Poetry poems
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On Fayrford Windowes
© William Strode
I know no paynt of poetry
Can mend such colourd Imag'ry
In sullen inke: yet Fayrford, I
May relish thy fayre memory.
The Village Atheist
© Edgar Lee Masters
Ye young debaters over the doctrine
Of the soul's immortality
I who lie here was the village atheist,
Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments
Mein Tag War Heiter
© Heinrich Heine
My day was happy, fortunate my night.
My People loved me when I struck the lyre
Kemang Afternoon Blues
© Sukasah Syahdan
1/
Had it not been for the traffic jam
You'd have thought being elsewhere
Most the niceties seemed so foreign
Speaking a tongue so unfamiliar
Mathematics
© Friedrich von Schlegel
Mathematics is, as it were, a sensuous logic, and relates to philosophy as do the arts, music, and plastic art to poetry.
Earlier Poems : The Spirit Of Poetry
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Far Away and Long Ago
© Sukasah Syahdan
The young man replied, Youre welcome, Maam, as much! He was no less happy.
Many years later they both grew old. It just happened that life had gone on and they had never met again. In fact, the two would have entirely forgotten the episodehad they not bought a book of poetry by an Indonesian poet and found this story.
A Brand New Life
© Sukasah Syahdan
My dearest child, my dearest love
Come to Ayah, who has just come
My dearest star, my brightest sun
Your loudest cries, my sweetest songs
Your merry laughter, my constant prayer
The Hypermarket
© Sukasah Syahdan
history is a hurried
checklist of the goods
mankind wishes
to unforget
Tintype on the Pond, 1925 by J. Lorraine Brown: American Life in Poetry #35 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet La
© Ted Kooser
Massachusetts poet J. Lorraine Brown has used an unusual image in “Tintype on the Pond, 1925.” This poem, like many others, offers us a unique experience, presented as a gift, for us to respond to as we will. We need not ferret out a hidden message. How many of us will recall this little scene the next time we see ice skates or a Sunday-dinner roast?
Casualty
© Seamus Justin Heaney
Dawn-sniffing revenant,
Plodder through midnight rain,
Question me again.
Time to play
© Ivan Donn Carswell
It is a pristine page, clean on the blue screen
where I compose, I dont expect it to stay that way
as words glow from blunt, abused fingers, as insistent
sounds in my head translate into sentence structures,
On the Bill Which Was Passed in England For Regulating the Slave-Trade
© Helen Maria Williams
The hollow winds of night no more
In wild, unequal cadence pour,
Simple pleasures that you bring
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Do you mind if I write a few lines for you tonight?
Im fuelled for sure, perhaps a bit ebullient,
(now theres a rhyme that will be hard to find
a word to suit!) Ill try, but time will surely take
Lawstudent And Coach
© Lesbia Harford
Each day I sit in an ill-lighted room
To teach a boy;
For one hour by the clock great words and dreams
Are our employ.
Piano by Patrick Phillips: American Life in Poetry #173 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Poets are especially good at investing objects with meaning, or in drawing meaning from the things of this world. Here Patrick Phillips of Brooklyn, New York, does a masterful job of comparing a wrecked piano to his feelings.
Piano
Touched by your goodness, I am like
that grand piano we found one night on Willoughby
that someone had smashed and somehow
heaved through an open window.
Dead poet
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Im sure it would be easier to survive as a dead poet,
I mean it in the surmise that I wont be tempted
to revise or rewrite the poem I wrote last night, or the
poems I wrote last week (which make me cringe when I
Admire their style
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Im reading fellow poets blogs today,
a sustaining source of entertainment;
I admire their style without exciting comment
or resorting to an unkind eye, simple though
it is to sigh about uneasy affirmation.
A monument in words
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Perhaps they cant compete these dry and dusty counters
of the grains of sand, theres more evoked within a ball of
dimpled clay on any day a sculptor lends his hands to shape
a face; I am pleased to read the poet rather than the man
and will not place my future faith in such abstruse scatology.
© I.D. Carswell
