insight into my own mind... hmm...

Anyway, every so often I like to look at my elementary school journals. I find many strange things there... Mostly drawings but some poems & other writings. Here are some examples:

(5th grade)
The sun gleams down on the scorching sands of Dumont Dunes.
It seems if you touch it, you will burn up or disintigrate.
Over the roar of the dune buggies, it seems the sun is louder.

That was relatively normal. 2 pages later I find:

I accidentaly brought my eyeball to school. I put it in the wrong backpack. Now I have an eyeball at school.

Deep thoughts:

I am me,
He is he,
She is she,
We are we.

Oh, lord... now I want to go through & read them all again... Some of them have titles... :
My Notes: Stange Things Happen
Warning: Examples of My Mental Health Inside
& one simply titled with a drawing of a sheep.

I need help, folks... this stuff is scary.

Trapped in a cage
Like a fly in a matchbox
No light comes through
The dense smell of sulphur
Claustrophobic nausea
Gnawing on the intestines

LePerdy: Ah, school poems! School was a terrifying time indeed. Many dark poems still reside in a document-collector back home. I do not know wether I dare read them again. I belive I named my collection "Lonlieness Expands"

One-eye: Macabre....

JAR

My collection's full name is "Ex Clarus Sol (ortum tenebrae umbra)"

Once, while in middle school, shortly after my grandfather passed away, I was assigned to do a poem. Probably an emotion poem. So I wrote about my grandfather's passing. It was a good poem, and I recieved an A. Years later, at the bar mitzva (no matter how I spell that it looks wrong) of a friend of mine his father -- somewhat under the influence -- divulged to my parents that, when their son, Adam, who has a photographic memory, was assigned to write a poem (he's brilliant but isn't creative and doesn't like writting) he turned in a poem that recieved a very good grade, and I believe was up for some awards. But when they saw the poem they were quite scared -- it was all about death, and no one they knew had died! Where was their son getting these feelings? Aparently he had seen my poem, memorized it, and copied it word for word. He went to another school, so there was no danger.

I don't think I've ever written a poem that's been more useful to more people than that one!

Hmm it's good to do useful things but poetry is usually totally useless. This is good, there should be more things around that aren't remotely useful.

I don write no stinkin' poems.
I jess write som stinkin' rymes.

My mouth it bleeds, & blood is sound.
It hits the air , avoids the ground.

The blood is love much like the bhudda.
So like a monk I like it's shrines.

Yesss. That was technicolor.

-LeP

George the first was always reckoned
wile, but wiler George the second
And what mortal ever heard
any good of George the third?
When the fourth from earth descended
God be praised, the Georges ended

SPELLBOUND

When you are away, my soul hungers wildly.
When you are close, I long for you just as much -
in despair I see,
numb, secluded,
how empty and futile
is the minute which goes by.

Your essence of proud and regal perfumes fine
I secretly wanted to drink, a sacred wine -
but I stand heavy as death
as in dreams,
with a thirst like Tantalos
in clear streams.

In times of solitude my tongue has burned
to tell you of the beautiful thing I have dreamt and felt
but when I am near you
my thoughts slumber,
my door is closed,
and my heart is numb.

So Long and thanks for all the fish



Great poetry
Helps you get thru the day
Only if you can decypher it
Trying to get thru life
Is sometimes very hard


find the fish in the poem. (clue; GBS.)

Iain(-:

Beautiful! *applauds loudly*


When I leave this world I've planned
To soar and gluide across the land,
So do not mourn nor weep for me...
My spirit will be finally free!

'Nonnie

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

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's 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's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of 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.

*applause*
Encore, encore!!

*bows*

Thank you, thank you....

...all that talk about snow made this poem feel suitable...

Hmm.. That one reminds me of one I ran across today...

December Roses
*************
Speak to me of thornless roses
Twining o'er the cottage meek,
Blossoms dewy-fresh in Springtime,
Bursts of colour -- pure, unique.
.
Let me close my eyes, envision
Darkest greens, so rich in hue,
Leaves of waxen felt to dangle
From the silken stems so new.
.
Interspersed with wisps of whiteness
Of the Baby's Breath so frail,
Roses sing in deep red tones as
Through the latticework they trail.
.
Velvet petals gently cuddle
Round the tiny yellow sprigs,
Promising a warm surrender
When the sun shines through the twigs.
.
Speak to me of Springtime's promise,
Touch my heart with Summer's tales,
Cover me with Sunshine's blanket,
Hide me from these winter gales.
***********
December 10, 1998
Yours truly in another life

*long silence*

(But not to worry, the silence comes from the audience dreaming sweetly of summertimes to come and summertimes that was. Brilliant poem!)

Nonnie, that was beautiful!

'Yours truly'? YOU wrote it? Wow!

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
tow roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

FAIRY TALE

Now this is the story of Olaf
Who ages and ages ago
Lived right on the top of a mountain,
A mountain all covered with snow.

And he was quite pretty and tiny
With beautiful curling fair hair
And small hands like delicate flowers--
Cheeks kissed by the cold mountain air.

He lived in a hut made of pinewood
Just one little room and a door
A table, a chair, and a bedstead
And animal skins on the floor.

Now Olaf was partly fairy
And so never wanted to eat;
He thought dewdrops and raindrops were plenty
And snowflakes and all perfumes sweet.

In the daytime when sweeping and dusting
And cleaning were quite at an end,
He would sit very still on the doorstep
And dream--O, that he had a friend!

Somebody to come when he called them,
Somebody to catch by the hand,
Somebody to sleep with at night time,
Somebody who'd quite understand.

One night in the middle of Winter
He lay wide awake on his bed,
Outside there was fury of tempest
And calling of wolves to be fed--

Thin wolves, grey and silent as shadows;
And Olaf was frightened to death.
He had peeped through a crack in the doorpost,
He had seen the white smoke of their breath.

But suddenly over the storm wind
He heard a small voice pleadingly
Cry, "I am a snow fairy, Olaf,
Unfasten the window for me."

So he did, and there flew through the opening
The daintiest, prettiest sprite
Her face and her dress and her stockings,
Her hands and her curls were all white.

And she said, "O you poor little stranger
Before I am melted, you know,
I have brought you a valuable present,
A little brown fiddle and bow.

So now you can never be lonely,
With a fiddle, you see, for a friend,
But all through the Summer and Winter
Play beautiful songs without end."

And then,--O she melted like water,
But Olaf was happy at last;
The fiddle he tucked in his shoulder,
He held his small bow very fast.

So perhaps on the quietest of evenings
If you listen, you may hear him soon,
The child who is playing the fiddle
Away up in the cold, lonely moon.