If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near,
Shadow and sunlight are the same,
The vanished gods to me appear,
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
Courtesy: The Atlantic Monthly, Nov. 1857
Google Poem Search
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Poem of the day-58: "Good-bye, Vacation!" by Mary D.Brine
Good-by, vacation, you jolly old time—
Good-by to your idle hours;
Good-by to dear fields and mountains and glens,
And the beautiful sweet wild flowers;
Good-by to the hours of frolic and fun,
And to freedom's all-glorious reign;
For vacation is ended, it's season is o'er,
And now for our school life again.
No longer the fences we'll merrily scale,
Nor climb to the tree-tops each day;
But the ladder of learning before us is raised,
And upward we'll wend our way.
Ah, deep in our hearts will the memory lie
Of the happy old days so dear,
And over our books we will wearily sigh,
"Oh, would our vacation were here!"
The bright days yet linger, the grass still is green,
Not yet have the mountains turned gray;
But what are the charms of sweet nature, alas!
Since vacation has vanished away?
But there is one comfort—the seasons roll round,
And all in good time we shall hear
Dame Nature's glad joy-bell ring gayly once more,
"School is out, and vacation is here."
Courtesy: Harper's Young People, September 14, 1880 (An Illustrated Weekly) and Project Gutenberg.
Good-by to your idle hours;
Good-by to dear fields and mountains and glens,
And the beautiful sweet wild flowers;
Good-by to the hours of frolic and fun,
And to freedom's all-glorious reign;
For vacation is ended, it's season is o'er,
And now for our school life again.
No longer the fences we'll merrily scale,
Nor climb to the tree-tops each day;
But the ladder of learning before us is raised,
And upward we'll wend our way.
Ah, deep in our hearts will the memory lie
Of the happy old days so dear,
And over our books we will wearily sigh,
"Oh, would our vacation were here!"
The bright days yet linger, the grass still is green,
Not yet have the mountains turned gray;
But what are the charms of sweet nature, alas!
Since vacation has vanished away?
But there is one comfort—the seasons roll round,
And all in good time we shall hear
Dame Nature's glad joy-bell ring gayly once more,
"School is out, and vacation is here."
Courtesy: Harper's Young People, September 14, 1880 (An Illustrated Weekly) and Project Gutenberg.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Poem of the day-57: "Hymn to the Sun" by Pharaoh Akhenaton
Beautiful you rise upon the horizon of heaven,
O living sun, you have existed since the beginning of things...
The whole world is filled with your loveliness.
You are the god Ra, and you have brought every land under your yoke.
Bound them in with the force of your love.
You are far away, yet your beams flood down upon the earth.
You shine upon the faces of people, and no one is able to fathom the mystery of your coming.
O living sun, you have existed since the beginning of things...
The whole world is filled with your loveliness.
You are the god Ra, and you have brought every land under your yoke.
Bound them in with the force of your love.
You are far away, yet your beams flood down upon the earth.
You shine upon the faces of people, and no one is able to fathom the mystery of your coming.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Poem of the day-56:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ
Moves on; nor all thy piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.
- Omar Khayyam
Moves on; nor all thy piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.
- Omar Khayyam
Saturday, April 25, 2009
How To-34: "How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry"
How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
Writing free verse poetry is a great release of feelings, emotions and thoughts. Writing poetry in rhyme also gives you the ability to release emotions, but is more constricted in that you have to find words that rhyme. Here is how to express yourself in free verse.
Steps
- Think about something you feel strongly about.
- Be in tune with your feelings and allow your emotions to stir within you. You will need these emotions to inspire you.
- Sit at a computer or wherever you do your best writing and thinking and let the thoughts flow out of your mind, your heart and your fingers.
- Don't stop if you feel you are misspelling a word. When your feelings have been released, your poem will, like magic, come to an end. Now is the time you can correct.
- Sit back and read what you have written, correct only the spelling. Do not change the poem's meaning or content. Make sure your name and date are on the bottom of the page.
- Read what you wrote and read it to others if it is not too personal. Much great poetry is personal; part of the fun is finding the courage to read that to others.
Tips
- Some inspirations can come from any walk of life:
- Look out the window and see the sunset.
- Be glad you are alive.
- Sit in the Mall and observe a mother and a child.
- Look at the young woman in a wheel chair. Be thankful that it is not you, and write about those feelings
- Think about a lost loved one
- Think about the big piece of cake topped with a big scoop of ice cream that you just pigged out on, after you announced you were on a diet.
- Not all poems have to be happy. Not all poems have to be long. Not all poems have to be short. Some poems can be silly.
- Be thankful for good health.
- Do not put restrictions on the style you use. Although choosing a certain style for one poem may help.
- Save all your poems, no matter what they say or how you feel about them. One day you will look back and see that you have somehow, without knowing it, written the story of your life.
- Safeguard your poetry. Place it into a plastic cover, and store it in a looseleaf binder set aside for just your poetry.
- Download a photo or clipart on the poetry page that relates to your poem. Dress the page up.
- Be proud...you have just finished the first page of your first 'book.'
- There are many other poetry styles that most people are not even familiar with. See the url at the bottom for information.
- Relax.
Related wikiHows
- How to Write a Love Poem
- How to Write a Haiku Poem
- How to Write a Poem
- How to Gain Control of Your Emotions
- How to Be a Poet
- How to Explicate a Poem
- How to Write a Love Poem
- How to Write an Emo Poem
- How to Write a Poem About Nature
- How to Write a Love Letter or Love Poem
- How to Be Dark
Sources and Citations
Article provided by wikiHow, a wiki how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
How To-33: "How to Overcome Writer's Block in Poetry"
How to Overcome Writer's Block in Poetry
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
If you are suffering from writer's block, you are in good company. Many people feel this problem and it is mostly due to a feeling that one is not a good enough writer. How do you overcome the block when it comes to poetry? Poetry has a rhythm and emotion of its own that cannot be compared to writing novels or short stories, so it is not necessarily helpful to compare writer's block in those fields with that suffered by a poet. Here are some ideas for the stuck poet.
Steps
- Think of a topic that moves you deeply and fills you with emotion. The topic might involve love or hatred, deep affection for someone or something, nature, (for instance, trees), or even parts of the body, such as feet or eyes. In other words, focus on something that is fascinating at the moment or something that is moving you in a passionate and interested fashion. Another stimulus trick is to combine your emotions and perhaps connect love and hate or trees and feet. The resulting poetic feeling may be quite exulting.
- Brainstorm on rhyming words or rhythmic phrases. The words or phrases should have a common theme to do with your topic and provide you with further sources of inspiration. Even if you have no idea why certain words keep occurring, write them down for use as you develop your poem.
- Organize your words. After brainstorming the words, collecting them and writing them, now is the time to place them into an order that will serve your poem best. Perhaps group the words relating to one theme together and words relating to another theme together and any words that might link the two themes in yet another grouping. This is something that will improve with practise.
- Write to your heart's content. A poet must let the words flow through herself or himself. The poetry will only come to life when the poet relaxes and lets the passion flow through unabated. Correct and perfect grammar and tone are for the editing stage, not the creative writing stage. Just write and write and write, whether there is a clear order to the writing or not. You have the words - use them. And follow the path that your mind leads you down.
Tips
- Go beyond the ideas listed here; they are only by way of example.
- The combination of love and hate is fairly cliched and time-worn; if you are looking for a different style of poem you will probably do better to either avoid this combination or learn to craft it anew in a clever and magnificent manner that will grasp the attention of your reader and rivet his or her attention.
Warnings
- Do not be obsessed with perfection as you write - that is what the editorial stage is for. If you are waylaid by this idea, ask a friend, family member or professor to assist you with editing. A good poet's writing will always be clear to a fair and smart reader - find one and this will be the ideal person to assist you with improving your poem after it has been written.
Related wikiHows
- How to Freewrite
- How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry
- How to Be a Poet
- How to Write a Haiku Poem
- How to Become a Freelance Writer
Article provided by wikiHow, a wiki how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Overcome Writer's Block in Poetry. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
TED Talk-1: "Poetry for all seasons of life" by C K Williams
For detailed article on "TED Talks":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TED_Talks
Grateful thanks to TED.com, C.K.Williams and Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Poem of the day-55: "How do I love thee?" by Elizabeth Barret Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Poem of the day-54: "Autumn" by Helen Keller
Oh, what a glory doth the world put on
These peerless, perfect autumn days
There is a beautiful spirit of gladness everywhere.
The wooded waysides are luminous with brightly painted leaves;
The forest-trees with royal grace have donned
Their gorgeous autumn tapestries;
And even the rocks and fences are broidered
With ferns, sumachs and brilliantly tinted ivies.
But so exquisitely blended are the lights and shades
The golds, scarlets and purples, that no sense is wearied;
For God Himself ha painted the landscape.
The hillsides gleam with golden corn;
Apple and peach-trees bend beneath their burdens of golden fruit.
The golden-rods, too, are here, whole armies of them,
With waving plumes, resplendent with gold;
And about the wild grapes, purple and fair and full of sunshine,
The little birds southward going
Linger, like travelers at an Inn,
And sip the perfumed wine.
And far away the mountains against the blue sky stand
Calm and mysterious, like prophets of God,
Wrapped in purple mist.
But now a change o'er the bright and glorious sky has come
The threatening clouds stand still,
The silent skies are dark and solemn;
The mists of morning hide the golden face of day.
And a mysterious hand has stripped the trees;
And with rustle and whir the leaves descend,
And like little frightened birds
Lie trembling on the ground.
Bare and sad the forest-monarchs stand
Like kings of old, all their splendor swept away.
And down from his ice-bound realm in the North
Comes Winter, with snowy locks, and tear-drops frozen on his cheeks;
For he is the brother of Death, and acquainted with Sorrow.
Autumn sees him from afar,
And, as a child to her father runneth,
She to the protecting arms of kindly Winter fleeth;
And in his mantle of snow
Tenderly he folds her lovely form,
And on his breast she falls asleep
Ere yet the storm-winds have loosed their fury
Upon a white and silent world.
She sleeps unconscious of the sorrow that must be
And dreams perchance of sylvan music,
And the splendor that was, and will again be hers;
For Autumn dies not. 'Tis as the poet says:
"There is no Death. What seems so is transition."
All that is divine lives
In some nobler sphere, some fairer form.
These peerless, perfect autumn days
There is a beautiful spirit of gladness everywhere.
The wooded waysides are luminous with brightly painted leaves;
The forest-trees with royal grace have donned
Their gorgeous autumn tapestries;
And even the rocks and fences are broidered
With ferns, sumachs and brilliantly tinted ivies.
But so exquisitely blended are the lights and shades
The golds, scarlets and purples, that no sense is wearied;
For God Himself ha painted the landscape.
The hillsides gleam with golden corn;
Apple and peach-trees bend beneath their burdens of golden fruit.
The golden-rods, too, are here, whole armies of them,
With waving plumes, resplendent with gold;
And about the wild grapes, purple and fair and full of sunshine,
The little birds southward going
Linger, like travelers at an Inn,
And sip the perfumed wine.
And far away the mountains against the blue sky stand
Calm and mysterious, like prophets of God,
Wrapped in purple mist.
But now a change o'er the bright and glorious sky has come
The threatening clouds stand still,
The silent skies are dark and solemn;
The mists of morning hide the golden face of day.
And a mysterious hand has stripped the trees;
And with rustle and whir the leaves descend,
And like little frightened birds
Lie trembling on the ground.
Bare and sad the forest-monarchs stand
Like kings of old, all their splendor swept away.
And down from his ice-bound realm in the North
Comes Winter, with snowy locks, and tear-drops frozen on his cheeks;
For he is the brother of Death, and acquainted with Sorrow.
Autumn sees him from afar,
And, as a child to her father runneth,
She to the protecting arms of kindly Winter fleeth;
And in his mantle of snow
Tenderly he folds her lovely form,
And on his breast she falls asleep
Ere yet the storm-winds have loosed their fury
Upon a white and silent world.
She sleeps unconscious of the sorrow that must be
And dreams perchance of sylvan music,
And the splendor that was, and will again be hers;
For Autumn dies not. 'Tis as the poet says:
"There is no Death. What seems so is transition."
All that is divine lives
In some nobler sphere, some fairer form.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Poem of the day-53: "The Heart of a Song"
Dear love, let this my song fly to you:
Perchance forget it came from me.
It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;
But in your breast lie quietly.
Only beware, when once it tarries
I cannot coax it from you, then.
This little song my whole heart carries,
And ne'er will bear it back again.
For if its silent passion grieve you,
My heart would then too heavy grow;—
And it can never, never leave you,
If joy of yours must with it go!
- George Parsons Lathrop
Perchance forget it came from me.
It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;
But in your breast lie quietly.
Only beware, when once it tarries
I cannot coax it from you, then.
This little song my whole heart carries,
And ne'er will bear it back again.
For if its silent passion grieve you,
My heart would then too heavy grow;—
And it can never, never leave you,
If joy of yours must with it go!
- George Parsons Lathrop
Friday, February 13, 2009
Poem of the day-52: "By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept" by Lord Byron
We sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And never shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And never shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
Friday, February 6, 2009
Poem of the day-51: "Invitation" by Sri Aurobindo
With wind and the weather beating round me
Up to the hill and the moorland I go.
Who will come with me? Who will climb with me?
Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?
Not in the petty circle of cities
Cramped by your doors and your walls I dwell;
Over me God is bolue in the welkin,
Against me the wind and the storm rebel.
I sport with solitude here in my regions,
Of misadventure have made me a friend.
Who would live largely? Who would live freely?
Here to the wind-swept upland ascend.
I am the lord of tempest and mountain,
I am the Spirit of freedom and pride.
Stark must he be and a kinsman to danger
Who shares my kingdom and walks at my side.
- Sri Aurobindo, Alipore Jail (1908-09)
Up to the hill and the moorland I go.
Who will come with me? Who will climb with me?
Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?
Not in the petty circle of cities
Cramped by your doors and your walls I dwell;
Over me God is bolue in the welkin,
Against me the wind and the storm rebel.
I sport with solitude here in my regions,
Of misadventure have made me a friend.
Who would live largely? Who would live freely?
Here to the wind-swept upland ascend.
I am the lord of tempest and mountain,
I am the Spirit of freedom and pride.
Stark must he be and a kinsman to danger
Who shares my kingdom and walks at my side.
- Sri Aurobindo, Alipore Jail (1908-09)
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Poem of the day-50: "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
- John Keats
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
- John Keats
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Poem of the day-49: "We are Seven" by William Wordsworth
—A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
Friday, January 30, 2009
Poem of the day-48: "In a Library" by Emily Dickinson
A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,
His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.
His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,
His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.
His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Poem of the day-47: "Love and Death" by Tennyson
What time the mighty moon was gathering light
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise,
And all about him roll’d his lustrous eyes;
When, turning round a cassia, full in view,
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew,
And talking to himself, first met his sight.
‘You must begone,’ said Death, ‘these walks are mine.’
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight;
Yet ere he parted said, ‘This hour is thine:
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath,
So in the light of great eternity
Life eminent creates the shade of death.
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall,
But I shall reign for ever over all.’
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise,
And all about him roll’d his lustrous eyes;
When, turning round a cassia, full in view,
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew,
And talking to himself, first met his sight.
‘You must begone,’ said Death, ‘these walks are mine.’
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight;
Yet ere he parted said, ‘This hour is thine:
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath,
So in the light of great eternity
Life eminent creates the shade of death.
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall,
But I shall reign for ever over all.’
Friday, January 2, 2009
Poem of the day-46: "The Death of the Old Year" by Lord Tennyson
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old-year lies a-dying.
Old year you must die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year you shall not die.
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true love
And the New-year will take 'em away.
Old year you must not go;
So long you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.
He froth's his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.
He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.
How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.
Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old-year lies a-dying.
Old year you must die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year you shall not die.
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true love
And the New-year will take 'em away.
Old year you must not go;
So long you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.
He froth's his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.
He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.
How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.
Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Shakespeare's Sonnets-12:
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Poem of the day-45: "The Listeners" by Walter De La Mare
"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking at the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champ'd the grasses
Of the forest's ferny door:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Trveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Lean'd over and look'd into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplex'd and still.
But only a host of phantom listners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight.
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moon beams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirr'd and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answer'd,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
- Walter De La Mare
Detailed Wikipedia article on Walter De La Mare:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_De_La_Mare
Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
===========================================================
Knocking at the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champ'd the grasses
Of the forest's ferny door:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Trveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Lean'd over and look'd into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplex'd and still.
But only a host of phantom listners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight.
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moon beams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirr'd and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answer'd,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
- Walter De La Mare
Detailed Wikipedia article on Walter De La Mare:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_De_La_Mare
Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
===========================================================
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Poem of the day-44: "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind"
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou are not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feighning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly,
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy Sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
From William Shakespeare's 'AS YOU LIKE IT"
Thou are not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feighning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly,
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy Sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
From William Shakespeare's 'AS YOU LIKE IT"
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Poem of the day-43: "COME, LASSES AND LADS."
Come, lasses and lads,
get leave of your dads,
And away to the Maypole hie,
For ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddler's standing by;
For Willy shall dance with Jane,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
Trip it up and down!
"You're out," says Dick; "not I," says Nick,
"'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;"
"'Tis true," says Hugh, and so says Sue,
And so says ev'ry one.
The fiddler than began
To play the tune again,
And ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it,
Trip it to the men!
Then, after an hour, they went to a bow'r,
And play'd for ale and cakes;
And kisses too,--until they were due,
The lasses held the stakes.
The girls did then begin
To quarrel with the men,
And bade them take their kisses back,
And give them their own again!
"Good-night," says Harry;
"good-night," says Mary;
"Good-night," says Poll to John;
"Good-night," says Sue
to her sweetheart Hugh;
"Good-night," says ev'ry one.
Some walk'd and some did run,
Some loiter'd on the way,
And bound themselves by kisses twelve,
To meet the next holiday.
- An Anonymous Ballad from the ebook, "OLD BALLADS" from Project Gutenberg
Produced by The Internet Archive Children's Library, Ted Garvin and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Detailed Wikipedia article on "BALLADS":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ballads
Grateful thanks to Ted Garvin, the Online Distribute Proofreading Team, The Internet Archive Children's Library and Project Gutenberg.
get leave of your dads,
And away to the Maypole hie,
For ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddler's standing by;
For Willy shall dance with Jane,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
Trip it up and down!
"You're out," says Dick; "not I," says Nick,
"'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;"
"'Tis true," says Hugh, and so says Sue,
And so says ev'ry one.
The fiddler than began
To play the tune again,
And ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it,
Trip it to the men!
Then, after an hour, they went to a bow'r,
And play'd for ale and cakes;
And kisses too,--until they were due,
The lasses held the stakes.
The girls did then begin
To quarrel with the men,
And bade them take their kisses back,
And give them their own again!
"Good-night," says Harry;
"good-night," says Mary;
"Good-night," says Poll to John;
"Good-night," says Sue
to her sweetheart Hugh;
"Good-night," says ev'ry one.
Some walk'd and some did run,
Some loiter'd on the way,
And bound themselves by kisses twelve,
To meet the next holiday.
- An Anonymous Ballad from the ebook, "OLD BALLADS" from Project Gutenberg
Produced by The Internet Archive Children's Library, Ted Garvin and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Detailed Wikipedia article on "BALLADS":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ballads
Grateful thanks to Ted Garvin, the Online Distribute Proofreading Team, The Internet Archive Children's Library and Project Gutenberg.
Shakespeare's Sonnets-11:
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
How To-32: "How to Write a Tanka Poem"
How to Write a Tanka Poem
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
A Tanka is a five line poem, usually used to describe nature, but can also be effective in conveying strong emotions. This tutorial will give you a description on how to write one.
Steps
- Write out the first line of the poem. Remember that it should have five syllables: "Green and lush forest..."
- Create the second line in the poem. This line has seven syllables: "...Trees are reaching toward the sky..."
- Make the third line of the poem. It is supposed to have five syllables: "...Eyes peer from the shrubs..."
- Write the fourth line of the poem. This line has seven syllables: "...A rustle of twigs within..."
- Create the final line in your poem. Keep in mind that the fifth line has seven syllables: "...A bird's call sounds above you..."
- Here is the finished Tanka:"Green and lush forest,Tress are reaching toward the sky,Eyes peer from the shrubs,A rustle of twigs within,A bird's call sounds above you..."
Tips
- The key to writing any good poem is to be creative. Use imagery and words that convey emotion. Do not be afraid to whip out the thesaurus.
- Practice; the more you write, the better you will be.
- Read Tanka's for inspiration
Related wikiHows
- How to Write a Meaningful Poem
- How to Create Instant Romantic Poetry
- How to Write a Haiku Poem
- How to Write an Ode About Math
- How to Write an Emotionally Charged Poem
- How to Write an Acrostic Poem
- How to Write a Poem
Article provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Write a Tanka Poem. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
How To-31: "How to Write a Ballad"
How to Write a Ballad
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
A Ballad is a narrative composition in rhythmic verse suitable for singing. Originally ballads were not written down and were passed down from generation to generation orally; the music helped people to remember the story. Do you want to write a memorable ballad? While there are no real rules for writing a ballad, the traditional ballad form has a few easily replicated characteristics that have made it a popular storytelling device for hundreds of years.
Steps
- Find a starter phrase. Perhaps you want to write a ballad for a particular occasion or to commemorate a certain event or person. Maybe, however, you just want to write a song, but at the beginning you're not sure what it will be about, and it naturally evolves into a ballad. Either way, the process for starting your ballad is the same as for starting any other song: find one phrase, a line or two, that you like, and build your song from there. Your starter phrase doesn't actually have to be the first line of the song--in many cases it will be the chorus, for example--but you just need somewhere to start. You can call it inspiration or you can call it brainstorming; the end result is the same.
- If a phrase or verse just pops into your head out of the blue, you can use that as your starter phrase. This is what people often refer to as inspiration. If the phrase is particularly catchy and seems to summarize the story or describe the story's main idea, then you probably have a chorus--the lines that are repeated over and over again throughout a song. Otherwise you probably have a verse or part of a verse.
- If you want to write a ballad about a specific thing think about that thing and write down some key words and phrases that can be used to describe it. When one of these catches your fancy, you can build the rest of the ballad around it, maybe by using other words or phrases on your list or maybe by using entirely different words and phrases.
- Complete the verse or chorus that contains your starter phrase. Ballads typically have four lines, of which two or more rhyme. Common rhyme schemes include aabb (where the word at the end of the first line rhymes with the word at the end of the second, and the word at the end of the third line rhymes with the word at the end of the fourth); and abcb (in which only the second and fourth lines rhyme). Build one verse around your starter phrase using these techniques. If the phrase you began with already has two or more lines, your task is that much easier.
- Some ballads have the chorus built into each verse. In these cases, the rhyme scheme is often abac, where the two-line chorus occupies the second and fourth lines ("b" and "c") of each verse.
- Use a consistent meter. The meter is basically the pattern of syllables in a song or poem. Most ballads use the same meter throughout the song, or the meter for the chorus may differ from that of the verses. Typically a ballad's meter will be either:
- Every line has the same number of syllables and the same number of accented syllables; or
- Lines that "go together" will have the same number of syllables and accented syllables. For example, in a ballad with an abac rhyme scheme, the "a" lines may each have 7 syllables, of which four are accented, while the "b" and "c" lines each have 6 syllables, of which 3 are accented.
- Complete the remaining choruses and verses using your template. Once you have the first chorus or verse down, you just need to complete your story following the same structural guidelines you used for the first verse that you wrote. Don't be a slave to that structure, though. If you need to vary the length of a line or even of a verse here and there, go ahead and do it, and if you want to deviate from your rhyme pattern feel free to do so if it will make your poem better.
- If you first wrote the chorus, you can repeat that over and over throughout the song leaving it unchanged or changing it only slightly each time.
- If you first wrote a verse, you may find it easier to write the rest of the verses before trying to write the chorus.
- Edit your ballad. Let a little time pass, and then come back to your ballad and edit it with fresh eyes and ears. If you got stuck on a line or two earlier--you couldn't find the right rhyme, for example, or there were just too many syllables--come back and see if you can fix them now. Cut out any unnecessary verses, leaving only what the story needs.
- Once you have finished read it over so that you are happy with it, if you are not go through the steps again.
- Whatever you do, do not plaugerize. Its just not worth it
Tips
. It's OK to write a ballad without music. A ballad is a form of lyrical poetry, which means
simply that it can be sung. It doesn't have to be.
- If you sing or hum as you go, sometimes the words will just flow. It's just the trick of getting started.
- Unless you're writing your poem for a school assignment, you probably won't begin by thinking, "I'm going to write a ballad." The ballad form simply works well for a number of songwriting / storytelling uses, and some songs just sort of fall into that form naturally.
- Don't be afraid to be creative with your rhymes. If you try to force all your rhymes to be perfect, your song's lyrics may end up sounding silly or nonsensical. While rhyme is typically important in a ballad, there's nothing to say that you can't "rhyme" home with alone or even song.
- It's not necessary to use four-line verses and choruses. While this is the most common ballad form, occasionally you'll find a ballad with, say, six lines, or one with a varying number of lines per chorus. Perhaps yours will be one of these.
- If you know the story you want to tell, but you're having trouble putting it into a poetic structure, write out the story first. Don't worry about putting the story into verse yet--just get it down. You may find it easier to organize once the story is written.
- If you don't know what the melody of your ballad should be, you can wait until melodic inspiration strikes you; you can sing your words to the tune of another ballad; or you can get somebody to put your poem to music.
- If you come up with a melody but can't write music, record yourself singing your ballad so you won't forget how it goes. Don't trust yourself to remember the melody until you've sung it many times.
- If you do want to make sure your lines rhyme, try rhymezone.com, but a couple of warnings. First, try typing the sound of the part of the word that rhymes, rather than the whole word. You'll get more options that way. Secondly, do not get so caught up in rhyming you can't make your ballad good. As above, it doesn't need to be perfect.
Warnings
. Because ballads are so easy to write, and because telling a story is so much fun, balladwriters often tend to go overboard and want to include every clever verse and rhyme
that they can think of. Too many verses may weigh down the song and make it boring,
especially since the ballad form tends to be quite repetitive.
Related wikiHows
- How to Write a Song
- How to Write a Poem
- How to Write a Love Poem
- How to Write a Short Story
- How to Write a Salable Life Story
- How to Write an Autobiography
- How to Write a Children's Story
- How to Be a Poet
Sources and Citations
. Rhyme Zone Rhyming Dictionary and ThesaurusArticle provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Write a Ballad. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
How To-30: "How to Write a Tetactrys Poem"
How to Write a Tetactrys Poem
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
A Tetactrys Poem is a five line, structured poem that is easy to write.
Steps
- Think of a topic for the poem or use one supplied for an assignment.
- Write down as many words as possible related to the topic.
- Pick a one syllable word to be the first line of the poem.
- Pick a two syllable word or two one syllable words for the second line of the poem.
- Pick a three syllable word or a combination of words to add up to three syllables for the third line of the poem.
- Pick a four syllable work or a combination of words to add up to four syllables for the fourth line of the poem.
- Look at your list of words that have not been used yet and look at the first four lines of the poem to see what is missing.
- Create a ten syllable line for the last line of the poem.
- Choose a title for the poem based on the five lines. There should be a theme that pops out that may or may not be the original topic.
Tips
- Remember each line of the poem has a different number of syllables. The first line has 1. The second line has 2. The third line has 3. The fourth line has 4. The fifth and final line has 10 syllables.
- Clap your hands to count the syllables in each line to make sure you have the correct count.
- Make sure the final line of the poem ties the whole poem together.
Warnings
- Don't count the title as one of the lines of the poem, even if it is one syllable long.
Related wikiHows
- How to Write a Poem
- How to Write a Haiku Poem
- How to Write a Love Poem
- How to Publish a Poem
- How to Write a Tyburn Poem
Sources and Citations
- Visit edonyourown.com for more information on writing tips and tetactrys poetry examples
Article provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Write a Tetactrys Poem. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
How To-29: "How to Write a Limerick Poem"
How to Write a Limerick Poem
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
This is how to write a Limerick. They are usually witty or humorous, and have five lines: the first two rhyme, the two in the middle rhyme, and the last line rhymes with the first two lines. (Rhyme-scheme: AABBA)
Steps
- Pick what you would like your limerick to be about. It could be about mice, a tree, a person, whatever.
- Start your first line. Don't end it with something you can't rhyme--like 'orange'. Start it like "there once was a man who ate limes" or something like that.
- your next line has to rhyme with the first line. If you were using "there once was a man who ate limes", your second line could be like, "he ate them all the time" or "And sampled various wines" your limerick would now be like there once was a man who ate limes/ and sampled various wines.
- The third and fourth lines have to be related to the first part of your limerick, but with not the same rhyme. they could be like, he wouldn't touch a tomato/ it tasted too much like potato or something along those lines.
- The fifth (last) line must rhyme with the first two lines. your last line could be like, "and potatoes, you know, do not shine" or something like that.
- your entire limerick would be kind of like this
Tips
- if you don't like your limerick, you can always go back and change it. It's not permanent.
Related wikiHows
- How to Write a Limerick
- How to Write Limericks
- How to Create a List of Rhyming Words for a Poem or Song
Article provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Write a Limerick Poem. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
How To-28: "How to Write a Villanelle"
How to Write a Villanelle
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
Attempting this difficult French form of poetry can be challenging and fun. Here is the basis of the form.
Steps
- Comprehend the form of this poetry. The villanelle has 19 lines, 5 stanzas of three lines and 1 stanza of four lines with two rhymes and two refrains. The 1st, then the 3rd lines alternate as the last lines of stanzas 2, 3, and 4, and then stanza 5 (the end) as a couplet. It is usually written in tetrameter (4 feet) or pentameter. The structure is provided with this example by Edward Arlington Robinson:
- line 1 - a - 1st refrain-Since Persia fell at Marathon
- line 2 - b The yellow years have gathered fast
- line 3- a- 2nd refrain- Long centuries have come and gone.
- line 4 - a - And yet(they say) the place will don
- line 5 - b A phantom fury of the past,
- line 6 - a - 1st refrain- Since Persia fell at Marathon;
- line 7 - a And as of old when Helicon
- line 8 - b Trembled and swayed with rapture vast
- line 9-a -2nd refrain-(Long centuries have come and gone).
- line 10 - a The ancient plain, when nigh comes on,
- line 11 - b Shakes to a ghostly battle blast,
- line 12 - a - 1st refrain- Since Persia fell at Marathon
- line 13 - a But into soundless Acheron
- line 14 - b The glory of Greek shame was cast:
- line 15- a -2nd refrain- Long centuries have come and gone,
- line 16 - a The suns of hellas have all shone,
- line 17 - b The first has fallen to the last;--
- line 18-a - 1st refrain- Since Persia fell at Marathon,
- line 19-a- 2nd refrain- Long centuries have come and gone.
- Pay special attention to the placement of the refrain and the rhyme pattern formed by the last word of each line.
- Choose the subject for your villanelle carefully. It is a difficult form that repeats two lines multiple times. Ask yourself if your subject is one that can be handled with these limitations.
- Once you've settled on an idea, work out the rhyme and compile two lists of words that rhyme.
- Write the first and second refrain as two lines that follow a complete thought. For instance Dylan Thomas's two lines from his famous villanelle: "Do not go gentle into that goodnight/Rage, rage against the dying of a light."
- Take those lines and place them in the framework given above. This will be the basis for the villanelle and look, and 42% of the poem is already complete.
- Now comes the hard part. Fill in the eleven remaining lines to make a cohesive poem.
- Read the poem aloud to a large audience and bow.
Tips
- Even the crustiest English professors and most brilliant of all literary minds struggle with the villanelle so don't sweat it.
- Choose a small subject that fascinates you.
- Villanelles originated as a musical form and sound terrific read or sung aloud. They also sound better in French or Italian.
- Read Elizabeth Bishop's villanelle "One Art" and Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into that Goodnight" for Inspiration.
- Meter the lines so they maintain a rhythm and are of the same length. They are traditionally in tetrameter or pentameter in English but can work in free verse as well.
Warnings
- Too large a topic can overburden the form. Simple is best.
Related wikiHows
- How to Write a Poem
- How to Write a Love Poem
- How to Write a Ballad
- How to Write a Children's Story
- How to Write a Tanka Poem
Article provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Write a Villanelle. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
How To-27: "How to Write a Tyburn Poem"
How to Write a Tyburn Poem
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
A Tyburn poem is a unique form of poem, consisting of 6 lines. Its structure depends on using syllables in a specific way. The first four lines must consist of 2 syllable words and the last two lines must consist of 9 syllables: 2,2,2,2,9,9 syllables. Have a try and enjoy it!
Steps
- Write the first four lines. The first through fourth lines are 2 syllable words that describe whatever your poem is about. They all have to be different, and they all must rhyme.
- Write the last two lines. The last two lines are nine syllables (whew!) and the sixth through eighth syllables must be the words you used from lines 1 through 4. In any order, but it has to be those words. The last two lines have to rhyme with each other, but not necessarily with the first four lines.
- Try to take a second, and vizualize your topic, and imagine that you're doing it, or being with it, or whatever. You should do that before anything else. Then just sit in a relaxed place, where there's not too much to disturb you, and just let your mind flow down into your arms (hopefully not literally), down to your hands, and just out through your pencil, to the creases of your paper. It really does work! Good luck!
Tips
- Getting to be really good at writing poetry takes a really long time, so don't expect to get it perfectly right the very first time. If you really enjoy it, you might want to consider an occupation that involves it. But keep in mind that poetry is not for everyone.
Warnings
- Don't get too stressed out over writing poetry. If you do, then it will just make it harder to write, and prevent you from really writing from the heart
- Try not to do poetry at the last minute because you will usually not do as good as a job as you would if you worked on it a little bit each night, or more, if it inspires you.
Things You'll Need
- Pencil/pens/erasers - these are very important!
- A nice, peaceful, quiet place
- Something to write on (paper, cardboard, etc.)
- An open and waiting mind
Related wikiHows
- How to Write a Villanelle
- How to Write a Poem
- How to Write a Ballad
- How to Write a Tanka Poem
- How to Write a Love Poem
- How to Write a Tetactrys Poem
- How to Write a Limerick Poem
- How to Write a Poem About Nature
Article provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Write a Tyburn Poem. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
How To-26: "How to Analyze Poetry"
How to Analyze Poetry
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
Reading and understanding poetry can seem like a daunting task. Follow these steps to begin to "unpeel the layers" of your favorite poem. It may take a lot of work, but that's what makes poetry so beautiful: the payoff is very rewarding.
Steps
- First reactions. The first time you read through a poem, record any “gut reactions” you have to the poem: any emotional connections you have with what the author is saying, reminders of personal experiences, things you like or dislike, etc. Think in terms of, “How do I feel about this? Why?” These reactions can help you focus on the type of response the poet is looking for in a reader.
- Literal meaning. Translate the poem into conversational English. How would you tell the poem’s story to a friend? Think in terms of, “What’s the most common dictionary definition of this word or phrase?” This can be a difficult step, but remember that all good poetry, even when it seems incredibly inaccessible, is still based on words that carry literal meaning.
- Connotative meaning. Take several key words or phrases from the poem and consider the kinds of connotations they carry. Think in terms of, “Why this word and not another?” Refer to your first reactions: often connotative meanings, rather than denotative, are what engage our emotions.
- Take the word “mother,” for example. The dictionary would define mother as “a female parent.” OK, but the word “mother” probably creates emotions and feelings in you: it paints a picture in your mind. You may think of love and security or you may think of your own mother. The emotions and feelings that a word creates are called its connotative meaning. See this page for more help on connotation.
- Symbolic meaning. Record any allusions you recognize, references to symbols, etc. Think in terms of, “What could this stand for? Why?”
- For example, consider the word "light." This may not refer to the literal condition that means the opposite of darkness; often "light" is used to symbolize knowledge, truth, peace, joy, or spirituality.
- At this point, stop and ask yourself, “What is the author trying to say? What is his goal for this poem? What kind of a reaction is he trying to get out of readers? Why?” Try to identify the author’s purpose for writing.
- Analysis from here on out will probably help you examine how the author accomplishes that affect or meets that goal, rather than what that affect or goal is.
- Prosody. Analyze the poem in terms of poetic devices. Look for tools of form and format (shape, rhyme, meter, etc.), sound (alliteration, assonance, etc.), imagery (sensory detail, word pictures, etc.) and so forth. Think in terms of, "What kind of language tools is this author using? How do those tools help him accomplish his goal?"
- See this website for a list of possible literary devices you can look for and their definitions.
- Narrative Arc. Read through the poem like a story: all poems have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Try to identify a crisis, or a problem presented by the poem and how the author fixes it. Think in terms of, "Why is the poem set up like this? Is the crisis truly resolved at the end? Why or why not?"
Tips
- If you're still having trouble understanding what the author is trying to say through the poem, go back and read through it a few more times. Pay attention to the kinds of emotions the poem relates to. Often a poet's goal will be simply to help readers feel a certain way or sense the reality of an imagined scene.
Warnings
- Try not to get frustrated. Some poetry can be very challenging to understand. All in all, just practice! Don't give up. Learning to appreciate complex poetry is a skill that takes time to develop.
Related wikiHows
- How to Understand the Book You Are Reading
- How to Write a Paper for College Literature Classes
- How to Write a Poem
- How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry
- How to Write Serious Gothic Poetry
- How to Turn Poetry Into Lyrics
Article provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Analyze Poetry. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
How To-25: "How to Read Poetry out Loud"
How to Read Poetry out Loud
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
"A word is dead/
When it is said,/
Some say./
I say/
It just begins to live/
That day."- Emily Dickinson
It's a safe bet that, if you like the arts or take English or writing classes, you'll be called upon to recite or read a poem. This guide will aid you in doing just that.
Steps
- In the days (or even just minutes, in some classes) leading up to the recitation or reading, practice. First, read the poem and quiz yourself on it until you know it by heart. Practice it as often as you can.
- Prepare yourself for the actual presentation. Drink a glass of water before hand to moisten your throat for the reading. If you have a fear of public speaking, try breathing exercises to calm yourself. Practice once or twice before you make your presentation. Make sure you can recite your poem perfectly.
- Recite or read the poem. Don't read like a robot, put emotion into your project! Depending on the situation, you can glitz it up and use inflection or movement to make a point.
- After you're done, get another sip or two of water, and calm down. It's over, you did great. If you think you didn't perform well, you have more motivation for next time. But it's nothing to stress about any longer.
Tips
- Don't think of it as just something for a show or project, think of it was a future conversation piece or a trick for calming babies.
- Make sure you know where the breaks and punctuation are in the poem. Also make sure you know how to read it. Is is sing-song or gravely serious?
Warnings
- This isn't a guide to help stage fright. This isn't for writing poetry. This is simply a guide on how to read it properly.
- Don't read like a robot! Nothing messes up a great poem like someone reading it like they've never practiced or never use emotion.
Related wikiHows
- How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry
- How to Master the Basics of Poetry
- How to Write Emotional Poetry
- How to Be a Poet
Article provided by wikiHow, a collaborative writing project to build the world's largest, highest quality how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Read Poetry out Loud. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.
Poem of the day-42: "Travel" by R.L.Stevenson
I should like to rise and go
Where the golden apples grow;--
Where below another sky
Parrot islands anchored lie,
And, watched by cockatoos and goats,
Lonely Crusoes building boats;--
Where in sunshine reaching out
Eastern cities, miles about,
Are with mosque and minaret
Among sandy gardens set,
And the rich goods from near and far
Hang for sale in the bazaar;--
Where the Great Wall round China goes,
And on one side the desert blows,
And with the voice and bell and drum,
Cities on the other hum;--
Where are forests hot as fire,
Wide as England, tall as a spire,
Full of apes and cocoa-nuts
And the negro hunters' huts;--
Where the knotty crocodile
Lies and blinks in the Nile,
And the red flamingo flies
Hunting fish before his eyes;--
Where in jungles near and far,
Man-devouring tigers are,
Lying close and giving ear
Lest the hunt be drawing near,
Or a comer-by be seen
Swinging in the palanquin;--
Where among the desert sands
Some deserted city stands,
All its children, sweep and prince,
Grown to manhood ages since,
Not a foot in street or house,
Not a stir of child or mouse,
And when kindly falls the night,
In all the town no spark of light.
There I'll come when I'm a man
With a camel caravan;
Light a fire in the gloom
Of some dusty dining room;
See the pictures on the walls,
Heroes, fights and festivals;
And in a corner find the toys
Of the old Egyptian boys.
From "A Child's Garden of Verses" by Robert Louis Stevenson
Detailed Wikipedia article on "Robert Louis Stevenson":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson
Grateful thanks to Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Where the golden apples grow;--
Where below another sky
Parrot islands anchored lie,
And, watched by cockatoos and goats,
Lonely Crusoes building boats;--
Where in sunshine reaching out
Eastern cities, miles about,
Are with mosque and minaret
Among sandy gardens set,
And the rich goods from near and far
Hang for sale in the bazaar;--
Where the Great Wall round China goes,
And on one side the desert blows,
And with the voice and bell and drum,
Cities on the other hum;--
Where are forests hot as fire,
Wide as England, tall as a spire,
Full of apes and cocoa-nuts
And the negro hunters' huts;--
Where the knotty crocodile
Lies and blinks in the Nile,
And the red flamingo flies
Hunting fish before his eyes;--
Where in jungles near and far,
Man-devouring tigers are,
Lying close and giving ear
Lest the hunt be drawing near,
Or a comer-by be seen
Swinging in the palanquin;--
Where among the desert sands
Some deserted city stands,
All its children, sweep and prince,
Grown to manhood ages since,
Not a foot in street or house,
Not a stir of child or mouse,
And when kindly falls the night,
In all the town no spark of light.
There I'll come when I'm a man
With a camel caravan;
Light a fire in the gloom
Of some dusty dining room;
See the pictures on the walls,
Heroes, fights and festivals;
And in a corner find the toys
Of the old Egyptian boys.
From "A Child's Garden of Verses" by Robert Louis Stevenson
Detailed Wikipedia article on "Robert Louis Stevenson":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson
Grateful thanks to Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Shakespeare's Sonnets-10:
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Poem of the day-41: "A Cradle Song" by William Blake
Sweet dreams form a shade
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
Sweet sleep with soft down,
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.
Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep sleep happy child.
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee,
Thy maker lay and wept for me
Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee.
Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are his own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
Sweet sleep with soft down,
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.
Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep sleep happy child.
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee,
Thy maker lay and wept for me
Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee.
Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are his own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Poem of the day-40: "Ode to the West Wind" by Shelley
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion over the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
Thou on whose stream, \mid the steep sky\s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning; there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height -
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapurs, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams,
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Balae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic\s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of teh coean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip the skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision, I would never have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguisehd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion over the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
Thou on whose stream, \mid the steep sky\s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning; there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height -
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapurs, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams,
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Balae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic\s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of teh coean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip the skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision, I would never have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguisehd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Shakespeare's Sonnets-9:
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
Poem of the day-39: "Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog" by Oliver Goldsmith
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran -
Whenever he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad -
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light
That showed the rogues they lied, -
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran -
Whenever he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad -
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light
That showed the rogues they lied, -
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!
Monday, October 20, 2008
Poem of the day-38: "Growing Old" by Matthew Arnold
What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
Yes, but not for this alone.
Is to feel our strength -
Not our bloom only, but our strength - decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more weakly strung?
Yes, this, and more! but not,
Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twouldbe!
'Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,
A golden day's decline!
'Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more!
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young.
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel:
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion - none.
It is - last stage of all -
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
- Matthew Arnold
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
Yes, but not for this alone.
Is to feel our strength -
Not our bloom only, but our strength - decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more weakly strung?
Yes, this, and more! but not,
Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twouldbe!
'Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,
A golden day's decline!
'Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more!
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young.
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel:
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion - none.
It is - last stage of all -
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
- Matthew Arnold
Wikipedia article on "MATTHEW ARNOLD":
Full-text of "CELTIC LITERATURE" by Matthew Arnold from Project Gutenberg:
Full-text of "CULTURE AND ANARCHY" by Matthew Arnold from Project Gutenberg:
Full-text of Matthew Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum and other Poems from Project Gutenberg:
Full-text of Selections from the Prose Works of Matthew Arnold from Project Gutenberg:
Poems of Matthew Arnold from PoetSeers.org:
Digital Edition of The Letters of Matthew Arnold from the University of Virginia Press:
Full-text of 'Matthew Arnold' by D.W.E.Russell from JohnKeats.org:
Grateful thanks to Project Gutenberg, PoetSeers.org, University of Virginia Press, JohnKeats.org and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Shakespeare's Sonnets-8:
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Poem of the day-37: "The Land of Dreams" by William Blake
Awake, awake my little boy!
Thou wast thy Mother's only joy:
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy Father does thee keep.
"O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O Father, I saw my Mother there,
Among the lillies by waters fair.
Among the lambs clothed in white
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn -
O when shall I return again?"
Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams;
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.
"Father, O Father, what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the Morning Star."
Wikipedia article on "WILLIAM BLAKE":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
Full-text of poems of William Blake from Project Gutenberg:
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/574/574.txt
Grateful thanks to Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Thou wast thy Mother's only joy:
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy Father does thee keep.
"O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O Father, I saw my Mother there,
Among the lillies by waters fair.
Among the lambs clothed in white
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn -
O when shall I return again?"
Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams;
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.
"Father, O Father, what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the Morning Star."
Wikipedia article on "WILLIAM BLAKE":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
Full-text of poems of William Blake from Project Gutenberg:
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/574/574.txt
Grateful thanks to Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Shakespeare's Sonnets-7:
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
Poem of the day-36: "To Time" by Lord Byron
Time! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die -
Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed
Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee - since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.
To them be joy or rest - on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain;
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief;
It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Woe;
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee - not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk - and now thou art
A blank - a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform -
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.
And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon - a nameless stone.
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die -
Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed
Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee - since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.
To them be joy or rest - on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain;
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief;
It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Woe;
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee - not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk - and now thou art
A blank - a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform -
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.
And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon - a nameless stone.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Poem of the day-35: "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" by John Keats
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific - and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific - and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Shakespeare's Sonnets-6:
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Poem of the day-35: "A Cossack Lullaby" by Lermontov
Sleep, my darling, sleep, my baby,
Close your eyes and sleep.
Darkness comes; into your cradle
Moonbeams shyly peep.
Many pretty songs I'll sing you
And a lullaby.
Pleasant dreams the night will bring you....
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
Close your eyes and sleep.
Darkness comes; into your cradle
Moonbeams shyly peep.
Many pretty songs I'll sing you
And a lullaby.
Pleasant dreams the night will bring you....
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Poem of the day-34: "Try, Try Again!"
It is a lesson you should heed,
Try, try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For, if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear;
Try, try again.
Once or twice though you should fail,
Try, try again;
If you would at last prevail,
Try, try again;
If we strive, it is no disgrace
Though we do not win the race;
What should you do in that case?
Try, try again.
Time will bring you your reward.
Try, try again;
All that other folks can do,
Why, with patient, should not you?
Only keep this rule in view:
TRY, TRY AGAIN.
Author: Not known.
Try, try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For, if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear;
Try, try again.
Once or twice though you should fail,
Try, try again;
If you would at last prevail,
Try, try again;
If we strive, it is no disgrace
Though we do not win the race;
What should you do in that case?
Try, try again.
Time will bring you your reward.
Try, try again;
All that other folks can do,
Why, with patient, should not you?
Only keep this rule in view:
TRY, TRY AGAIN.
Author: Not known.
Shakespeare's Sonnets-5:
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Poem of the day-33: "The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows worldwide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows worldwide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Shakespeare's Sonnets-4:
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Poem of the day-32: "IF" by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about don't deal in lies.
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken.
And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools;
If you can make on heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yous is the Earth and everything that is in it,
And - which is more - you will be a Man, my son!"
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about don't deal in lies.
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken.
And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools;
If you can make on heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yous is the Earth and everything that is in it,
And - which is more - you will be a Man, my son!"
Wikipedia articles on: "If" and "Rudyard Kipling":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If%E2%80%94
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling
Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Poetry 180: A Poem a Day for American High Schools
I came across this interesting portal last week. It is hosted by the Library of Congress, USA. Though it says "a poem a day for American schools", anybody who loves poetry will find it interesting. To know more about it, I reproduce the Introduction given by Billy Collins, Former Poet Laureate of the United States:
"Welcome to Poetry 180. Poetry can and should be an important part of our daily lives. Poems can inspire and make us think about what it means to be a member of the human race. By just spending a few minutes reading a poem each day, new worlds can be revealed.
Poetry 180 is designed to make it easy for students to hear or read a poem on each of the 180 days of the school year. I have selected the poems you will find here with high school students in mind. They are intended to be listened to, and I suggest that all members of the school community be included as readers. A great time for the readings would be following the end of daily announcements over the public address system.
Listening to poetry can encourage students and other learners to become members of the circle of readers for whom poetry is a vital source of pleasure. I hope Poetry 180 becomes an important and enriching part of the school day".
------
Give it a try, you will like it; I liked it.
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