Poems You Like Or Wrote

[Denise]

A child said, What is the grass?


A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full

hands;

How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it

is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful

green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,

Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we

may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe

of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow

zones,

Growing among black folks as among white,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the

same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;

It may be you are from old people and from women, and

from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,

And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old

mothers,

Darker than the colorless beards of old men,

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths

for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men

and women,

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring

taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

What do you think has become of the women and

children?

They are alive and well somewhere;

The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait

at the end to arrest it,

And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and

luckier.
Walt Whitman

 

[Denise]

Many critics, poets and readers consider this to be one of the finest poems ever written in the English language. 

   (Published under title -  "The Chariot")

   Because I could not stop for Death—
     He kindly stopped for me—
     The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
     And Immortality.

  We slowly drove—He knew no haste
     And I had put away
     My labor and my leisure too,
     For His Civility—

     We passed the School, where Children strove
    At Recess—in the Ring
     We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
     We passed the Setting Sun—

     Or rather—He passed Us—
     The Dews drew quivering and chill—
     For only Gossamer, my Gown—
     My Tippet—only Tulle—

     We paused before a House that seemed
     A Swelling of the Ground—
     The Roof was scarcely visible—
     The Cornice—in the Ground—

     Since then—'tis Centuries—and yet
     Feels shorter than the Day
     I first surmised the Horses' Heads
     Were toward Eternity—

EMILY DICKINSON

 

[Denise]

Alone

by Edgar Allan Poe

(published 1875)

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were -- I have not seen

As others saw -- I could not bring

My passions from a common spring --

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow -- I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone --

And all I lov'd -- I lov'd alone --

Then -- in my childhood -- in the dawn

Of a most stormy life -- was drawn

From ev'ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still --

From the torrent, or the fountain --

From the red cliff of the mountain --

From the sun that 'round me roll'd

In its autumn tint of gold --

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass'd me flying by --

From the thunder, and the storm --

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view --

[Poe wrote this poem in the autograph album of Lucy Holmes, later Lucy Holmes Balderston. The poem was never printed during Poe's lifetime.

 

[Denise]

A Psalm of Life


Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

[Denise]

A Shadow


I said unto myself, if I were dead,
What would befall these children? What would be
Their fate, who now are looking up to me
For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said,
Would be a volume wherein I have read
But the first chapters, and no longer see
To read the rest of their dear history,
So full of beauty and so full of dread.
Be comforted; the world is very old,
And generations pass, as they have passed,
A troop of shadows moving with the sun;
Thousands of times has the old tale been told;
The world belongs to those who come the last,
They will find hope and strength as we have done.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

[Denise]

Autumn


Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

[Denise]

Haunted Houses

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses.Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,--

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

Source:

Longfellow's Poetical Works
Copyright 1893

 

[Denise]

             HAIKU

 
 I thought I saw a finger

    Pointing right at me,

  Looked again and saw it was
 

     A branch on a tree.

 
By  Yours truly - 1st grade.  6 yrs old   /default_biggrin.png

First grade winner of contest; published in city-wide publication of poetry called "Scribbles" for grades 1-12.

(City over 100,000 pop)

 It's kinda odd I suppose - but I can't remember what a 1st grader's perspective is like....

.I had to stay by myself over 2 hrs after school every afternoon and in the winter it was always dark before anyone arrived home......boards would begin to creak and all the usually normal 'weird' noises kids hear when alone at home in dark......... /default_ohmy.png

of course, I watched original "Dark Shadows" after school everyday and read scary books, so I had "made my bed" as mom would've told me.
I learned not to be afraid of noises or the dark  after some trips under my bed.   /default_wink.png    

Nowadays Child Protective Svcs says a kid cannot be alone until 10 yrs - that's daytime.

I knew 10 yrs old boys who drove tractors to help on their family farm when I was growing up........

 

[Denise]

WHEN I WAS A NURSING SUPERVISOR, I USED TO GIVE THIS (AND ANOTHER POEM) TO ALL THE NEW EMPLOYEES

A CRABBITY OLD WOMAN"

What do you see, nurse, what do you see?

Is this what you think when you're looking at me --

A crabbity old woman, not very wise,

Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes>

Who dribbles her food and makes no reply

when you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try"

Who seems not to notice the things that you do

And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.

Who resisting or not lets you do as you will

with bathing and feeding, the long day to fill.

Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse; you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,

As I rise to your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten with a father and a mother,

Brothers and sisters, who love one another.

A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet,

Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.

A bride then at twenty -- my heart gives a leap,

Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now I have young of my own

Who need me to build a secure, happy home.

A woman of thirty, my young growing fast,

Bound to each other with ties that should last.

I'm forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,

But a man's beside me to see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more babies play round my knee.

Again we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead,

I look at the future, I shudder with dread,

For my young are all rearing young of their own,

And I think of the years and the loves I have known.

I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel.

'Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body is crumbled, grace and vigor depart,

There is only a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,

And now and again my battered heart swells.

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

And I'm loving and living life over again.

I think of the years all too few --- gone too fast,

and accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

But, open your eyes, nurse, open and see.....

Not just a crabby old woman; look closer -- see me!

 

[Denise]

"The Dreams of My Heart"


The dreams of my heart and my mind pass,

Nothing stays with me long,

But I have had from a child

The deep solace of song;

If that should ever leave me,

Let me find death and stay

With things whose tunes are played out and forgotten

Like the rain of yesterday.
Sara Teasdale

 

[Denise]

"Did You Never Know?"


Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me --

That your love would never lessen and never go?

You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,

You were too young to know.

Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it

Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year --

Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,

I know your secret, my dear, my dear.
Sara Teasdale

 

[Denise]

A Song Of Despair


The memory of you emerges from the night around me.

The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.

It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.

Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.

From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.

Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.

The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,

turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.

Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,

sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,

beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,

I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.

and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,

and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.

There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me

in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!

How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,

still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,

oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force

in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.

And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,

and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,

what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.

Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.

Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,

lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour

which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.

Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.

Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
Pablo Neruda

 

[Denise]

And because Love battles



And because love battles

not only in its burning agricultures

but also in the mouth of men and women,

I will finish off by taking the path away

to those who between my chest and your fragrance

want to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worse

they will tell you, my love,

than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies

before I got to know you

and I did not wait love but I was

laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.

What more can they tell you?

I am neither good nor bad but a man,

and they will then associate the danger

of my life, which you know

and which with your passion you shared.

And good, this danger

is danger of love, of complete love

for all life,

for all lives,

and if this love brings us

the death and the prisons,

I am sure that your big eyes,

as when I kiss them,

will then close with pride,

into double pride, love,

with your pride and my pride.

But to my ears they will come before

to wear down the tour

of the sweet and hard love which binds us,

and they will say: “The one

you love,

is not a woman for you,

Why do you love her? I think

you could find one more beautiful,

more serious, more deep,

more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,

and what a head she has,

and look at how she dresses,

and etcetera and etceteraâ€.

And I in these lines say:

Like this I want you, love,

love, Like this I love you,

as you dress

and how your hair lifts up

and how your mouth smiles,

light as the water

of the spring upon the pure stones,

Like this I love you, beloved.

To bread I do not ask to teach me

but only not to lack during every day of life.

I don’t know anything about light, from where

it comes nor where it goes,

I only want the light to light up,

I do not ask to the night

explanations,

I wait for it and it envelops me,

And so you, bread and light

And shadow are.

You came to my life

with what you were bringing,

made

of light and bread and shadow I expected you,

and Like this I need you,

Like this I love you,

and to those who want to hear tomorrow

that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,

and let them back off today because it is early

for these arguments.

Tomorrow we will only give them

a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf

which will fall on the earth

like if it had been made by our lips

like a kiss which falls

from our invincible heights

to show the fire and the tenderness

of a true love.
Pablo Neruda

 

[Denise]

A Late Walk


When I go up through the mowing field,

The headless aftermath,

Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,

Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,

The whir of sober birds

Up from the tangle of withered weeds

Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,

But a leaf that lingered brown,

Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,

Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth

By picking the faded blue

Of the last remaining aster flower

To carry again to you.
Robert Frost

 

[Denise]

A Cliff Dwelling


There sandy seems the golden sky

And golden seems the sandy plain.

No habitation meets the eye

Unless in the horizon rim,

Some halfway up the limestone wall,

That spot of black is not a stain

Or shadow, but a cavern hole,

Where someone used to climb and crawl

To rest from his besetting fears.

I see the callus on his soul

The disappearing last of him

And of his race starvation slim,

Oh years ago - ten thousand years.
Robert Frost

 

[Denise]

Bright Star


Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
John Keats

 

[Denise]

Death Be Not Proud


Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
John Donne
(1572-1631)