When Robert Frost was alive, I was known as the other new England poet, which is to be barely known at all.
quote by Howard Nemerov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.
quote by Robert Frost
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Oh England My Lionheart
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Im in your garden, fading fast in your arms.
The soldiers soften, the war is over.
The air raid shelters are blooming clover.
Flapping umbrellas fill the lanes--
My london bridge in rain again.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Peter pan steals the kids in kensington park.
You read me shakespeare on the rolling thames--
That old river poet that never, ever ends.
Our thumping hearts hold the ravens in,
And keep the tower from tumbling.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Dropped from my black spitfire to my funeral barge.
Give me one kiss in apple-blossom.
Give me one wish, and Id be wassailing
In the orchard, my english rose,
Or with my shepherd, wholl bring me home.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
When We Get To England
When we get to england
Will we know when weve arrived?
When we get to england
Will we know if she has died?
Does the girl with the dogs
Still live in the big house
On the corner?
Are the boys collecting frogs
Still marching away
To die in war?
Like its all from a dream
Like its all from some history book
Didnt look too hard
Did I miss something that I should have seen?
When we get to england
Will it still be there?
When we get to england
Will we know where weve arrived?
When we get to england
Will a kiss bring her alive?
Once a farmer in the field
Had to grow enough
To feed his family
Now they pay him for his yield
Just to burn it down
And throw away
Like its all from a dream
Like its all in a crystal ball
Did it fall so hard?
Rest in pieces on a village green
When we get to england
Will it still be there?
When we get to england
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A BeAPoeIt Poem
I say I'm not a poet, For like of which I know it,
Rhymes absurd in metered word,
Describing not a poet
Edgar Allen knew it, The flying raven flew it,
The poems grow for Poe to know,
And Nevermore he drew it
Maya made to wing it, The caging bird to bring it,
With Angelou a freedom flow,
In Stilling bird to sing it
Robert's ride to sigh it, The road with just one by it,
Frost travels one concealing sun,
But Traveling to try it
I'll never be a poet, Descriptions rip to sew it,
Moving here and there with wear,
Encoding how I show it
poem by Paul Moosberg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Blake has always been a favorite, the lyrics, not so much the prophetic books, but I suppose Yeats influenced me more as a young poet, and the American, Robert Frost.
quote by Anne Stevenson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.
quote by Robert Frost
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ode To A Robert Frost Poem
I thought I took the road less taken.
But I guess I was mistaken.
When the two paths diverged in the woods; I pondered at which path I must take.
I took the path to my left in the woods; Was it the right path to take?
It was not, but I digress.
Why must I deal will all this stress?
As I sit and try to recall all of the words from the poem Frost once wrote, I must emote.
This ode to that grand old poem that Frost once wrote.
The name of that Robert Frost poem is 'The Rode Not Taken'.
As I write this ode to a Robert Frost's poem, the words he wrote be not mistaken.
I thought I took the path less taken.
I will now end this ode to go eat some bacon.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Portraits after death; rhyme after time
and a poet I was reading yesterday
said, have you noticed
that portraits of people change
after they die?
and I’ve noticed that portraits
of Princess Diana
now look to me as if
she’s a sad schemer
I don’t like this at all.
I feel dirty, as if
I’d been manipulated
when all I want to do
is, to see the goodness and the beauty in her
It’s the same with rhyme:
when I see rhyme
(hearing it doesn’t worry me so much,
as if the time of reading it
heals it in some way) -
it seems like sad scheming
as when Robert Frost
has to take the road pre-planned
by language and the rhyming dictionary
and very obviously rhymes
future with suture
I don’t like this at all, either:
It never used to worry me; now
I start to look cynically
at every poem that rhymes
in the convention of its times
(that rhyme was not planned
deliberately..) –
look cynically, to see
which was the chosen word,
the direction of the poet’s thought;
and which the ‘fill-in’, like
some silly puzzle; even if
it stimulates the poet’s imagination
perhaps
I don’t like either of these phenomena
in actuality, or worse, in myself;
both these dirty me to myself.
This looks like being hard work
for the insulted mind
insulted, like some robot, by itself.
Diana, Robert, I am deeply, deeply regretful.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
One Unto The Other
What can a poet do for you?
Open up your heart
to let the sunshine through.
What can a poet say to you?
Words so powerful
to put your past in review.
What can a poet give to you?
A moment of prayer
to make you feel brand new.
What can a poet make alive in you?
A picture of your soul
as it comes into view.
What can you give the poet you read?
The chance to reach you
with something you need.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
SHADOWS OF AUTUMN {A Poet's Dream}
Shadows that haunt me in autumn
Memories of colours lost to winter
The Douglas Fir......forever green
Keeps the forests from the barren
and desolate winter...
Shadows tail the whispered winds
November's fickle breeze....snaps
Fresh images, for the Poet's mind
Reclusive me, i write my stories in
silent attitude...
Shadows that vision harvests death
Tips of golden leaves, turn to brown
Morning dew is masked in first-frost
I watch it all, by a window, in a room
of Donne and Poe...
All i need is my paper...and isolation
To feed by yen, for the abstract buffet
I bother no one..... harbour no secrets
I'm about words 'n tales from the dark
side of fiction...
For a Poet i am not- and will never be
Poet's paint a canvass, of open doors
Into the passions 'n perils of their lives
And they do it oh so well...'tis God-Gift
Still i write.....
And, the shadows of Autumn, haunt me
They scream and bleed poetic promise
Like the gold that Robert Frost inspired
While captured, in the autumn shadows
of a Poets dream...
(September 1st,2007)
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry
A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY
A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.
The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
We fell in love with the land
We fell in love with the land
when it became ours
going to explore
the plains, the deserts and mountains
and shook
Holland and England from us,
like a dog does
when its fur gets wet from water
and our reality is here and now
and even though at times things are grey
as if the new government want to gorge us down,
we can regard no other place as our own
we have lost our hearts here
there’s no other land that charms us as much,
no other horizon that is so own to us
of which we hear the heartbeat in our own.
[Reference: The Gift Outright by Robert Frost.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ripoff
I don't wanna be no traitor to the cause
But England is a luxury - not many can afford
There's people going under - it's getting out of hand
Whatever happened to our - our green and pleasant land?
It turned into a wilderness; it turned into a third world country
Most people ain't getting what they pay for
Some people gettin' more than they should be
I know, I know - I'm an alien - but what are you gonna do
I wanna live in England - but it gets to you
It gets to you, it gets to you, it gets to you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
What do you do when you find out?
Where do you go if you leave?
There's no place like home - that's what they say
And that's what you always believed
Someday you might win the Lottery
Someday you might win the Pools
But that's all you've got - that's all you've got
- to live for, to live for
That's all you've got - that's all you've got -
to live for, to live for (yeah)
To be or not to be - that's the question
Oh what's it gonna be?
I'd love to live in England - but it gets to me
it gets to me, it gets to me, yeah it gets to me
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
Oh I really don't know why - England wants to rip off
England wants to rip off , England wants to rip o
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Catullus
Would that you were alive today, Catullus!
Truth ’tis, there is a filthy skunk amongst us,
A rank musk-idiot, the filthiest skunk,
Of no least sorry use on earth, but only
Fit in fancy to justify the outlay
Of your most horrible vocabulary.
My Muse, all innocent as Eve in Eden,
Would yet wear any skins of old pollution
Rather than celebrate the name detested.
Ev’n now might he rejoice at our attention,
Guess'd he this little ode were aiming at him.
O! were you but alive again, Catullus!
For see, not one among the bards of our time
With their flimsy tackle was out to strike him;
Not those two pretty Laureates of England,
Not Alfred Tennyson nor Alfred Austin.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!