Poems and Publishers' Posts, July 2009

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Enjoy...said with heavy sarcasm

Posted by emerson entwistle, 4 years ago

I know this is terrible...*sigh*. But here it is, I'm hoping that by posting my bad ones I'll be able to come up with some good ones, I'm still stuck for inspiration. Or sometimes I'll get a first couple of lines and I have to struggle to end it, before it just flowed. I'm going to try and work on this later, we'll see what happens.

Gray Face
Emma Clark

A face looms out of the fog
Old and gray
Almost lost
Eyes wide

And then he is gone.

His terrified face,
It has the power to haunt.

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He Remembers Forgotten Beauty

Posted by Samia, 4 years ago

He Remembers Forgotten Beauty
William Butler Yeats

When my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God's eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew.
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.

I Do Not Fear to Own Me Kin
Robert Louis Stevenson

I do not fear to own me kin
To the glad clods in which spring flowers begin;
Or to my brothers, the great trees,
That speak with pleasant voices in the breeze,
Loud talkers with the winds that pass;
Or to my sister, the deep grass.

Of such I am, of such my body is,
That thrills to reach its lips to kiss.
That gives and takes with wind and sun and rain
And feels keen pleasure to the point of pain.

Of such are these,
The brotherhood of stalwart trees,
The humble family of flowers,
That make a light of shadowy bowers
Or star the edges of the bent:
They give and take sweet colour and sweet scent;
They joy to shed themselves abroad;
And tree and flower and grass and sod
Thrill and leap and live and sing
With silent voices in the Spring.

Hence I not fear to yield my breath,
Since all is still unchanged by death;
Since in some pleasant valley I may be,
Clod beside clod, or tree by tree,
Long ages hence, with her I love this hour;
And feel a lively joy to share
With her the sun and rain and air,
To taste her quiet neighbourhood
As the dumb things of field and wood,
The clod, the tree, and starry flower,
Alone of all things have the power.

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A Poem With A Picture

Posted by emerson entwistle, 4 years ago

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
William Carlos Williams

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

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The Best Poems ever

Posted by Mud G, 4 years ago

The Best Poems ever is a small collection of poetry. It is perfect for somebody who is not very familiar to poetry. It has many classics from Brittain and American authors such as Anne Bradstreet, William Carlos Williams, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Browning and his wife Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Shakespeare, Emily Bronte, etc...
It's also good to brush up on some classics and this is a pretty inexpensive way to do it!

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A Letter Of Love <3

Posted by emerson entwistle, 4 years ago

Very cute.

Okay so this is not a poem but I love it. I love the words, I love the whole thing and I love how it is poetic in it's own way. Enjoy!

Love Letter To Frances Blogg
G.K. Chesterton

…I am looking over the sea and endeavouring to reckon up the estate I have to offer you. As far as I can make out my equipment for starting on a journey to fairyland consists of the following items.
1st. A Straw Hat. The oldest part of this admirable relic shows traces of pure Norman work. The vandalism of Cromwell’s soldiers has left us very little of the original hat-band.
2nd. A Walking Stick, very knobby and heavy: admirably fitted to break the head of any denizen of Suffolk who denies that you are the noblest of ladies, but of no other manifest use.
3rd. A copy of Walt Whitman’s poems, once nearly given to Salter, but quite forgotten. It has his name in it still with an affectionate inscription from his sincere friend Gilbert Chesterton. I wonder if he will ever have it.
4th. A number of letters from a young lady, containing everything good and generous and loyal and holy and wise that isn’t in Walt Whitman’s poems.
5th. A unwieldy sort of pocket knife, the blades mostly having an edge of a more varied and picturesque outline than is provided by the prosaic cutler. The chief element however is a thing ‘to take the stones out of a horse’s hoof’. What a beautiful sensation of security it gives one to reflect that if one should ever have money enough to buy a horse and should happen to have a stone in his hoof – that one is ready; one stands prepared, with a defiant smile!
6th. Passing from the last miracle of practical foresight, we come to a box of matches. Every now and then I strike one of these, because fire is beautiful and burns your fingers. Some people think this a waste of matches: the same people who object to the building of Cathedrals.
7th. About three pounds in gold and silver, the remains of one of Mr Unwin’s bursts of affection: those explosions of spontaneous love for myself, which, such is the perfect order and harmony of his mind, occur at startlingly exact intervals of time.
8th. A book of Children’s Rhymes, in manuscript, called ‘Weather Book’ about ? finished, and destined for Mr Nutt. I have been working at it fairly steadily, which I think jolly creditable under the circumstances. One can’t put anything interesting in it. They’ll understand those things when they grow up.
9th. A tennis racket – nay, start not. It is a part of the new regime, and the only new and neat-looking thing in the Museum. We’ll soon mellow it – like the straw hat. My brother and I are teaching each other lawn tennis.
10th. A soul, hitherto idle and omnivorous but now happy enough to be ashamed of itself.
11th. A body, equally idle and quite equally omnivorous, absorbing tea, coffee, claret, sea-water and oxygen to its own perfect satisfaction. It is happiest swimming, I think, the sea being a convenient size.
12th. A Heart – mislaid somewhere. And that is about all the property of which an inventory can be made at present. After all, my tastes are stoically simple. A straw hat, a stick, a box of matches and some of his own poetry. What more does man require?

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The Healing Time

Posted by Christine Bode, 4 years ago

I received this amazing poem from my Facebook friend Jeff Brown who wrote a really profound spiritual book called Soulshaping: A Journey of Self Creation (www.soulshaping.com).

I want to share it with you:

The Healing Time

Finally on my way to yes
I bump into
all the places
where I said no
to my life
all the untended wounds
the red and purple scars
those hieroglyphs of pain
carved into my skin, my bones,
those coded messages
that send me down
the wrong street
again and again
where I find them
the old wounds
the old misdirections
and I lift them
one by one
close to my heart
and I say holyholy.

By Pesha Joyce Gertler

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