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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Have there been any poems you came across that just grabbed you by the Fe? Here's one, came across it in the INFP forum. It's an untitled piece (although it's pretty damn clear what the title *should* be), by Rachel McKibbens:

To my daughters, I need to say:

Go with the one who loves you biblically.

The one whose love lifts its head to you despite its broken neck.

Whose body bursts sixteen arms electric to carry you, gentle, the way
old grief is gentle.

Love the love that is messy in all its too much,

The body that rides best your body, whose mouth saddles the naked salt
of your far gone hips, whose tongue translates the rock language of
all your elegant scars.

Go with the one who cries out for his tragic sisters as he chops the winter’s wood, the one whose skin

Triggers your heart into a heaven of blood waltzes.

Go with the one who resembles most your father. Not the father you can
point out on a map,

But the father who is here. Is your home. Is the key to your front door. Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:

The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us

Our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?

Can mimic the sound of our birdthroated mothers, replicate the warmth of our brothers’ tempers? Can pull us out of ourselves until

We are no longer sisters or daughters or sword swallowers but, instead,

Women. Who give. And lead. And take and want

And want

And want

And want

Because there is no shame in wanting.

And you will hear yourself say: Last Love, I wish to die so I may come back to you new and never tasted by any other mouth but yours.

And I want to be the hands that pull your children out of you and tuck them deep inside myself until they are

Ready to be the children of such a royal and staggering love. Or you
will say: Last Love,

I am old, and have spent myself on the courageless, have wasted too many clocks on less-deserving men, so I hurl myself

At the throne of you and lie humbly at your feet.

Last Love, let me never roll out of this heavy dream of you.

Let the day I was born mean my life will end where you end.

Let the man behind the church do what he did if it brings me to you.

Let the girls in the locker room corner me again if it brings me to you.

Let the wrong beds find me if it brings me to you.

Let this wild depression throw me beneath its hooves if it brings me to you.

Let me pronounce my hoarded joy if it brings me to you.

Let my father break me again and again if it brings me to you.

Last love, I let other men borrow your children. Forgive me.

Last love, I vowed my heart to another. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have let my blind and anxious hands wander into a room and come out empty. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have cursed the women you loved before me. Forgive me.

Last Love, I envy your mother’s body where you resided first. Forgive me.

Last Love, I am all that is left. Forgive me.

Last Love, I did not see you coming. Forgive me.

Last Love, every day without you was a life I crawled out of. Amen.

Last Love, you are my Last Love. Amen.

Last Love, I am all that is left. Amen.

I am all that is left.

Amen.
 

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It's very bell hooks, or Maya Angelou. Is she talking about her son being her last love? Am I reading this right? There's a lot of Fe charge to it but I don't always follow the train of thought.

Delmira Agustini does some like that... I'm kind of partial to William Blake (he who desires but acts not breeds pestilence) and John Donne, myself. Shelley's good for one-liners like "the cloud of mind discharges its collected lightning..."

But I will have to think more carefully and try to avoid fascists...
 

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This poem by Robert Frost always seemed to stir something in me.

Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same

He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.
 

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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~

Howl by Allen Ginsberg
 

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Discussion Starter · #6 ·
Is she talking about her son being her last love? Am I reading this right? There's a lot of Fe charge to it but I don't always follow the train of thought.
No, she's definitely not talking about her son. Or at least I hope she isn't, given some of the sexual imagery... She's talking about finding The One after a long life of finding men who weren't the one.

"Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:

The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us

Our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?"
 

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No, she's definitely not talking about her son. Or at least I hope she isn't, given some of the sexual imagery... She's talking about finding The One after a long life of finding men who weren't the one.

"Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:

The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us

Our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?"

If someone wrote that for me I'd never let her go.
 

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"Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:

The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us

Our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?"
If I found that "One", I definitely give him this poem... or write something like this for him. This definitely caught me up in it's imagery - but I have to admit I couldn't follow all of it =/.
 

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Discussion Starter · #15 ·
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 like this one, but it feels more Ti than Fe, somehow... I've heard of Howl, of course, but actually haven't read it yet.
 

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Abandonment to the extreme

A child with no desire

in addition to finding what

is not heard, nor seen.

Innocent child of just a decade

that did not find love from his primary source

On his fragile shoulders, a heavy cross

Seeing first hand a marital disaster

The silence of the wind caresses him daily

That, within him, love is only imaginary

Created in his mind to bear

the pain one more day to mourn.

Who remembers when your soul cries on the divine?

Who will pick him up when, for cruel, his blood becomes wine?

In just a decade and often cries red

Rivers of pain, flowing smoothly. His appearance changes.

Advanced age, rejected by society

Different in his knowledge

Used by each rose with thorns found

wrapping upon his soul, fine perforations

Heroin for the soul, anything for the calm.

His spirit cries,

"Get me out of this flame!"

A living hell and multiplied

but that child has advanced age

Ten cycles of suffering, Eight if hate

Summed by time burnt by the Sun

In the book of life, his name is not

Cruel acts under the influence of a demon

Ignorance, pure and special

But not anymore. master wisdom

ecstasy of pleasure, when he could believe

That love he had found within

a broken soul, which had been silent, dark

Four full moons lived he in hope, not knowing.

Dipped in masochistic pleasures

Merely a game for her, a life for him.

Under a blue moon a month before the summer

chance, do not think. Fate in vain

has filled your heart to the blind,

and broken by what happened...

destroyed, thoughts, suicide ...

He has found new life in solitude.

A haven, selfish but, without malice.

That, once a child, has found happiness.

A history of hatred and suffering, but he overcame.

How do I know this? I am that Child.



Not sure if this is Fe or Ti or w/e, but I wrote it a few years ago.


EDIT: It was originally written in Spanish. If you were wondering why it does not rhyme, that's why.
 

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Hmm. Which parts are you having troubles with? Maybe we all can noodle it out :)
It's nothing major...the imagery grew on me after a while (about the 'blood waltzes' .. that took me an embarrassingly long time to puzzle out)

but...
Let the man behind the church do what he did if it brings me to you.

Let the girls in the locker room corner me again if it brings me to you.

Let the wrong beds find me if it brings me to you.

Let this wild depression throw me beneath its hooves if it brings me to you.

Let me pronounce my hoarded joy if it brings me to you.

Let my father break me again and again if it brings me to you.

Last love, I let other men borrow your children
It was hard to relate to the more personal experiences that she alluded to. At first I couldn't make heads or tails of the 'man behind the church' ... I thought it was pretty random...but I guessed it .. or guessed what I thought it could be. The emotions come through...the images just don't as much.
 
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