Here at Poetry of the Day, I feature poetry that i really like including, poems about friendship,famous poems, poems about life, and poems that i personally write. Poetry of the day is apart of the MyOwnVerse Poetry Network!
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
Review: I have been here a few times.. The pain of a lost love is ever so consuming, almost consuming enough to be an-Hero. Like Langston Hughes said, life is fine, fine as fine wine, so why not just drink the day away until the pain fades. Become an epicureanist. EAT DRINK BE MERRY!!! Because Space will partially mend wounds eventually. We will all die eventually, so why let love kill us, even though love is more internally devastating then air strikes in Libya. Tho im not sure if Gaddafi feels the same way ^_^.
There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
Review:
I feel like the ideas presented in this poem are kind of sophomoric, as if true love has a choice. If you dont love me then i wont love you na-nah-naaa-naaa-na. I understand the feeling though, but i have only ever felt that feeling while in a mediocre time killing kind of relationship. This poem is a good read though, even if i dont agree with the subject portrayed.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Spring! How beautiful is the
Spring! How wonderful is the
Spring! How majestic is the
Spring! How fantastic is the
Spring! How tantalizing is the
Spring! How glorious is the
Spring! How melodious is the
Spring! How joyful is the
Spring! How breathtaking is the
Spring! How uplifting the
Spring! How happy is the
Spring! How magnificent is the
Spring! How colorful is the
Spring! How tasteful is the
Spring! How memorable was the
Spring! How flavorful is the
Spring! How aromic is the
Spring! How sweet is
Spring! How beautiful is the
Spring!
Alex Fischer Alex Fischer started writing in the 8th Grade with short stories on a comical character called Agent 009 Handgun. Mostly using these for stories that had to be written for class, he never once thought that writing would be something he was interested in. By the 10th Grade he entered the world of poetry, and realized how much he adored it. Now in the 12th grade, Alex continues to write poetry and short stories, and even is working on a book and a play. In his seemingly long two years of writing he has written well over 80 poems and over a dozen short stories. Even though he does not believe himself to be a very good poet, many of his friends and family say otherwise.
Captive I am to your unsettling plight
as you are, of mother’s harshest of truths,
world’s shocked eyes on these cruel sights,
pain, even time, is detained to soothe.
Mother’s uncharted heart, whose dark rhythm,
caters to death’s dreaded but imminent dance,
a break on the victimized mortal’s freedom,
and silent turns life’s hope-tuned cadence.
Submerged houses and burning industrial structures,
preceding phase of which have sufficed with living
to all you humble souls, unfairly now you suffer,
and to the lost souls we are all grieving.
Industrial spillage and ensuing alarm,
a gruesome reminder of a war torn phase,
may all hands join and keep you unharmed,
with hopes that this war, may no life have to face.
Mother’s rage the children has to confront,
caring minds and helping hands are our power
to their brother’s woes nations will step forth
to cleanse it out of this storm-hit bower.
I recently found this Japanese poem and explanation from searching the inter-webs. Its beautiful, and a testimonial to the mind of the Japanese writer. #prayforjapan
Though I go to you
ceaselessly along dream paths,
the sum of those trysts
is less than a single glimpse
granted in the waking world.
The poem appeares as No. 658 in the Kokin Wakashu, an old anthology of poems from the 12th century. Komachi was a classic even at that time: she lived in the 9th century.
夢ぢには
あしもやすめず
かよへども
うつつにひとめ
見しごとはあらず
yumeji ni wa
ashi mo yasumezu
kayoedomo
utsutsu ni hitome
mishigoto wa arazu
A line-by-line translation:
in [my] dreams / along dream paths
without resting my legs
[I] go often [to you]
in the real world, a single glimpse
is different.
kayoedomo is from kayou "to commute", "to come and go". kayoe is the izenkei form; domo is a suffix like keredo, meaning "although...".hitome means "a glimpse". Usually it is written as 一目, but hito also means "a person", so hitome implies by this ambiguity that its a glimpse of a person, and a loved one. Anyway, this is a love poem... mishi is the rentaikei of miki, the past tense of miru, "to see". In modern Japanese, it would be mita. arazu means "there is no" (arimasen in modern Japanese), and "it is not, it is different" (de wa nai).
Actually, somewhere I read another translation of this poem, I cant recall it exactly, but something like this: "I go often to you in my dreams, but I never see you in the real world." In a way, this is a possible translation too, but then, where is the poesie?
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Regards to the Japanese people effected by the tsunami and earthquake. I hope everything turns out amazing. Which i expect it will. The Japanese people are a resilient population. I hope good things come your way.
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A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art's-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers' Association, in Washington, April, 1904.
I
THE ANTI-TRUST CLAM
For _McClure's Magazine_
The clam that once, on Jersey's banks,
Was like the man who dug it, free,
Now slave-like thro' the market clanks
In chains of corporate tyranny.
The Standard Fish-Trust of New York
Holds every clam-bank in control;
And like base Beef and menial Pork,
The free-born Clam has lost its soul.
No more the bivalve treads the sands
In freedom's rapture, free from guilt:
It follows now the harsh commands
Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.
Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just!
Call on the Sherman Act to dam
The floods of this devouring Trust,
And liberate the fettered Clam.
II
THE WHITMANIAC CLAM
For the _Bookman_
Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno,
Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr,
Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,--ah, no!
Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.
But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey,
Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm,
And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he
Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam.
Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion,
And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild:
His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean,
And rose and fell responsively with every tide.
III
IL MERCATORE ITALIANO DELLA CLAMMA
For the _Century Magazine_
"Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet,
The Dago's cry along the New York street!
"Dago" we call him, like the thoughtless crowd;
And yet this humble man may well be proud
To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home,--
Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,--
From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil
Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.
To me his chant, with alien accent sung,
Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue:
It seems to cry against the city's woe,
In liquid Latin syllables,--_Clamo_!
As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams
And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams!
Receive his secret plaint with pity warm,
And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform!
IV
THE SOCIAL CLAM
For the _Smart Set_
Fair Phyllis is another's bride:
Therefore I like to sit beside
Her at a very smart set dinner,
And whisper love, and try to win her.
The little-necks,--in number six,--
That from their pearly shells she picks
And swallows whole,--ah, is it selfish
To wish my heart among those shell-fish?
"But Phyllis is another's wife;
And if she should absorb thy life
'Twould leave thy bosom vacant."--Well,
I'd keep at least the empty shell!
V
THE RECREANT CLAM
For the _Outlook_
Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,
Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse
The bliss of battle and the strain of strife.
Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life!
Poetry of the day Review:
William wordsworth, aka, Bill Wordsmith. Is one of my favorite writers. This poem represents what its like for a man to be in love with a woman. I wonder if he recited this poem to the woman who inspired the poem.
Word of the Day:
puckish
\ PUHK-ish\ , adjective;
1.
Whimsical;mischievous;impish.
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When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit.
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns.
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out:
Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are.
It may be near when it seems so far:
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.
IM BI WINNING. hammering 7g ROCKS cause thats how i roll.
Poetry of the day review:
If you keep trying your never doing. Nike doesnt say. "just try it" nike says " JUST DO IT". You too can have tiger blood like charlie sheen. =]
WORD OF THE DAY:
gastronome
\ GAS-truh-nohm\ , noun;
1.
Aconnoisseurofgoodfoodanddrink.
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HE was a phantom of delight 
