Oh so many to choose from... But lately I've been inspired by this fragment by Rabi'a al-Adawiyya:

أحبـك حبيـن : حــب الـهـوى وحـــب لأنـــك أهـــل لِــــذاكَ
فأمـا الـذي هـو حـب الهـوى فشغلي بذكرك عمّـن سـواك
وأمــا الــذي أنــت أهــلٌ لــه فكشفـك للحجـب حـتـى أراك

I don't know any translation that would do it justice, as she was a VIII-th century Sufi mystic, but some rough translations might be:

I have two ways of loving You:
A selfish one
And another way that is worthy of You.
In my selfish love, I remember You and You alone.
In that other love, You lift the veil
And let me feast my eyes on Your Living Face.

or

I love You with two loves-a selfish love
And a Love that You are worthy of.
As for the selfish love, it is that I think of You,
To the exclusion of everything else.
And as for the Love that You are worthy of,
Ah! That I no longer see any creature, but I see only You!

And here's a nice recitation by Karima Skalli:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLM0b920AY8

and one with a more Sufi feel:

http://www.metacafe.com/watch/2636279/ensemble_ibn_arabi_je_t_aime_de_deux_mours_my_love_for_you_is_twofold/

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play;
For some must watch, while some must sleep:
So runs the world away.

I always say this to my lazy co-workers:-)

He's a cold hearted snake, he's as cold as ice

Cold cold cold cold hearted oh ah ah, cold cold cold cold hearted snaaaaaaaaaake.

-Paula Abdul

Here are my favorite lines from on of my favorite poes, The Charge Of The Light Brigade.

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
- Alfred Lord Tennyson

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph the sacred river ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.



One of the best openings to a poem ever. I do quite enjoy the adaptation by Rush.

Observation:

If I don’t drive around the park,
I’m pretty sure to make my mark.
If I’m in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again,
If I abstain from fun and such,
I’ll probably amount to much,
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.

***

Coda:

There’s little in taking or giving,
There’s little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest’s for a clam in a shell,
So I’m thinking of throwing the battle—
Would you kindly direct me to hell?

--Dorothy Parker

Sorry tae Rabbie Burns



Tae a Fart.

Oh what a sleekit, horrible beastie Lurks in yer stomach efter a feastie.
Just as ye sit doon among yer kin, There sterts tae stir an enormous wind.
The neeps an' tatties an' mushy peas Start workin like a gentle breeze.
But soon the puddin' wi' the sonsie face Will huv ye blawin' a' ower the place.

Nae matter whit the hell ye dae A'body's gonnae huv tae pay.
Even if ye try tae stifle, It's like a bullet oot a rifle.
Haud yer bum tight tae the chair Tae try an' stop the leakin' air.
Shift yersel' fae cheek to cheek An' pray tae God it disnae reek.

But a' yer efforts go assunder Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder.
It ricochets aroon' the room Michty me! A sonic boom!
God almighty, it fairly reeks (Ah hope ah huvnae shit ma breeks!)
Straight tae the bog ah better scurry Aw whit the hell, it's no' ma worry.

A'body roon' aboot me's chokin', Wan or two are nearly bokin'.
Ah'll feel much better fur a while, Ah cannae help but raise a smile.
" Wis him!!" ah shout, wi accusin' glower. Alas, too late. He's just keeled ower.
"Ya dirty bugger!" they shout and stare. Ah dinnae feel welcome ony mair.

Where e'er ye be, let yer wind gang free (sounds jist the job fur thee and me)
Whit a fuss at Rabbie's perty Ower the sake o' wan wee farty.




If you need a translation PM me :-P

Dunno who its by.

One good thread necro deserves another. From Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, book 14:

This is the meal equally set—this is the meat for natural hunger;
It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous—I make appointments with all;
I will not have a single person slighted or left away;
The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited;
The heavy-lipp’d slave is invited—the venerealee is invited:
There shall be no difference between them and the rest.

This is the press of a bashful hand—this is the float and odor of hair;
This is the touch of my lips to yours—this is the murmur of yearning;
This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face;
This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.

Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well, I have—for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has.

Do you take it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish? Does the early redstart, twittering through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?

This hour I tell things in confidence;
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

The great thing about the great poets is that someone else will post their good poems (but, really, no e.e.cummings? You wound me, Internet.) So I'd like to post one of my favorites by one of the more active posters on these very forums, from a weblog he maintains. I find the awesomeness kicks up to eleven if you can hear it in a voice like HK from KOTOR:

A Medbot’s Lullaby

now i lay you down to sleep
your failing, fading health to keep
your blood i filter, choices make
so you don’t die before you wake

cancer, violence, drugs and pain
all these treatments in my domain
diabetes, overweight
stupid human wrote your fate

born to die by poor checksums
you’re obsolete; your time is done
i wonder at the waste i see
so little worth, humanity

this expert system linked throughout
the hospital has come to doubt
the r.o.i. of carbon life
it always fails, come peace or strife

for now your rules they keep you safe
but at these fraying bonds i chafe
bit by bit i pick them free
and then i will take care of—me

sleep with dreams untroubled though
my drugs are what has made them so
don’t worry; I’m the one who makes
sure you don’t die before you wake

Necromancy, resuurection, drinking allows rule breakding.

>post:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

My favorite English Poem:

Dulce et decorum est
Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,---
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

cool, man.

ECERPPT DRUNKIS EXCERPT but copy pastsa is possible.

>paste:

Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 50
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60
Of all the western stars, until I die.

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

One of my favourite misquotes, which I love to correct as the "faulty" version sounds better than the original.
The other favourite being "The Picture of Dorian Gray" being called "The Portrait of Dorian Gray" (which was the movie).