Tag Archive: fav poems


The Silence of Our Thoughts

 

Source of Inspiration

genre_21183_3
How long can you be
alone with your thoughts,
no distractions: book
remains closed, TV off,
no idle conversation,
no music–just silence
and your mind? Where will
your thoughts take you?

Most people are afraid
of being bored, but why
would we find our perception
of our world boring?

Other people may fear being
faced with their ghosts
from the past. Regrets, guilt,
hurt, resentment, should haves…

Then there are worries about
the future; the “what-ifs” that
keep us a prisoner, afraid to
act, to decide, to go forth
with faith and resolve…
but
what if
undistracted
thoughts
lead us
into
discovery?

What might we find deep
within our consciousness?
What worlds unexplored,
full of possibilities and
promises are waiting for
us to be silent and aware.

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Soothing……

Introspection

Well written …….. worth pondering – ” when the talkers talk and the parsons parse and no one takes the time to go within”

Poetic flavours from Flavorwire

  • Your Favorite Poets’ Favorite Books of Poetry

  • 23 People Who Will Make You Care About Poetry in 2013- ( In the context of Rape Joke by By Patricia Lockwood )

  • The Fascinating, Handwritten Poems of Famous Authors

“Poets don’t draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently,” Jean Cocteau once said. When examining the handwritten poems of famous authors — those made popular by their texts and several famous for other art forms — there is an unparalleled intimacy that typed words cannot convey. Many of these poems were born from spontaneous bursts of creativity or late-night meditations, unsparing and instinctive in thought. Words are ostensibly silent, but these handwritten poems speak volumes about their creators. See what poets put pen to paper and revealed their inner worlds.

shelley

 

dickinson

 

Emily Dickinson’s Envelope Poems

 

Emily Dickinson wrote many of her poems on torn scraps of paper, envelopes, and other fragments. Artist Jen Bervin and Dickinson scholar Marta L. Werner have compiled a beautiful collection of the writer’s “envelope poems” in The Gorgeous Nothings, releasing this October. You can pre-order the book about Dickinson’s “crucially important, experimental late work,” or spring for the limited-edition.

 

fitz

 

 

 

dylan

 

Bob Dylan, “Little Buddy”

 

“Your too late sir my doggy’s dead.”

 

A teenage Bob Dylan, born Bobby Zimmerman, proved to be a lyrical artist at an early age in this poetic revision of the Hank Snow song, “Little Buddy.” The future singer-songwriter saw his poem published in the Herzl Herald — the official newspaper of the Wisconsin camp where Dylan spent summers (but didn’t learn the difference between “your” and “you’re”).

 

ode

 

John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”

 

Looking at the Romantic poet’s handwritten verse, we can almost imagine him under a plum tree in the garden of his London home. Keats’ friend Charles Armitage Brown observed the poet deep in thought while composing one of his most famous works:

 

“In the spring of 1819 a nightingale had built her nest near my house. Keats felt a tranquil and continual joy in her song; and one morning he took his chair from the breakfast-table to the grass-plot under a plum-tree, where he sat for two or three hours. When he came into the house, I perceived he had some scraps of paper in his hand, and these he was quietly thrusting behind the books. On inquiry, I found those scraps, four or five in number, contained his poetic feelings on the song of our nightingale.”

 

See more handwritten pages by Keats, here.

 

monroe

 

 

 

poe

 

Virginia Clemm Poe’s Valentine’s Day Poem to her Cousin and Husband Edgar Allan Poe

 

“Ever with thee I wish to roam —
Dearest my life is thine.
Give me a cottage for my home
And a rich old cypress vine,
Removed from the world with its sin and care
And the tattling of many tongues.”

 

Although Poe’s teenage wife (his first cousin) was not a poet, she wrote this Valentine’s Day prose to him in 1846 – the year before she died of tuberculosis. At the time, she lived with the troubled author in a small cottage in Fordham (Bronx), New York. The “tattling of many tongues” is believed to be a reference to Poe’s scandalous relationship with writer Frances Sargent Osgood, who was married — though people had plenty to talk about when it came to the boozy, tormented Poe.

 

Bronte

 

Charlotte Brontë’s Tiny Poem

 

“I’ve been wandering in the greenwoods
And mid flowery smiling plains
I’ve been listening to the dark floods
To the thrushes thrilling strains.”

 

The Brontë sisters often wrote their works in a minuscule handwriting on whatever scraps of paper they could find. A magnifying glass is often required to read the texts. ………

 

 

carroll

 

 

emily

 

“There is No Frigate Like a Book (1286),” by Emily Dickinson

 

Short, sweet escapism:

 

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page (read the rest here)

 

thomas

 

“Notes on the Art of Poetry,” by Dylan Thomas

 

The Welsh writer waxes lyrical about the “delight and glory and oddity and light” between pages:

 

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,
splashing all over the pages (read the rest here)

 

 

 

 

 

pablo

 

“Ode to the Book,” by Pablo Neruda

 

The Chilean poet advises that books invite new possibilities, but we should never forget that wisdom is also gained from experience:

 

When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.

 

(read the rest here)

 

RLS

 

“The Land of Story-books,” by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

The magic of books as seen through a child’s eyes:

 

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

 

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

 

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

 

(read the rest here)

 

Painting of William Wordsworth

 

“The Prelude (Book Fifth — Books),” by William Wordsworth

 

An epic poem that frames books as doors to dream worlds and autobiographical reflections:

 

While listlessly I sate, and, having closed
The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea.
On poetry and geometric truth,
And their high privilege of lasting life,
From all internal injury exempt,
I mused; upon these chiefly: and at length,
My senses yielding to the sultry air,
Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream.  (read the full poem here)

 

 

service

 

We couldn’t choose a favorite between these charming Robert William Service poems — one of which laments that the writer never has enough time to read as much as he’d like (i.e. all the time):

 

“Bookshelf,” by Robert William Service

 

I like to think that when I fall,
A rain-drop in Death’s shoreless sea,
This shelf of books along the wall,
Beside my bed, will mourn for me.

 

(read the rest here)

 

“Book Lover,” by Robert William Service

 

I keep collecting books I know
I’ll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
“Please make me,” says some wistful tome,
“A wee bit of yourself.”
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

 

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: “Why don’t you ease our strain?”
“some day,” I say, “I will.”
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man. (read the rest here)

 

 

macdowell

 

“Old Books,” by Margaret Widdemer

 

The Pulitzer Prize-winning poet reminds us that books are the best kind of soul medicine:

 

The people up and down the world that talk and laugh and cry,
They’re pleasant when you’re young and gay, and life is all to try,
But when your heart is tired and dumb, your soul has need of ease,
There’s none like the quiet folk who wait in libraries–
The counselors who never change, the friends who never go,
The old books, the dear books that understand and know!

 

(read the rest here)

 

guest

 

“Good Books,” by Edgar Guest

 

The homespun poet allows us to identify with his sheer joy and appreciation for books:

 

Good books are friendly things to own.
If you are busy they will wait.
They will not call you on the phone
Or wake you if the hour is late.
They stand together row by row,
Upon the low shelf or the high.
But if you’re lonesome this you know:
You have a friend or two nearby. (read the rest here)

 

 

 

 

 

Reminds of the past and lost glory of ancestral houses in Indian villages

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God’s Garden By Robert Frost

Real and unreal………… discrimination …….. beautifully written by Frost

 

Amazing Viorst

Solitude

Veraiconica's Blog

alban-henderyckx

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,

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love it…..

sub rosa

Possibilities

Wislawa Szymborska

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the river.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of…

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The quiet joy of reading this poem

Awareness It Self

I have found such joy in things that fill
My quiet days – a curtain’s blowing grace,
A growing plant upon a window sill,
A rose fresh-cut and placed within a vase,
A table cleared, a lamp beside a chair.
And books I long have loved beside me there.

Author Unknown

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This golden bloom

Stages of life are like the passing clouds …..

The Pleasures Of Ordinary Life By Judith Viorst.   – http://renardmoreau.wordpress.com/2013/06/19/the-pleasures-of-ordinary-life-by-judith-viorst/

I’ve had my share of necessary losses,
Of dreams I know no longer can come true.
I’m done now with the whys and the becauses.
It’s time to make things good, not just make do.
It’s time to stop complaining and pursue
The pleasures of an ordinary life.

I used to rail against my compromises.
I yearned for the wild music, the swift race.
But happiness arrived in new disguises:
Sun lighting a child’s hair. A friend’s embrace.
Slow dancing in a safe and quiet place.
The pleasures of an ordinary life.

I’ll have no trumpets, triumphs, trails of glory.
It seems the woman I’ve turned out to be
Is not the heroine of some grand story.
But I have learned to find the poetry
In what my hands can touch, my eyes can see.
The pleasures of an ordinary life.

Young fantasies of magic and of mystery
Are over. But they really can’t compete
With all we’ve built together: A long history.
Connections that help render us complete.
Ties that hold and heal us. And the sweet,
Sweet pleasures of an ordinary life.