Case Studies: I
You thrust into the coffin
where your young wife lay cold
and even more hauntingly beautiful
for the tragic manner of her death
every one of your unpublished poems.
The poet in you, you wanted
the gesture to say, had died with her.
You would not love again.
This is the nineteenth century.
But seven years have passed.
There are men with shovels.
If you do love again, how much
do you love yourself,
her memory,
your enchanting new mistress,
poetry?
poem by Eric Torgersen
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Related quotes
Arguably John Clare
In the English language the greatest poet of Nature is arguably John Clare
Many of his bird and animal and insect poems are gems beyond compare
Yet he died in Northampton mental asylum where he had lived for many years
He penned such marvellous poetry though his life was full of tears.
His Nature poems of the nineteenth century are relevant to today
The Badger and The Landrail, The Fox and Clock a Clay
The Pettichap, The Cuckoo and The Thrush's Nest
When Writing about Nature Clare was at his best.
In death the poor shepherd poet from Helpston has come into his own
His poems poetic classics around the World are known
The greatest Nature poet of England as many would agree
A poet for the ages from a life of poverty.
As a boy amongst Nature in the fields of Helpston he knew of happiness
But sad to think one like him in life did not know of success
With any English Nature poet he favourably does compare
The legendary one of Helpston the reamarkable John Clare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Footnote to a famous poem
You all know it from the classroom.
It’s in all the anthologies.
Many say it’s his best; ‘a young man’s poem’
full of life and love and promise;
and short too. His long poems,
they’re great but few have the patience now
and who cares about Poet Laureates
when they’re out of fashion?
It never appeared, did you know,
in his lifetime. Sat in his desk drawer,
a single poem in a fine Italian leather folder.
His wife left it there after he died;
remembering when he’d sent it to her
the night before their marriage; she caught him
once, sitting there, an old man reading
a young man’s poem; closed the door quietly,
said nothing.
They cleared the house after she died.
It would never have come to light
if years later his mistress hadn’t left
a copy – it transpired - to the museum
in her will; he’d written it just for her, she said;
but made her promise not to publish it.
She felt she owed it to his memory though.
Some people prefer not to have
footnotes to poems; they say
they spoil the poem,
and cheapen a great man;
some people like them; they say
it makes poets seem more human.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My inspirational poets
Let me think of the Vietnamese literature
let me miss the poet named Ba Huyen Thanh Quan
Who is so lovely and so warm.
As her romantic love poems are so clever and
forever for thousand years.
Let me dream of Nguyen Du
in the romantic love story of Lady called Kieu
that is so fantastic love life
and the beautiful nature 's lovely way
still lives in his poems forever.
Let my soul sinks in their marvelous poems
that are so simple and so beautiful for thousand years
AS my childhood fills all of their poems
that let me stirs the emotion never forget.
To their beautiful poems are forever and always.
poem by Natasa Tocuc
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In The Manner Of Borges I Write Poems In My Old Age
IN THE MANNER OF BORGES I WRITE POEMS IN MY OLD AGE
In the manner of Borges I write poems in my old age
And dream that they are not only imitations
Of poems written by others
When we all were young.
Instead I go on now in the darkness of the night
Because the fear of what will be
Is always so deep in me
It does not need Poetry or Happiness or any other Meaning
Outside itself.
We are small sands drifting on the edge of stars
Lesser beings of a time we will never know
All that we have done comes back to us over and over again
As if we never were
I don’t believe I will ever write Borges lines
He wrote them in his own imagined words
And I must in my own little life
Suffer to the end of time
All I have not been
And never will be.
God Who is Good
God of Love
You gave me so much
You did not have to give me Poetry also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A letter to My Dad
Dad it's been twenty years,
since you have been gone now
when ever I think of you
the thought, brings tears
There's so much to tell
you, I don't know where to begin
two months, after you died
we had a son, he's so big now, I'm in a spell
I wanted for you, to meet my wife,
in a way you did, only at your funeral,
by then, it was to late
strangers were we, but never any strife
Between us, there was no hate or any love
many wasted words had we
I would like to mention, we have a daughter,
and she's sweet as a dove
Remeber the day, that you gave me old shep
he was a very fine dog
for a long time, I had him
for many years, he had a lot of pep
After nine years, he died too,
seems like ever thing I love
dies sooner or later
and that makes me feel, very blue
You don't realize, how much you love
some one, until their gone,
and then they
fly away like a dove
Toward the end, we had some good talks
you told me many things i didn't know
at your farm, on our many walks
You told me how you played ball,
it must have been something,
to have played back then
my son, dad like you is very tall
I have a very happy life
dad, I wish you could meet
my son and daughter,
also my wife
Dad, it's to bad, I didn't know you better,
too many years were wasted
and I should have told you, I love you,
so that's the reason, for this letter
written June 18,1990 In Memory of my dad Elmer W. Foulk
Born September 13,1904 Died October 10,1970
A Poet Of Our Time
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Poet Of Our
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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18 Definitions Of Poetry
1) Poetry is what is Beautiful in words –
2) Poetry is the deepest feeling words can tell
3) Poetry is the soul of each one of us
4) Poetry is the morning light after the longest night
5) Poetry is a dream of dreams in a world that needs dreams to be
beautiful
6) Poetry is the Search for God and the Love of God in all holy writing
7) Poetry is Reality itself when it is doing what it should
8) Poetry is you and me and all of us when we are kind to each other
9) Poetry is more than we can say or know- deeper than the deepest
silence and quieter also
10) Poetry is the place we go to in ourselves when we need to cry out loud
11) Poetry is Love words of love and the first spring of the young lovers first
song
12) Poetry is all we are when our minds are right and strong
13) Poetry is what saves us from all the other words
14) Poetry is what ceases to exist when Cruelty comes
15) Poetry is Love and Blessing and Kindness again
16) Poetry cuts through the icy sea within and sends chills down the spine
17) Poetry is what is recollected in tranquility but also tried and tossed in
tempest on the most difficult seas
18) Poetry is open to more than what it has been It is what others have not yet created and will so long as we are human and in search of the Sublime
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poems Of John Clare
For years in Northampton mental asylum he battled his ghosts of despair
His Nation's finest poet of Nature the marvellous wordsmith John Clare
So many of his poems are relevant today
The one who loved Nature with words had a way.
The Helpston he grew up in not a cultural place
And though in that old Village his was a known face
They little realized the fame to them he'd bring
That poetry lovers World wide his praises would sing.
Without him less people of Helpston would know
The great poet of Nature of centuries ago
He died in Northampton mental asylum in dire poverty
Yet is there one greater Nature poet than he?
His flora and fauna poems have passed scrutiny's test
And as a Nature poet he was surely the best
Into the soul of Nature it seemed he could see
And his verses have outlived his mortality.
He never did enjoy his literary renown
And he died in the asylum in Northampton Town
But he was a true poet and his type are so rare
And old Helpston lives on in the poems of John Clare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Wanted So Much
I wanted so much
for you to love me.
I wanted so much
for you to care,
but you would always walk by me
as if I wasn’t there.
You said you wanted to be worldly wise,
and then you took him with all his lies.
You took him to be your partner
and in church, he said he would love you forever.
All I ever wanted
was you to love me.
Years have passed by
and I saw you yesterday.
You weren’t the radiant beauty
that I used to know
and I barely recognised you.
You had changed so much from those yesterdays.
Your sun tan looks had faded
and your auburn hair was now grey.
Age and life had taken their toll on you
and you were no longer with him.
He was but a distant memory in the past
and the lies he blinded you with never did last.
Your searching now for someone
whose love would be true,
but it's too late for me
as I have found someone new
and I cannot turn back the clock
even for you.
A long time ago,
I wanted so much
for you to love me,
but sadly no more.
6 November 2008
poem by David Harris
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Beauty on a Page
Poetry is the lyrics to an enchanting melody,
one that was composed for the simple purpose
of having beautiful words attached to it.
Poetry is chicken noodle soup
on a cold day when the soul is sad
and bones are aching with cold.
It is the medicine needed
when one feels lost or lonely
and only words of comfort are needed.
Poetry is a beautiful butterfly,
floating on a spring breeze,
flowing, gliding, whispering.
Poetry is the realization
and the answer to life's
toughest and most difficult questions.
It is the sound of soft wings
beating against air as a bird is released
from being captive and scared.
Poetry is simply a combination
of everything beautiful in life,
of everything fragile.
It is love, hope, pain, sadness, fear,
It is beauty on a page.
poem by Nick Downer
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To A Dead Love
Once you were beautiful, alabaster, Radiant
Once you were the breath of lilacs, Spring
Once you were love eternal,
Love everlasting.
Once you were the Alpha and Omega,
But now, my love never again.
Now you are a cold memory.
A pain of despair on a sleepless night,
A memory wanted to be forgotten.
Now you are getting dimmer and dimmer,
No stimulation, no meditation,
Now at last I smile on a Dead Love
poem by Martha Nicholson
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love Died Young
They met at the local library
One cold wintry day
They had nice conversation
And later met again at
A local party
He had hair of black
Blue eyes and a lovely smile
He was so handsome in her eyes
Her hair was golden like wheat
Her eyes were emerald green
Her beauty was rare
He adored her
They dated for 2 years
Then one day he fell to his
Knees all pride pushed aside
And he asked her to become his wife
She gratefully accepted his proposal
With God as the witness that day
Three years have passed
Two children came to them
A blessing from God
A boy and a girl-twins they were
Then three years later
The wife falls to the floor
She weakly said: “I am ok now” as
A hand was extended to help her to her feet
After the doctor’s exam
She was told she had a short
Time to live for she could not be healed
Love so young how could this be?
Her husband and two small children struggled
Wondering how could God let such a terrible thing
Happen to such a good family
Love died so young the husband
And children found strength to carry on
The mother lives on through them all
But how they long to find out in the end
Why love had to die so young?
©Copyright 2006 Becky LaPrarie
poem by Becky LaPrarie
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The Poet’s Prayer
Lord forgive me
That I have chosen to become a poet
Forgive me for what I write
The poems of my life
Grant me such devotion
To write the poems that I love
Grant me the love of poetry
That must not distract me
From tenderness
Make my desire last long
Make my disillusion short
Uproot from me these impure desires
From those poems that trouble me
Let not some images confuse me
Let not some metaphors numb me
Let not my dullness sadden me
Let your radiance descend upon
The modesty of my poems
As you once gave radiance
To the prophets who cannot speak
For themselves
Let me be a strong poet
Able to love and defend
the poems for the
women and children and land
Grant me the talent to make
The poems that they may still
Recite and remember
Even when I am gone
In my weakness as a poet
Make me strong
To scorn the poems that are not pure
To shy away from the fires
And flames that do not light
The lives of other men
And women too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For Me Far Too Much Foofaraw
For me far too much foofaraw
Your own conclusions on them and their work draw
Though modern poets and their poems in poetry the in thing
And their praises the literary critics sing.
I am not an up with the times man
And of them and their work I am not a fan
For I do love old fashioned rhyme
And my love for it goes back some time.
It gives me joy to sing along
With the singer of the old ballad or song
The sort the travellers at the horse fairs sung
Decades ago when I was young.
A beautiful memory I recall
Of the Millstreet Town horse fair in the Fall
An ageing Irish Traveller sung Burns 'Afton water' what a joy
For a nine year old country boy.
In the poems of modern poets too much foofaraw for me
Though with that many would disagree
I love the music in the rhyme
The poetry of another time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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As A Child I Loved Poetry
AS A CHILD I LOVED POETRY
As a child I loved poetry,
As an old man I love poetry-
Years of reading poetry are in me,
A lifetime of poetry.
But as a poet,
I am less than what I know from others,
And less than what I would have been-
A small poet
Of small lines
Old and getting older
And still loving the lines
That rhyme inside
And make life more beautiful.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Today... 'Lover
My Lord is the greatest Lover
He has love me like no other.
My Lord, my Love, the Crucified
to save my soul He bled and died.
I am loved with everlasting love
By the One from heaven above
Such great love to me He has shown
Giving His life my love to own
Greater love there could never be
Than the love He has shown to me
Such sacrificial love was His
I don't deserve such love as this
For this my Lover is God's Son
The Altogether Lovely One
I'm my Lovers and He is mine
He is so Handsome and Divine
In his mouth is sweetness and life
And He desires us for His wife
'Arise my darling', He says, 'Come'
'My beautiful one, come on home'
The room was filled with sighs and coos
As His Belovéd the Lover woos
And words of love speaks to her there
embracing her in tender care
In His love He suffered and bled
'I'll never let you go' He said
Unbounded love to her was shown
when He died to make her his own
Day by day they walked hand in hand
Moving towards the promised land.
Then as she breathed her final breath
They together the Vale of Death
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
Sorrow
I walked into the park and saw a young man sitting by a flower bed
I asked him why he looked so miserable and this is what he said,
“Sixty years ago I fell in love with a beautiful girl and now she has to die
I knew her time would come one day, but the years have just flashed by.
I knew that it was wrong to love her, but my heart ruled over my head.
I was there when she was born at home and I stood by her mother’s bed.
As the years passed I watched over her, and proposed when she was sixteen.
She was so young and beautiful then, and everyday we lived a dream.
She didn’t know that I was different and I just couldn’t bear to tell her so,
but she had suspicions as her hair greyed, and my age didn’t show.
And now my heart is breaking because I want to die and be with my wife,
without her my life isn’t worth living, and I no longer want this life.
For sixty years life has been wonderful for me and my only true love,
but soon I must take her up and leave her in the heavens above.
I don’t know how I’m going to take the woman I adore from my side.
I’m sorry for sharing my sorrow with you, ” and as he left he cried.
poem by Orlando Belo
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