Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
In short, I need poems; I shan't bore you with the details. The poems should be written by established poets, be in English, be deep, and not be negative or pessimistic. Does anyone have any to share?
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I have poems from long ago....you want for general reading?
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
Sorry, I should have specified, I don't want to "steal" anyone's poems, just quote poems by established poets. Thanks anyway.
Amnesia by Symbiote
I felt your breath on my arm - my mind
playing tricks on me and saying it's the
wind blowing from the open window
could've sworn it was closed..
my heart beats on to a classic swing
with your idle hands pulling strings
casting away the nets and loosing
knots - I could've sworn I had tied.
I guess it wasn't the wind blowing, just
my imagination running wild because you're here
key in hand to unlock my heart
since I let you in...
EDIT: From my cringe collection when I was a young adult.
I felt your breath on my arm - my mind
playing tricks on me and saying it's the
wind blowing from the open window
could've sworn it was closed..
my heart beats on to a classic swing
with your idle hands pulling strings
casting away the nets and loosing
knots - I could've sworn I had tied.
I guess it wasn't the wind blowing, just
my imagination running wild because you're here
key in hand to unlock my heart
since I let you in...
EDIT: From my cringe collection when I was a young adult.
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
That's beautiful! You have talent, not two ways about it.
Brick In The Wall
2M Or Not 2B.
- Oct 30, 2019
- 25,160
Is Sensei wooing a lady friend? @kitten might have some material for you.
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
If it's a wooing, maybe something sensual from my weird poem collection written by a love struck young adult?
"The way she moves..."
A vibrant aura leaving behind
a film-noir background with the
clip-clop of her three-inch platform
heels and lost souls frozen in split
second time to watch her pass
them by.
"Striking, shocking..."
Not the Estee-Lauder make up
or the fuschia eyeliner which
tantalizes every male audience,
but more of powder soft milky-white
complexion, tender as a virgin rose
blooming when the skies are gray
and cloudy.
"A treasure to behold..."
A priceless gem too pure to be
on the black market, yet gentle
to be grasp with purloined fingers--
for she wrapped in black lace
corset, knots unhinged, cleavage
bustling with pale elegance
and class.
"Watching, waiting..."
A feminine touch upon masculinity's
greatest weakness and a warm smile
brings the flock down to their knees--
worship, praise, the whole cat-mouse trick
as she plays her cards face down hoping one
day her two of hearts can become
an Ace in her life.
"True beauty comes from within, for the outside is fake."
"The way she moves..."
A vibrant aura leaving behind
a film-noir background with the
clip-clop of her three-inch platform
heels and lost souls frozen in split
second time to watch her pass
them by.
"Striking, shocking..."
Not the Estee-Lauder make up
or the fuschia eyeliner which
tantalizes every male audience,
but more of powder soft milky-white
complexion, tender as a virgin rose
blooming when the skies are gray
and cloudy.
"A treasure to behold..."
A priceless gem too pure to be
on the black market, yet gentle
to be grasp with purloined fingers--
for she wrapped in black lace
corset, knots unhinged, cleavage
bustling with pale elegance
and class.
"Watching, waiting..."
A feminine touch upon masculinity's
greatest weakness and a warm smile
brings the flock down to their knees--
worship, praise, the whole cat-mouse trick
as she plays her cards face down hoping one
day her two of hearts can become
an Ace in her life.
"True beauty comes from within, for the outside is fake."
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
No, not a lady. The lady.
Let's see if she shows up then.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost 1922.
(I love it for the final verse alone)
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
(I love it for the final verse alone)
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
Weather
Student
- Oct 18, 2020
- 152
Power by Audre Lorde
The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children.
I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles
and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.
A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens
stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and
there are tapes to prove it. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
“I didn't notice the size nor nothing else
only the color”. And
there are tapes to prove that, too.
Today that 37 year old white man
with 13 years of police forcing
was set free
by eleven white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and one Black Woman who said
“They convinced me” meaning
they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame
over the hot coals
of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go
the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.
I have not been able to touch the destruction
within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85 year old white woman
who is somebody's mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”
The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children.
I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles
and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.
A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens
stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and
there are tapes to prove it. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
“I didn't notice the size nor nothing else
only the color”. And
there are tapes to prove that, too.
Today that 37 year old white man
with 13 years of police forcing
was set free
by eleven white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and one Black Woman who said
“They convinced me” meaning
they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame
over the hot coals
of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go
the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.
I have not been able to touch the destruction
within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85 year old white woman
who is somebody's mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”
And of course, 'If' by Kipling.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
Not bad at all. However, the ending breathes death. That might just be my suicidal mind, though. Thanks.
A beautiful poem, but maybe a little bit too dark for the audience I have in mind. Thanks, though.
I interpret the ending as being tempted by the promise of death and rest, but not giving in to it out of a sense of duty.
So maybe, kind of, but maybe not too.
Weather
Student
- Oct 18, 2020
- 152
Rebellion Against the North Side by Naomi Shihab Nye
There will be no monograms on our skulls.
You who are training your daughters to check for the words
“Calvin Klein” before they look to see if there are pockets
are giving them no hands to put in those pockets.
You are giving them eyes that will find nothing solid in stones.
No comfort in rough land, nameless sheep trails.
No answers from things which do not speak.
Since when do children sketch dreams with price tags attached?
Don’t tell me they were born this way.
We were all born like empty fields.
What we are now shows what has been planted.
Will you remind them there were people
who hemmed their days with thick-spun wool
and wore them till they fell apart?
Think of darkness hugging the houses,
caring nothing for the material of our pajamas.
Think of the delicate mesh of neckbones
when you clasp the golden chains.
These words the world rains back and forth
are temporary as clouds.
Clouds? Tell your children to look up.
The sky is the only store worth shopping in
for anything as long as life.
There will be no monograms on our skulls.
You who are training your daughters to check for the words
“Calvin Klein” before they look to see if there are pockets
are giving them no hands to put in those pockets.
You are giving them eyes that will find nothing solid in stones.
No comfort in rough land, nameless sheep trails.
No answers from things which do not speak.
Since when do children sketch dreams with price tags attached?
Don’t tell me they were born this way.
We were all born like empty fields.
What we are now shows what has been planted.
Will you remind them there were people
who hemmed their days with thick-spun wool
and wore them till they fell apart?
Think of darkness hugging the houses,
caring nothing for the material of our pajamas.
Think of the delicate mesh of neckbones
when you clasp the golden chains.
These words the world rains back and forth
are temporary as clouds.
Clouds? Tell your children to look up.
The sky is the only store worth shopping in
for anything as long as life.
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
That's what I'm after! Good pick indeed. Thanks.
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Weather
Student
- Oct 18, 2020
- 152
Ha! I missed that you didn't want them to be negative. Are there good poems that aren't negative? Let me think...
What about
Purple Bathing Suit by Louise Glück
I like watching you garden
with your back to me in your purple bathing suit:
your back is my favorite part of you,
the part furthest away from your mouth.
You might give some thought to that mouth.
Also to the way you weed, breaking
the grass off at ground level
when you should pull it by the roots.
How many times do I have to tell you
how the grass spreads, your little
pile notwithstanding, in a dark mass which
by smoothing over the surface you have finally
fully obscured. Watching you
stare into space in the tidy
rows of the vegetable garden, ostensibly
working hard while actually
doing the worst job possible, I think
you are a small irritating purple thing
and I would like to see you walk off the face of the earth
because you are all that's wrong with my life
and I need you and I claim you.
---
or...
Habitation by Margaret Atwood
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far
we are learning to make fire
---
Or, as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't get more romantic than...
Peaches–Six in a Tin Bowl, Sarajevo by Sandra Cisneros
If peaches had arms
surely they would hold one another
in their peach sleep.
And if peaches had feet
it is sure they would
nudge one another
with their soft peachy feet.
And if peaches could
they would sleep
with their dimpled head
on the other’s
each to each.
Like you and me.
And sleep and sleep.
What about
Purple Bathing Suit by Louise Glück
I like watching you garden
with your back to me in your purple bathing suit:
your back is my favorite part of you,
the part furthest away from your mouth.
You might give some thought to that mouth.
Also to the way you weed, breaking
the grass off at ground level
when you should pull it by the roots.
How many times do I have to tell you
how the grass spreads, your little
pile notwithstanding, in a dark mass which
by smoothing over the surface you have finally
fully obscured. Watching you
stare into space in the tidy
rows of the vegetable garden, ostensibly
working hard while actually
doing the worst job possible, I think
you are a small irritating purple thing
and I would like to see you walk off the face of the earth
because you are all that's wrong with my life
and I need you and I claim you.
---
or...
Habitation by Margaret Atwood
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far
we are learning to make fire
---
Or, as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't get more romantic than...
Peaches–Six in a Tin Bowl, Sarajevo by Sandra Cisneros
If peaches had arms
surely they would hold one another
in their peach sleep.
And if peaches had feet
it is sure they would
nudge one another
with their soft peachy feet.
And if peaches could
they would sleep
with their dimpled head
on the other’s
each to each.
Like you and me.
And sleep and sleep.
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
That one's perfect. What a strong message! Thanks!
Interesting picks! Maybe a tad too "experimental" for the audience I have in mind, though, Thanks.
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Brick In The Wall
2M Or Not 2B.
- Oct 30, 2019
- 25,160
I’ve tried the poetic approach and could never get it to work. Art and Music has always worked best for me. I hope you have better luck with it than I have!
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
Believe it or not, but it's the only way I can reach her heart. She's not exactly an ordinary woman.
Brick In The Wall
2M Or Not 2B.
- Oct 30, 2019
- 25,160
You’re not an ordinary fella so I’d expect nothing less. Best of luck to you brother.
Always by Pablo Neruda
I am not jealous
of what came before me.
Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!
Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth
to start our life!
I am not jealous
of what came before me.
Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!
Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth
to start our life!
Weather
Student
- Oct 18, 2020
- 152
Long ago, I was so into poetry (studying, writing). If I wasn't trying to get grading done at my desk upstairs before a child starts nagging me again, I would sneak off to the library downstairs where I have an entire poetry section and find better options. That said, I'd check out Tony Hoagland too -- maybe "Reading Moby Dick at 30,000 Feet" or "Totally." If there is something in particular you are looking for... I could probably find it for you. Although I do prefer contemporary poets, I'm fairly knowledgeable about a number of modern poets as well. :)
Also, my husband wooed me with poetry. Even the dark stuff. Actually, maybe, especially the dark stuff!
Also, my husband wooed me with poetry. Even the dark stuff. Actually, maybe, especially the dark stuff!
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
That's a good one. Thanks!
I checked him out and I must say that I like him. His poetry has a Japanese quality, if you know what I mean.
The problem is that I can't really articulate what I'm after. Not better than I already have. Thank you so much for your recommendations!
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Weary Soul
Soon I will be free
- Nov 13, 2019
- 1,161
Ok, not a poem per se, but I often find that lyrics to songs are poems put to music. I have so many I love, but here is a good one.
The Rose - Bette Midler
Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed
It's the heart afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking, that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying, that never learns to live
When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose
The Rose - Bette Midler
Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed
It's the heart afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking, that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying, that never learns to live
When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose
Sensei
剣道家
- Nov 4, 2019
- 6,337
Two Lovers And A Beachcomber By The Real Sea
Cold and final, the imagination
Shuts down its fabled summer house;
Blue views are boarded up; our sweet vacation
Dwindles in the hour-glass.
Thoughts that found a maze of mermaid hair
Tangling in the tide's green fall
Now fold their wings like bats and disappear
Into the attic of the skull.
We are not what we might be; what we are
Outlaws all extrapolation
Beyond the interval of now and here:
White whales are gone with the white ocean.
A lone beachcomber squats among the wrack
Of kaleidoscope shells
Probing fractured Venus with a stick
Under a tent of taunting gulls.
No sea-change decks the sunken shank of bone
That chucks in backtrack of the wave;
Though the mind like an oyster labors on and on,
A grain of sand is all we have.
Water will run by; the actual sun
Will scrupulously rise and set;
No little man lives in the exacting moon
And that is that, is that, is that.
Sylvia Plath
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Derek Walcott
A Lady
You are beautiful and faded,
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. In your eyes
Smoulder the fallen roses of outlived minutes,
And the perfume of your soul
Is vague and suffusing,
With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colors.
My vigor is a new-minted penny,
Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust
That its sparkle may amuse you.
Amy Lowell
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