What poets sang in Atlantis? Who can tell

The epics of Atlantis or their names?

The sea hath its own murmurs, and sounds not

The secrets of its silences beneath,

And knows not any cadences enfolded

When the last bubbles of Atlantis broke

Among the quieting of its heaving floor.

-

O, years and tides and leagues and all their billows

Can alter not man's knowledge of men's hearts--

While trees and rocks and clouds include our being

We know the epics of Atlantis still :

A hero gave himself to lesser men,

Who first misunderstood and murdered him,

And then misunderstood and worshiped him;

A woman was lovely and men fought for her,

Towns burnt for her, and men put men in bondage,

But she put lengthier bondage on them all;

A wanderer toiled among all the isles

That fleck this turning star of shifting sea,

Or lonely purgatories of the mind,

In longing for his home or his lost love.

-

Poetry is founded on the hearts of men:

Though in Nirvana or the Heavenly courts

The principle of beauty shall persist,

Its body of poetry, as the body of man,

Is but a terrene form, a terrene use,

That swifter being will not loiter with ;

And, when mankind is dead and the world cold,

Poetry's immortality will pass.

Wen dose a past full of lies change a persons life to tribulation and temper madness into steel

I am where im from Anger Violence Law Srtange that thug life taught me how to stand on my own 2 feet Laws and violence made me Risk and demand Seeming foolishness is the still water that runs deep I cannot forgit where i came from Twas my great tribulation My fire of creation I am a good man Honist and trustworthy Not 2 square but level Peace is not still Pussy Fight for a law that you hold sacred Twill teach a boy manhood I have scars. Demons and nightmares. I am now man I love the man iv become When beafore all i knew was doubt. Fear Desolation Loss Fear Peace be still Fight for what you want Take no loss and love where you come from Never forget

I am where im from Anger Violence Law Srtange that thug life taught me how to stand on my own 2 feet Laws and violence made me Risk and demand Seeming foolishness is the still water that runs deep I cannot forgit where i came from Twas my great tribulation My fire of creation I am a good man Honist and trustworthy Not 2 square but level Peace is not still Pussy Fight for a law that you hold sacred Twill teach a boy manhood I have scars. Demons and nightmares. I am now man I love the man iv become When beafore all i knew was doubt. Fear Desolation Loss Fear Peace be still Fight for what you want Take no loss and love where you come from Never forget

Hi true poets-

This sub seems kinda dead, but also eminently revivable.

I have started a tiny sub and I'm looking for contributions - anyone here have an essay on anything vaguely tangential to poetry they are looking for a home for?

If not I leave you with one of the greats:

Lycidas by Milton.

So it is midnight, and all
The angels of ordinary day gone,
The abiding absence between day and day
Come like true and only rain
Comes instant, eternal, again:

As though an air had opened without sound
In which all things are sanctified,
In which they are at prayer—
The drunken man in his stupor,
The madman’s lucid shrinking circle;

As though all things shone perfectly,
Perfected in self-discrepancy:
The widow wedded to her grief,
The hangman haloed in remorse—
I should not rearrange a leaf,

No more than wish to lighten stones
Or still the sea where it still roars—
Here every grief requires its grief,
Here every longing thing is lit
Like darkness at an altar.

As long as truest night is long,
Let no discordant wing
Corrupt these sorrows into song.

Pleasure Seas

by Elizabeth Bishop

In the walled off swimming-pool the water is perfectly flat.

The pink Seurat bathers are dipping themselves in and out

Through a pane of bluish glass.

The cloud reflections pass

Huge amoeba-motions directly through

The beds of bathing caps; white, lavender, and blue.

If the sky turns gray, the water turns opaque,

Pistachio green and Mermaid Milk.

But out among the keys

Where the water goes its own way, the shallow pleasure seas

Drift this way and that mingling currents and tides

In most of the colors that swarm around the sides

Of soap-bubbles, poisonous and fabulous.

And the keys float lightly like rolls of green dust.

From an airplane the water’s heavy sheet

Of glass above a bas-relief:

Clay-yellow coral and purple dulces

And long, leaning, submerged green grass.

Across it a wide shadow pulses.

The water is a burning-glass

Turned to the sun

That blues and cools as the afternoon wears on,

And liquidly

Floats weeds, surrounds fish, supports a violently red bell-buoy

Whose neon-color vibrates over it, whose bells vibrate

To shock after shock of electricity.

The sea is delight. The sea means room.

It is a dance-floor, a well ventilated ballroom.

From the swimming-pool or from the deck of a ship

Pleasures strike off humming, and skip

Over the tinsel surface: a Grief floats off

Spreading out thin like oil. And Love

sets out determinedly in a straight line,

One of his burning ideas in mind,

Keeping his eyes on

The bright horizon,

But shatters immediately, suffers refraction,

And comes back in shoals of distraction.

Happy the people in the swimming-pool and on the yacht,

Happy the man in that airplane, likely as not -

And out there where the coral reef is a shelf

The water runs at it, leaps, throws itself

Lightly, lightly, whitening in the air:

An acre of cold white spray is there

Dancing happily by itself.

Source: Bishop, Elizabeth. “Pleasure Seas” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979 (1983). New York, NY. Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

A Rose Is Not A Rose

But A Bloom In Full Moon

Filled With Color

Simple And Elegant

At Last Lights Fleeting Grace

What Definition

One Must Ponder

Could Always Wonder

Its Mystery To Twilights Dance

This millstone would enter now, hold
the rain in cowry shells. The gold
continuity of death sits on mud,
the bud that permits
the occasion of water, grain, the dense
tense fiction of domain—
argues the invention of one,
a first and transformative sun.

Altars resist the pressure and heat
of circular stones in air, the discreet
lithosphere selling its estate, the pure
contour of cloud so late
in its disposal. Ask me how the red
bed of change might allow
such grieving erasures, such gray
designs upon a yellow day.

Disorder reinvents the soul;
the body travels the black hole
of existent fire. If love will have no
end, so from the first spill
of event, the decomposed act that binds
finds nothing true exact.
One speaks of semantic ascent,
a change in the womb, and the rent

garment that gravity enfolds,
the rainy entropy that holds
millet, fonio, sorrel, and fat rice,
the dice of buried sand.
This pure estate, obscure as death, the sign,
spine of an altered breath,
leads to a space where footsteps bell
water’s root and precedent spell.

Bright - Young-Autumn's delicate gold cupolas ignite,
A languid-ripe aroma wafts from West's mother-of-pearl.
Soft and opaque, the sigh of grass; in longing flutter leaf and twig
On every treetop, Young-Autumn-pensive aureoles light up.
Light clouds stand hewn in the sky - now minarets in Baghdad,
Now gliding lazily like gondolas in Venice.
The sky spreads silver-sadness of Young Autumn's golden shells
And grips my heart in hoops of melancholy brocade.

In this enchanted realm of pallid calm and colourful perfume
I stroll, my golden love, I call you softly, seek you silently-
You are not Autumn-gold, you are Late-Spring's song, joy and pain,
East's charm-of-dawn, the dance of West's last evening fay.

Baghdad and Venice! My illusion, painfully beautiful illusion,
I long for you with all the longings of Young-Autumn and decay.

Mask yourself with burned wood,
Babel of fire and secrets.
I am waiting for the god who arrives
dressed in flames,
adorned with pearls stolen
from the lungs of the sea and from shells.
I am waiting for a god who loses his way,
who rages, weeps, bends, and shines.
Your face, Mihyar,
prophesies the god who will arrive.

What seems to perish only changes itself.
Has summer passed? Next year brings it back.
Do we see night darken? The next light
Regilds at once the azure firmament:

The beaming sun with similar movement
Along the ribbon of the sky wanders each day,
And following the certain ordinance of the Lord
All rises in its time, and falls without delay:

Even cold death which astonishes us so strongly
Doesn't ravish life away, but merely gives us
Whatever little respite for the time to come.

Then fear no longer to make that journey:
He goes out with a confident face
Who departs in the hope of suddenly returning.

A bough is weeping in the stream.
Green islands, green ... And I dream.
A pigeon moans, disquiets me...

Her breast is lapis lazuli,
Her throat a pale pistachio-green,
Hazel the wing she turns to preen.
Her throbbing throat disquiets me.

Over the ruby of her eyes
She flickers lids of pearl
With an edge of gold...
But when she cries
Her note disquiets me...

She sits the branch as if a throne,
Hiding her throat within a fold
Of her bright wing...
And still her moan
Is in the air, disquieting me.

But when my tears are my reply,
Above the branch she spreads her wings
Bearing my heart away, to fly
Above despair and mortal things
Where I can never go...
Ah where? a weeping bough, I do not know.

The singing violin
has not burnt the wind
when a procession of raw bones
snows wildly upon us

A hesitant love
pours nothing over our labours
but an icy shower of gold
gnawing away
the last warm sigh
anonymously

And as always
the earth more ardently
wishing us at rest
within her milkless sides
will lap us with humus

And if this harp cannot follow me
there where the spirits wait
This is my testament:
I leave you the fire and the song.