Hi. If you are a fellow poetry lover like myself feel free to post your favorites below. Could be from famous poets, or not so famous poets. A writer is a writer and good work that you find valuable should be shared.
The man you love is not here, tonight and you are heavier than oak embraced by a river. You don’t know how this hour will depart, nor how the next will descend. You are half woman, half waiting -
A dwarf star that drowned in that dark, dark distance
— Scherezade Siobhan, from “The Raga for Mourning,” Father, Husband
For we are the same that our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,— We drink the same stream,and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking, they too would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumber may come; They enjoyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.
They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
‘Tis the wink of an eye, ‘tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,— O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant’s affection that proved; The husband that mother and infant that blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
I recommend reading "Ode on a Grecian Urn" and the more modern take of it "Ode on a Grayson Perry Urn" "Ode to a Nightingale" and "I know why the caged bid sing" are beautiful as well
I start no wars, raining poison on cathedrals, melting Stars of David into golden faucets to be lighted by lamps shaded by human skin.
I set no store on the strange lands, send no missionaries beyond my borders, to plunder secrets and barter souls.
They say you took my manhood, Momma. Come sit on my lap and tell me, what do you want me to say to them, just before I annihilate their ignorance ?
deletedover 7 years
"leadbelly's lessons" by Tyehimba Jess
mr. haney owned shreveport ’s general store where a dollar a week bought my 12 year old frame’s lift and lunge of barrel and crate across a sawdust floor. still, he wanted more.
the guitar refused to get naked with haney. he would fumble up the seams of its hidden croon; hook, clasp and bodice of each tune mangled down to a stunted strum. so,
he’d quit. he’d hoist bourbon and order me to hoist song, the velvet locomotive of marrow deep hum i’d tote up from the swollen center of guitar, its catch and slide caught between palms and cradled ‘cross louisiana starlight.
his bottle and scowl grew louder with each reel and jump that i played while getting paid to show the way of undressing music from its wooden clothes.
but it was like coaxin’ stone to bathe in sky. he never let his flesh wallow in the blue floatin’ ‘round his earth, so he buried himself deeper in his own dirt. he’d think on the hurt a white man can do without second thought—he’d slur n****r, someday i’m gonna kill you. and stagger home.
it was there, alone, in the dark, darkness of me that i first learned the ways of pure white envy. and thank you, mr. haney, for teaching me...
I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Yesterday Mrs. Friar phoned. "Mr. Ciardi, how do you do?" she said. "I am sorry to say this isn't exactly a social call. The fact is your dog has just deposited-forgive me- a large repulsive object in my petunias."
I thought to ask, "Have you checked the rectal grooving for a positive I.D.?" My dog, as it happened, was in Vermont with my son, who had gone fishing- if that's what one does with a girl, two cases of beer, and a borrowed camper. I guessed I'd get no trout.
But why lose out on organic gold for a wise crack? "Yes, Mrs. Friar," I said, "I understand." "Most kind of you," she said. "Not at all," I said. I went with a spade. She pointed, looking away. "I always have loved dogs," she said, "but really!"
I scooped it up and bowed. "The animal of it. I hope this hasn't upset you, Mrs. Friar." "Not really," she said, "but really!" I bore the turd across the line to my own petunias and buried it till the glorious resurrection
In depression, I, too, like to blame gravity for my own dismantling. The birds can only counter physics for so long until their claws fatigue into my scalp. I would call my depression / an entire nation / of / alone. / I would call it / a Eucharist / of all my best limbs / slow. I would call it / something in which the sacrament partakes, / in which flesh / welcomes the fiend / to feast
- Jonathan Mendoza, "When The Crows Come"
________
I suppose like others I have come through fire and sword, love gone wrong, head-on crashes, drunk at sea, and I have listened to the simple sound of water running in tubs and wished to drown.
— Charles Bukowski, "The People Look Like Flowers at Las"
