Your Poems and My Poems

On Poetry-17:

2011-07-16T13:19:00.002+05:30

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

2010-11-11T11:27:00.000+05:30

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

2010-11-10T08:02:00.000+05:30

Grateful thanks to JohnDoylePoems and YouTube.

Greetings

2010-11-05T06:42:00.002+05:30

Happy Diwali to all!

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

2010-11-05T06:38:00.000+05:30

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

2010-11-04T19:53:00.000+05:30

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

2010-11-02T18:17:00.001+05:30

Grateful thanks to Vananhdo and YouTube.

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

2010-11-01T09:24:00.004+05:30

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

2010-10-31T09:27:00.001+05:30

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

2010-06-23T09:05:00.003+05:30

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

2010-06-22T21:08:00.001+05:30

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:

2010-05-02T20:55:00.000+05:30

The crown of literature is poetry – W.Somerset Maugham

On Poetry-15:

2010-04-29T13:23:00.000+05:30

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:

2010-04-27T06:54:00.001+05:30

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits - Carl Sandburg

On Poetry-13:

2010-04-26T19:18:00.001+05:30

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

2010-04-25T09:51:00.003+05:30

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

2010-04-24T07:24:00.002+05:30

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

2010-04-21T16:45:00.000+05:30

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

2010-04-20T10:09:00.002+05:30

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

2010-04-19T21:59:00.001+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-90: A Bird Came Down the Walk by Emily Dickinson

2010-04-18T20:00:00.002+05:30

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.

Poem of the day-89: "The Grave" by Longfellow

2010-02-26T19:14:00.002+05:30

For thee wert born,
Ere thou wert born,
For thee was a mould means
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein.
The heel-ways are low.
The side-ways unigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within;
There thou art fast detained
And death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends;
Thou hast no friend,
Who will come to thee,
Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee,
Who will ever open
And descend after thee,
The door for thee
For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.

Priya's Poems-13: "Parting Moments"

2010-02-26T19:11:00.001+05:30

my feet;
fixed in a magnetic stillness.
emotions;
rise and fall,
like waves at heart shore.
words jumble and tumble
at the lips;
words fail,
eyes speak in hush and lull.
eyes ;
reading each other's heart to deep.
mind;
freezes thy picture in memory,
silence in conversation
hands in raise,
wave in motion,
tears rolldown,
from the wet eyes
down the cheeks.......
voice is heard inside my heart
"good bye dear........
good luck
awaiting
thy early arrival......."

Poem of the day-88: "Spring" by Longfellow

2010-02-24T20:36:00.002+05:30

Gentle Spring! - in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou, - thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
Thy sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early.
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When they merry step draws near.

Priya's Poems-12: "The Biggest Lie*"

2010-02-24T20:34:00.001+05:30

Thou poisoned
the minds
of our first parents
made fools
of our knowledge.

Thou, a beautiful seductress*
unconspicuous to all
seducing everyone,
who come
in search of thee...
thou are so beautiful
oh, i love you dear.

Thou pervert
the young minds
many lost their lives
in scrutinising thee....

Thou induce
the poets brain
for many
thou were a sloppy slide
for a few
thou were a large ladder.

Thou the
most perilous addiction
make them
thy impetuous slave
to live
in delusion.

They pierce
inside thee...
to hedge reality.
thou make them
to overleap themselves.........

Thou THE BIGGEST LIE*.......

--------------------------

*IMAGINATION

Poem of the day-87: "The Brook" by Longfellow

2010-02-23T16:23:00.002+05:30

Laugh of the mountain! - lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born.
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, wherever thy devious current strays
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shephered's gaze
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!
O sweet simplicity of days gone by!
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid round!

Priya's Poems-11: "Beautiful!"

2010-02-23T16:21:00.002+05:30

oh! it's the mirror of thy heart
nay! it's the picture of thy soul
how many.......
sometimes black
sometimes blue
sometimes green
sometimes grey
sometimes red
sometimes pink
thousands of emotions........
all dancing up and down
like waves
sometimes tears
sometimes fears
sometimes cry
sometimes shy
sometimes cold
sometimes bold
though thou fail
they speak in silence
for thee...
oh! what a beauty
the ultimate seduction
LARGER than opium
it's the index of thy mind.....
like a grape in ice cream
beautiful......
PAIR OF BLACK ROSES

Poem of the day-86: "A Psalm of Life" by Longfellow

2010-02-22T12:53:00.002+05:30

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting.
And our hearts, though stout and brave
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, however pleasant
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God overhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footsteps on the sands of time.

Footsteps, that perhaps another,
Sailing over life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Priya's Poems-10: "Ode to Juno"

2010-02-22T12:49:00.002+05:30

A Tale is in air.
An unheard melody,
Silent lamentations,
Some commemorations,
Vacant dreams,
It’s an Untold tale
of this barren land.

Others
In green.
With blossoming of flowers
in Varied colours…
With barley and rye
Ready for harvest,
With melodies of
Cuckoos and nightingales,
Always in spring.

But,
Tears are soaked in this barren land
Grim in grey and blue,
Howls of
owls and vultures,
Always in winter.

Longing for spring,
Oh what black curse,
Have fallen upon me?

Of fertile nights ,
And winds of melodious ,
sweet lullabies,
pardoned here are rotten woods ,
Of which cradles are made,
yet broken they start ,
and broken they stay.

Ye……..JUNO
Waiting for thy grace.

Poem of the day-85: "Footsteps of Angels" by Longfellow

2010-02-19T17:11:00.003+05:30

When the hours of Day are numbered
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!

Priya's Poems-9: "The Deserted School"

2010-02-19T17:07:00.001+05:30

In the midst of fields,
cusp of the village;
Deep in the bush,
On the highways,
Is the deserted school,
Busy at nights.

Learners are varied
Affluent and the impoverished
Young and old
Primitive and polished
Both
canny ,clever
And
Dope ,dunce
Are
Daily visitors.

Periodical screams,
Recurrent laughs,
intermittent cries,
with screeching of owls,
all the night.

Many tiny pieces of cigarettes,
broken pieces of liquor bottles,
stained cloth,
shattered condoms.

In a corner
Of the wall,
Portrait of
Our father
With his OLD stick,
In search of truth(path)….
Hangs upside down!!!!

Poem of the day-84: "The Light of the Stars" by Longfellow

2010-02-18T20:28:00.002+05:30

The night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently
All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven
But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?
The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above,
A hero's armor gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Then beckonest with thy mailed hand.
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light.
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoever thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

Priya's Poems-8: "Whither Arcadia?"

2010-02-18T20:25:00.002+05:30

Near the farm it resides
Far and wide
Wide, tide full of pride.
Unadulterated water
Always tasted by honey guide.
Un-chided by all.
With Barbados pride
Side by side.
Near the lantern of the lighthouse.
Giving sweet stimulating
Invigorating air
Pure and white.

Crowd pleasing worldwide
Lies this Continental divide.

Years along with
Colours changed.
The abandoned lake
Void out of water
Gushing out of
Industrial garbage
By the giant factory
Remodeled on a old light house
Emitting
Foul and filthy air
interminably,
In black and grey.
Scattered Corpses of dead animals
Half eaten by vultures
In the midst of deep dark bushes
Lies deserted………

Poem of the day-83: "Hymn to the Night" by Longfellow

2010-02-17T17:33:00.002+05:30

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might.
Stoop over me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there.
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care.
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair.
The best-beloved Night!

Priya's Poems-7: "ROSE"

2010-02-17T17:31:00.000+05:30

Thou were a
ROSE to me..
A beautiful Red ROSE
Loved you so much
Marveled thee
Glorified thee
Worshipped thee
Came near thee
To smell thy sweet fragrance
But thou
Poked my heart
With thy poisonous thorn.
I bleed………

Poem of the day-82: "God's Acre" by Longfellow

2010-02-16T21:41:00.002+05:30

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison over the sleeping dust.

God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God.
This is the place, where human harvests grow!

Priya's Poems-6: "How do I tell thee?"

2010-02-15T15:24:00.002+05:30

I was
swallowed
by this darkness.
Thou came
for my rescue……..
Oh, my beautiful angel.
My hapless heart
was
capturing thy pictures
ignoring my
pride and prejudice.

My madcap mind
was drowned
in thy thoughts.
Longing to express
my limpet love
for these
long years.

Oh…how the
Turtle time
scrolled
in thy absence.

I pinched
the pages of our memory
those footprints
of our love….

Yes..I still preserve…
Am a prisoner
to my
words, thoughts and action.
How do I tell thee……
That……
I love you.

Priya's Poems-5: "Tears of a Broken Heart"

2010-02-13T12:33:00.002+05:30

I loved thee,
I loved thee,
more than anything in this life.
I gave thee everything

Love,
affection,
care,
concern.

But,
What have you
given
me
in return?

affliction,
pain,
suffering.

am drenched in
this pain of rain.

But see ,
my Tears are soaked.

Oh My love is true.

My broken dreams chase me.
I run in misery.
I stood stoic
In storms of life
With striving struggle.

Even now
the space in my heart is filled
only memories of thee
with my TRUE LOVE.

Yes,
Oh My love is true.

I believe
One day
You will
Realize my true love
Will I be
Alive then?

I don’t know?
Oh do not hurt me
Do not hurt me any more........
Am already dead.

Priya's Poems-4: "I am a Poet"

2010-02-07T09:42:00.003+05:30

I am a poet.
My emotions invite me (to write
sometimes it delights
at times
instructs.
sometimes the skylark and nightingale
inside me
sing songs of ecstasy of love.
At times
the owls and wolves
cry the tale of betrayal.

Every time I take
emotions of water
from the
deep mortal lake of my heart.
I pour glory
and agony
in the bucket of my poem.

It has quenched
the thirst of my
friends and critics.

I am a passionate painter.
I paint words.
I paint in grey
bringing tears
to reader’s eyes.
I paint in green
bringing smile
to the lips of the readers.
i paint in abstract
of mystery and myth
in bold
and make my readers
wonder,think,bewildered.
At times
I paint in figures
In blunt.
I use many colours.

I am a secret gardener.
I sow seeds
in the fertile land of my heart.
I water them
by my continuous thoughts.
Colourful flowers blossom
bringing joy to beholders eyes.

I write.
My lake never goes dry.
I write when am loved.
I write when am hated.
I write when am adored.
I write when am dumped.
I will write
Until my last sigh.
As I am a poet.

Priya's Poems-3: "A Poem is Born"

2010-02-06T20:15:00.000+05:30

The beast inside me
runs faster and faster
in the deep forest,
runs in hunger.

The search is on

for the creative desire.
Runs on rugged ,stony
Coarser path.
Wheezes for a long
with its wide-open mouth
and tongue out.
Sniffs everywhere
Comes to a place.
Fixes the theme.

The night …veiling the pole..
Stares at a singing raven
Barks in return.
Blinks for few seconds.
Shakes its head.
Fixes the narrative.

Digs the place.
Until the moon bids adieu
and
welcomes the sun.
Digs for
diction
rhyme
rhythm
meter.
Digs fastly.
Scoop out the bone marrow.
A poem is born.

Priya's Poems-2: "The Inward Journey"

2010-02-03T18:38:00.003+05:30

My dreams
dragged me
to a deep dark forest.
I walked
Walked a long way
in calm serene darkness.
My mind
haunted me
to go back.
My heart preached my mind
and the conflict went on.
I was awestruck.
I had two options.
Either
Drop the
hands off my dream
and go back
or
believe and follow
him blindly.
I opted
for the second one.
I walked.
Walked a long way
with my
new companions
agony and affliction
hunger and humiliation
thirst and tiredness.
My mature companion
Strong ambition
Controlled all of us.
We followed him.
“there was no light
but darkness visible”
everywhere.
We walked.
Walked a long way.
We believed him.
We followed him.
I saw a hope of light
from a long distance.
Yes…..it was hope….
It sat before me
With his legs crossed……..
Welcomed me
With a sweet smile……..

Poem of the day-81: "Dreams" by Paul Laurence Dunbar

2010-01-31T19:06:00.003+05:30

What dreams we have and how they fly
Like rosy clouds across the sky;
Of wealth, of fame, of sure success,
Of love that comes to cheer and bless;
And how they wither, how they fade,
The waning wealth, the jilting jade —
The fame that for a moment gleams,
Then flies forever, —dreams, ah —dreams!

O burning doubt and long regret
O tears with which our eyes are wet,
Heart-throbs, heart-aches, the glut of pain,
The somber cloud, the bitter rain,
You were not of those dreams — ah! well,
Your full fruition who can tell?
Wealth, fame, and love, ah! love that beams
Upon our souls, all dreams — ah! dreams.

Article from Wikipedia for biography and other details:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar

Priya's Poems-1: "The crow and the nightingale"

2010-01-31T07:46:00.002+05:30

A crow
shrieks in despair.
am black,
am ugly,
No one to love me.
I curse my fate.

Nightingale sang in return
am beautiful
can seduce many
by my looks.
mesmerize people
by my sweet song.
Proud about my fate.

Oh beauty,
Said the crow
We are unfortunate
And
We have occupied every
Ecological niche
Of this world.
Have taken
our curse everywhere.

Nightingale replied
We are
Symbols of
Good fortune
And harmony.
Have shrunken our territory
To acute places.
Unlike thee.
But
i have a deep-rooted
fear inside
as our fight for
survival
for tomorrow
and am
skeptical.
As
good harmonious
and
moral ones
are losing the battle
against
sinful
immoral
corrupt
cruel and merciless
world.
Now I curse my fate……..

Crow shrieks in high..
Ha ha ha
Now,
am proud of my fate.

On Poetry-12:

2010-01-31T07:43:00.001+05:30

When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his experience. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstones of our judgement - John F Kennedy

Poem of the day-80: "Winter" by Shakespeare

2010-01-10T20:25:00.002+05:30

When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Happy New Year!

2010-01-01T06:15:00.000+05:30

Wish You All

a Happy, Prosperous and Purposeful 2010!

- Suri

Poem of the day-79: "La Belle Dame sans Merci" by John Keats

2009-12-30T14:40:00.002+05:30

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woebegone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful — a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said —
"I love thee true."

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore;
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dream'd — Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried — "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Poem of the day-78: "Hymn to Diana" by Ben Johnson

2009-12-26T21:50:00.003+05:30

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep;
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear wen day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

Shakespeare's Sonnets-13:

2009-12-26T21:43:00.002+05:30

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease.
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit.
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

Poem of the day-77: "Rainbow" by Wordsworth

2009-12-18T10:04:00.002+05:30

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

Poem of the day-76: "Alaster" by Shelley

2009-12-17T11:06:00.002+05:30

There was a Poet whose untimely tomb
No human hands with pious reverence reared,
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness:--
A lovely youth,--no mourning maiden decked
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:--
Gentle, and brave, and generous,--no lorn bard
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:
He lived, he died, he sung in solitude.
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,
And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,
And Silence, too enamoured of that voice,
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.

(A few lines from Shelley's Alaster)

Poem of the day-75: "The Little Black Boy" by William Blake

2009-12-16T16:22:00.001+05:30

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:

'Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

'And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

Poem of the day-74: "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake

2009-12-15T17:38:00.001+05:30

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! -
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind:
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

Poem of the day-73: "A Father's Advice" by Shakespeare

2009-12-14T08:50:00.003+05:30

And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,
Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But no expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: - to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

(Advice of Polonius to his son Laertes, Hamlet)

Poem of the day-72: "The Deserted House" by Tennyson

2009-12-13T13:48:00.003+05:30

Life and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide:
Careless tenants they!

All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.

Close the door, the shutters close,
Or thro' the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.

Come away: no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to the ground.

Come away: for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;
But in a city glorious--
A great and distant city-- have bought
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have stayed with us!

Poem of the day-71: Ezra Pound's "Taking Leave of a Friend"

2009-11-01T06:49:00.002+05:30

Blue mountains to the north of the walls,
White river winding about them;
Here we must make separation
And go out through a thousand miles of dead grass.
Mind like a floating white cloud,
Sunset like the parting of old aquaintances
Who bow over their clasped hands at a distance.
Our horses neigh to each other
as we are departing

Diwali Greetings!

2009-10-17T08:09:00.000+05:30

HAPPY DIWALI TO ALL OF YOU!

With Love

Suri

Poem of the day-70: "Requiem" by R L Stevenson

2009-10-14T16:37:00.003+05:30

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lives where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Poem of the day-69: "The House of Life" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

2009-10-01T06:47:00.003+05:30

A Sonnet is a moment's monument,
Memorial from the Soul's eternity
To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be,
Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,
Of its own arduous fulness reverent:
Carve it in ivory or in ebony,
As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see
Its flowering crest impearl'd and orient.
A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals
The soul,--its converse, to what Power 'tis due: --
Whether for tribute to the august appeals
Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue,
It serve; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath,
In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death.

Poem of the day-68: "Owl" by Tennyson

2009-09-15T06:18:00.002+05:30

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
White owl in the belfry sits.

Audio-Video Poems-1: "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

2009-08-28T08:51:00.005+05:30

Grateful thanks to PoetryAnimations and YouTube.

Poem of the day-67: "God's Acre" by Longfellow

2009-08-27T07:11:00.003+05:30

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison over the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more of their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God.
This is the place, where human harvests grow.

Poem of the day-66: "Only a Soldier!"

2009-08-24T07:44:00.002+05:30

Unarmed and unattended' walks the Czar'
Through Moscow's busy street' one winter's day.
The crowd uncover as his face' they see:
"God greet the Czar!" they say.

Along his path there moved a funeral,
Grave spectacle of poverty and woe -
A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary man
Slowly across the snow.

And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind,
Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare;
And he who drew it bent before his load
With dull and sullen air.

The Emperor stopped and beckoned to the man:
"Who is it thou bearest to the grave?" he said.
"Only a soldier, sire!" the short reply;
"Only a soldier, dead."

"Only a soldier!" musing, said the Czar:
"Only a Russian, who was poor and brave.
Move on, I follow. Such' a one goes not
Unhonored to his grave."

He bent his head and silent raised his cap;
The Czar of all the Russians, pacing slow,
Followed the coffin as again it went
Slowly across the snow.

The passers of the street, all wondering,
Looked on that sight, then followed silently;
Peasant and prince, and artisans and clerk,
All in one company.

Still as they went, the crowd grew ever more,
Till thousands stood around the friendless grave,
Led by that princely heart, who, royal, true,
Honoured the poor and brave.

- Author Unknown

Poem of the day-65: "Ode to a Skylark" by Shelley

2009-08-22T05:50:00.001+05:30

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert-
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight-

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-

Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingèd thieves.

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers-
All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh-thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt-
A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Poem of the day-64:

2009-08-21T06:36:00.004+05:30

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made;
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasured tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms - But all these charms are fled.

- From Oliver Goldsmith's "The Deserted Village"

Poem of the day-63: "Meeting at Night" by Robert Browning

2009-08-20T09:18:00.003+05:30

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each t0 each!

Poem of the day-62: "When I have Fears" by John Keats

2009-08-19T09:19:00.004+05:30

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love - then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone and think.
Til love and fame to nothingness to sink.

Poem of the day-61: "Early Morn" by W.H.Davies

2009-08-15T09:55:00.004+05:30

When I did wake this morn from sleep,
It seemed I heard birds in a dream;
Then I arose to take the air -
The lovely air that made birds scream;
Just as a green hill launched the ship
Of gold, to take its first clear dip.

And it began its journey then,
As I came forth to take the air;
The timid Stars had vanished quite,
The Moon was dying with a stare;
Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen,
As still as pictures, in fields green.

It seemed as though I had surprised
And trespassed in a golden world
That should have passed while men still slept!
The joyful birds, the ship of gold,
The horses, kine, and sheep did seem
As they would vanish for a dream.

Poem of the day-60:

2009-07-31T10:59:00.003+05:30

I have found such joy in simple things;
A plain, clean room, a nut-brown loaf of bread,
A cup of milk, a kettle as it sings,
The shelter of a roof above my head,
And in a leaf-faced square upon a floor
Where yellow sunlight glimmers through a door.

I have found such joy in things that fill
My quiet days: a curtain's blowing grace,
A growing plant upon a window sill,
A rose, fresh-cut and placed within a vase;
A table cleared, a lamp beside a chair,
And books I long have loved beside me there.

Oh, I have found such joy I wish I might
Tell every woman who goes seeking far
For some elusive, feverish delight,
That very close to home the great joys are:
These fundamental things - old as the race,
Yet never, through the ages, commonplace.

Poem of the day-59: "Brahman" (or Atman)

2009-06-23T16:59:00.003+05:30

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

Poem of the day-58: "Good-bye, Vacation!" by Mary D.Brine

2009-06-18T13:23:00.002+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-57: "Hymn to the Sun" by Pharaoh Akhenaton

2009-05-13T12:46:00.002+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-56:

2009-05-07T20:25:00.003+05:30

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

How To-34: "How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry"

2009-04-25T13:41:00.000+05:30

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

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"

2009-04-25T13:38:00.002+05:30

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

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.

TED Talk-1: "Poetry for all seasons of life" by C K Williams

2009-04-09T20:58:00.005+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-55: "How do I love thee?" by Elizabeth Barret Browning

2009-02-18T14:37:00.003+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-54: "Autumn" by Helen Keller

2009-02-17T15:06:00.000+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-53: "The Heart of a Song"

2009-02-16T14:05:00.004+05:30

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

Poem of the day-52: "By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept" by Lord Byron

2009-02-13T15:01:00.002+05:30

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!

Poem of the day-51: "Invitation" by Sri Aurobindo

2009-02-06T12:19:00.002+05:30

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)

Poem of the day-50: "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"

2009-02-05T15:43:00.003+05:30

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

Poem of the day-49: "We are Seven" by William Wordsworth

2009-02-03T13:31:00.000+05:30

—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!"

Poem of the day-48: "In a Library" by Emily Dickinson

2009-01-30T16:11:00.001+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-47: "Love and Death" by Tennyson

2009-01-28T18:35:00.000+05:30

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.’

Poem of the day-46: "The Death of the Old Year" by Lord Tennyson

2009-01-02T17:03:00.003+05:30

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.

Shakespeare's Sonnets-12:

2008-11-13T13:00:00.001+05:30

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.

Poem of the day-45: "The Listeners" by Walter De La Mare

2008-11-13T12:47:00.003+05:30

"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.
===========================================================

Poem of the day-44: "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind"

2008-11-12T11:10:00.003+05:30

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"

Poem of the day-43: "COME, LASSES AND LADS."

2008-11-09T15:52:00.002+05:30

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.

Shakespeare's Sonnets-11:

2008-11-09T15:50:00.001+05:30

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.

How To-32: "How to Write a Tanka Poem"

2008-11-05T12:58:00.001+05:30

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

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"

2008-11-05T12:53:00.002+05:30

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, ballad
writers 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

Sources and Citations

. Rhyme Zone Rhyming Dictionary and Thesaurus

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 Ballad. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.

How To-30: "How to Write a Tetactrys Poem"

2008-11-04T19:09:00.001+05:30

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

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"

2008-11-04T19:07:00.000+05:30

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

There once was a man who ate limesand sampled various wineshe wouldn't touch a tomatoit tasted too much like potatoand potatoes, you know, do not shine.

Tips

if you don't like your limerick, you can always go back and change it. It's not permanent.

Related wikiHows

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"

2008-11-04T19:02:00.000+05:30

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

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"

2008-11-04T18:56:00.001+05:30

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

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"

2008-11-04T18:52:00.001+05:30

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

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"

2008-11-04T18:46:00.001+05:30

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

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

2008-11-04T18:37:00.003+05:30

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.