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

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:

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

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

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

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:

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)

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

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

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:

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"

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

1. Think about something you feel strongly about.
   
2. Be in tune with your feelings and allow your emotions to stir within you. You will need these emotions to inspire you.
   
3. 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.
   
4. 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.
   
5. 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.
   
6. Read what you wrote and read it to others if it is not too personal. Much great poetry is personal; part of the fun is finding the courage to read that to others.

Tips

• Some inspirations can come from any walk of life:
• Look out the window and see the sunset.
• Be glad you are alive.
• Sit in the Mall and observe a mother and a child.
• Look at the young woman in a wheel chair. Be thankful that it is not you, and write about those feelings
• Think about a lost loved one
• Think about the big piece of cake topped with a big scoop of ice cream that you just pigged out on, after you announced you were on a diet.
  
• Not all poems have to be happy. Not all poems have to be long. Not all poems have to be short. Some poems can be silly.
  
• Be thankful for good health.
  
• Do not put restrictions on the style you use. Although choosing a certain style for one poem may help.
  
• Save all your poems, no matter what they say or how you feel about them. One day you will look back and see that you have somehow, without knowing it, written the story of your life.
  
• Safeguard your poetry. Place it into a plastic cover, and store it in a looseleaf binder set aside for just your poetry.
  
• Download a photo or clipart on the poetry page that relates to your poem. Dress the page up.
  
• Be proud...you have just finished the first page of your first 'book.'
  
• There are many other poetry styles that most people are not even familiar with. See the url at the bottom for information.
  
• Relax.

Related wikiHows

• How to Write a Love Poem
  
• How to Write a Haiku Poem
  
• How to Write a Poem
  
• How to Gain Control of Your Emotions
  
• How to Be a Poet
  
• How to Explicate a Poem
  
• How to Write a Love Poem
  
• How to Write an Emo Poem
  
• How to Write a Poem About Nature
  
• How to Write a Love Letter or Love Poem
  
• How to Be Dark

Sources and Citations

• http://members.cox.net/berniehpoetry/styles.html
  
• http://www.eliteskills.com/poetry/poetry_styles.php

Article provided by wikiHow, a wiki how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.

How To-33: "How to Overcome Writer's Block in Poetry"

How to Overcome Writer's Block in Poetry

from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit

If you are suffering from writer's block, you are in good company. Many people feel this problem and it is mostly due to a feeling that one is not a good enough writer. How do you overcome the block when it comes to poetry? Poetry has a rhythm and emotion of its own that cannot be compared to writing novels or short stories, so it is not necessarily helpful to compare writer's block in those fields with that suffered by a poet. Here are some ideas for the stuck poet.

Steps

1. 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.
   
2. 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.
   
3. 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.
   
4. Write to your heart's content. A poet must let the words flow through herself or himself. The poetry will only come to life when the poet relaxes and lets the passion flow through unabated. Correct and perfect grammar and tone are for the editing stage, not the creative writing stage. Just write and write and write, whether there is a clear order to the writing or not. You have the words - use them. And follow the path that your mind leads you down.

Tips

• Go beyond the ideas listed here; they are only by way of example.
  
• The combination of love and hate is fairly cliched and time-worn; if you are looking for a different style of poem you will probably do better to either avoid this combination or learn to craft it anew in a clever and magnificent manner that will grasp the attention of your reader and rivet his or her attention.

Warnings

• Do not be obsessed with perfection as you write - that is what the editorial stage is for. If you are waylaid by this idea, ask a friend, family member or professor to assist you with editing. A good poet's writing will always be clear to a fair and smart reader - find one and this will be the ideal person to assist you with improving your poem after it has been written.

Related wikiHows

• How to Freewrite
  
• How to Become Inspired to Write Poetry
  
• How to Be a Poet
  
• How to Write a Haiku Poem
  
• How to Become a Freelance Writer

Article provided by wikiHow, a wiki how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Overcome Writer's Block in Poetry. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.

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

For detailed article on "TED Talks":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TED_Talks

Grateful thanks to TED.com, C.K.Williams and Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia.

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

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

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

Oh, what a glory doth the world put on
These peerless, perfect autumn days
There is a beautiful spirit of gladness everywhere.
The wooded waysides are luminous with brightly painted leaves;
The forest-trees with royal grace have donned
Their gorgeous autumn tapestries;
And even the rocks and fences are broidered
With ferns, sumachs and brilliantly tinted ivies.
But so exquisitely blended are the lights and shades
The golds, scarlets and purples, that no sense is wearied;
For God Himself ha painted the landscape.

The hillsides gleam with golden corn;
Apple and peach-trees bend beneath their burdens of golden fruit.
The golden-rods, too, are here, whole armies of them,
With waving plumes, resplendent with gold;
And about the wild grapes, purple and fair and full of sunshine,
The little birds southward going
Linger, like travelers at an Inn,
And sip the perfumed wine.
And far away the mountains against the blue sky stand
Calm and mysterious, like prophets of God,
Wrapped in purple mist.

But now a change o'er the bright and glorious sky has come
The threatening clouds stand still,
The silent skies are dark and solemn;
The mists of morning hide the golden face of day.
And a mysterious hand has stripped the trees;
And with rustle and whir the leaves descend,
And like little frightened birds
Lie trembling on the ground.
Bare and sad the forest-monarchs stand
Like kings of old, all their splendor swept away.

And down from his ice-bound realm in the North
Comes Winter, with snowy locks, and tear-drops frozen on his cheeks;
For he is the brother of Death, and acquainted with Sorrow.
Autumn sees him from afar,
And, as a child to her father runneth,
She to the protecting arms of kindly Winter fleeth;
And in his mantle of snow
Tenderly he folds her lovely form,
And on his breast she falls asleep
Ere yet the storm-winds have loosed their fury
Upon a white and silent world.

She sleeps unconscious of the sorrow that must be
And dreams perchance of sylvan music,
And the splendor that was, and will again be hers;
For Autumn dies not. 'Tis as the poet says:
"There is no Death. What seems so is transition."
All that is divine lives
In some nobler sphere, some fairer form.

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

Dear love, let this my song fly to you:
Perchance forget it came from me.
It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;
But in your breast lie quietly.
Only beware, when once it tarries
I cannot coax it from you, then.
This little song my whole heart carries,
And ne'er will bear it back again.
For if its silent passion grieve you,
My heart would then too heavy grow;—
And it can never, never leave you,
If joy of yours must with it go!

- George Parsons Lathrop

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

We sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.

While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!

On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And never shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!

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

With wind and the weather beating round me
Up to the hill and the moorland I go.
Who will come with me? Who will climb with me?
Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?

Not in the petty circle of cities
Cramped by your doors and your walls I dwell;
Over me God is bolue in the welkin,
Against me the wind and the storm rebel.

I sport with solitude here in my regions,
Of misadventure have made me a friend.
Who would live largely? Who would live freely?
Here to the wind-swept upland ascend.

I am the lord of tempest and mountain,
I am the Spirit of freedom and pride.
Stark must he be and a kinsman to danger
Who shares my kingdom and walks at my side.

- Sri Aurobindo, Alipore Jail (1908-09)

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

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

- John Keats

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

—A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"