On Poetry-17:

Poetry is a record of the life around us and in us, and you'll get a better idea from poetry what it was like to be alive in 2011 than you will from the New York Times - Garrison Keillor

Audio-Video Poems-6: The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

For a detailed article on Robert Frost from Wikipedia:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Frost

Grateful thanks to stotan88, YouTube and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Audio-Video Poems-5: "No longer mourn for me when I am dead" by William Shakespeare

Grateful thanks to JohnDoylePoems and YouTube.

Greetings

Happy Diwali to all!

Poem of the day-99: A Poison Tree by William Blake

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe;

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with my smiles

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright;

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veil'd the pole:

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree

Poem of the day-98: A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Audio-Video Poems-4: How do I love thee by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Grateful thanks to Vananhdo and YouTube.

Audio-Video Poems-3: Grief by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

For a detailed article on Elizabeth Barret Browning from Wikipedia:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Barret_Browning

For reading the Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barret Browning from Project Gutenberg:

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33363/33363-h/33363-h.htm

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31015/31015-h/31015-h.htm

Grateful thanks to JohnDoylePoems, YouTube, Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia..

Audio-Video Poems-2: 12 Poems of Emily Dickinson - Aaron Copeland

For a detailed article on Emily Dickinson from Wikipedia:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson

To read the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson from Project Gutenberg:

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12242/12242-h/12242-h.htm

To listen to Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson (audio file - MP3 format)from Project Gutenberg:

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/22444/mp3/22444-14.mp3

Grateful thanks to Aron Copeland, punkpoetry, YouTube, Project Gutenberg and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Poem of the day-97: "A child said, What is the grass?" by Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

For a write-up on Walt Whitman from Wikipedia:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman

Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia.

Poem of the day-96: "Past and Present" by Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.


I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups -
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday, -
The tree is living yet!


I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.


I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.


For detailed info on the poet, Thomas Hood, from Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hood


Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

On Poetry-16:

The crown of literature is poetry – W.Somerset Maugham

On Poetry-15:

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar - Shelley

On Poetry-14:

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits - Carl Sandburg

On Poetry-13:

Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away - Carl Sandburg

Poem of the day-95: "How soon hath time" by Milton

How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth
Stoln on his wing mt three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.

Poem of the day-94: After by Robert Browning

Take the cloak from his face, and at first
Let the corpse do its worst!

How he lies in the rights of a man!
Death has done all death can.
And, absorbed in the new life he leads,
He recks not, he heeds
Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike
On his senses alike,
And are lost in the solemn and strange
Surprise of the change.
Ha, what avails death to erase
His offence, my disgrace?
I would we were boys as of old
In the field, by the fold:
His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn
Were so easily borne!

I stand here now, he lies in his place:
Cover the face!

Poem of the day-93: The Course of True Love by Shakespeare

For aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth:
But, either it was different in blood,
Or else misgraffèd in respect of years,
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say,—Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.

Poem of the day-92: Charge of the Light Brigade by Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.


Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.


Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.


When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Poem of the day-91: Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind by William Shakespeare

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art 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 feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.