On the Grasshopper and Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
poem by John Keats
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Sonnet XV. On The Grasshopper And Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's -- he takes the lead
In summer luxury, -- he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
poem by John Keats
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The poetry of the earth is never dead
True that the poetry of the earth is never dead
The grasshopper and the cricket testify that
But another great war will take place
It will a nuclear one I am sure
That will be the end of grasshopper and cricket
That will be the end of the poetry of earth
Presently with another great war
our dear earth will turn into a piece of charcoal in a moment
to dissolve in the space
Thank you Herr Einstein
Thank you Oppenheimer
Thank you Gamow
Thanks to the disinterested curiosity of science
To me the meanest flower that blows
tells me what man has made of the earth
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Poetry is Everywhere
To all my friends who say –
Poetry is not my cup of tea,
I’d strongly recommend that
they watch “Dead Poet’s Society”.
Poetry is in your cup of tea,
poetry is in every wave of the sea,
poetry is in the song of a bird
poetry springs forth from each of your word.
Poetry is in the smile of a baby,
poetry is in the redness of a ruby,
poetry is the union of your heart and mind
poetry teaches you to be soft and kind.
Poetry is the song of your soul,
poetry reminds you of your life’s goal,
poetry is in a game of cricket,
poetry is in the sound of a cricket.
Imagine life without poetry -
What an empty life it would be!
Imagine a world without poetry -
What a dull place it would be!
09 June 2010
! 2: 50 pm
poem by Gita Ashok
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A Grasshopper Must Jump
offer young grasshopper
tiny roots of wisdom
to perceive her reality
grasshopper wants desires
to jump ever more boldly
from grass blade to blade
see how high I can jump
see how far I can jump
screams young grasshopper
grasshopper wants praise
grasshopper wants esteem
grasshopper wants no advice
grasshopper hears with legs
so jump blindly grasshopper
learn own leap life lessons
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Summer Evening At Home
Come, lovely Evening! with thy smile of peace
Visit my humble dwelling; welcomed in,
Not with loud shouts, and the thronged city's din,
But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease
Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe
Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe,
The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude
Heard indistinctly from the village green,
The bird's last twitter, from the hedge-row seen,
Where, just before, the scattered crumbs I strewed,
To pay him for his farewell song;--all these
Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please
The stilly-stirring fancies. Though my hours
(For I have drooped beneath life's early showers)
Pass lonely oft, and oft my heart is sad,
Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad
To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
Has decked with trees and shrubs the slopes around,
And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fanned,
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound,
That seems to say: Forget the transient tear
Thy pale youth shed--Repose and Peace are here.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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November
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds ran,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skim the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
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Poetry?
what is poetry
a bunch rhymes
or just simple words on paper because you have to much time
poetry to me isnt all about rhyming
poetry to me is a way to get out emotions or things that happen in the past your to scared to say so instead you write about it. poetry can be sweet, bad, naughty, nice poetry is how your feeling poetry takes on the tone of voice your to scared to explain. poetry is that voice deep down inside that voice that takes over when your typing or writng. to me people are poetry people are the voice, people are the future, but poetry is the key that on locks us all. to stand up and use that voice that we write with when were writng poetry.
poem by Jerrell Frazier
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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
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Cricket on the Hearth
When red-nosed Winter takes the road,
An icicle his walking-stick,
When frost is on the woodman's load,
And snow is falling fast and thick,
Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,
Let's make a circle round the blaze
And talk of stumps,
Of nasty bumps,
That flew and came in sunny days.
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing time in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone--
There's Cricket on the Hearth!
Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,
And Grandpapa who, long ago,
Loved hitting when the Field was slack,
And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!
No more he's nimble on the green,
But what a history he tells
Of Surrey men
And hits for ten,
And heaps of most tremendous Swells!
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing time in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone--
There's Cricket on the Hearth!
The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,
And lovely lasses take the floor;
But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,
The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!
How great a game to fill July,
May, June, and August with delights,
Yet in the frost
Be never lost,
But stir the blood on nipping nights!
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing times in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone--
There's Cricket on the Hearth!
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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A Light in My Winter
A light in my winter
For spring dreams to come
Shady darkish tinter
Where my summer is from
A light in white frost
For the blossoming dreams
Those with autumn were lost
In oblivion river streams
Each morning come glowing
With sunshine and day
Through the darkness going
To lead forthcoming way
When rose shall reddish
So lovesome in my bed
To bring in spring wish
Through their colors red
A light in my heart
To fulfill my dark eyes
For blossoms shall start
When there are blue skies
And again summer spring
With each beauty of worth
And birds in trees to sing
Every song of new earth
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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The Grasshopper
Grasshopper
grasshopper
all day long
we hear your scraping
summer song
like
rusty
fiddles
in
the
grass
as through
the meadow
path
we pass
such funny legs
such funny feet
and how we wonder
what you eat
maybe a single blink of dew
sipped from a clover leaf would do
then high in air
once more you spring
to fall in grass again
and sing.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Poetry of the earth
Poetry calls me out of darkness,
Poetry lights my candle!
When the king wears a crown,
When the beggar wears a frown,
I'll take you to town!
Poetry of the earth is never dead,
Poetry of the earth - never shall it end:
When the blackbirds sing,
When a boxer enters the ring,
When a bee gives you a sting,
Joy and comfort to your soul I'll bring!
poem by Comfort Ndlovu
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Poetry Of The Old
THE POETRY OF THE OLD
The Poetry of the old
Is a smaller poetry
A more fragile poetry
A quieter poetry.
The Poetry of the old
Does not raise its voice
It sings to itself softly
And does not really hope to be heard.
The poetry of the old
Is a quiet poetry
And its name
Is mostly ‘Sadness’.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Song (1912)
All suddenly the wind comes soft,
And Spring is here again;
And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,
A nd my heart with buds of pain.
My heart all Winter lay so numb,
The earth so dead and frore,
That I never thought the Spring would come,
Or my heart wake any more.
But Winter's broken and earth has woken,
And the small birds cry again;
And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,
And my heart puts forth its pain.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1912)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Real Property
Tell me about that harvest field.
Oh! Fifty acres of living bread.
The colour has painted itself in my heart;
The form is patterned in my head.
So now I take it everywhere,
See it whenever I look round;
Hear it growing through every sound,
Know exactly the sound it makes —
Remembering, as one must all day,
Under the pavement the live earth aches.
Trees are at the farther end,
Limes all full of the mumbling bee:
So there must be a harvest field
Whenever one thinks of a linden tree.
A hedge is about it, very tall,
Hazy and cool, and breathing sweet.
Round paradise is such a wall,
And all the day, in such a way,
In paradise the wild birds call.
You only need to close your eyes
And go within your secret mind,
And you'll be into paradise:
I've learnt quite easily to find
Some linden trees and drowsy bees,
A tall sweet hedge with the corn behind.
I will not have that harvest mown:
I'll keep the corn and leave the bread.
I've bought that field; it's now my own:
I've fifty acres in my head.
I take it as a dream to bed.
I carry it about all day....
Sometimes when I have found a friend
I give a blade of corn away.
poem by Harold Monro
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Vae Victis!
Here in this isle
The summer still lingers,
And Autumn's brown fingers
So busy the while
With the leaves in the north;
Are scarcely put forth
In this land where the sun still glows like an ember,.
In mid-November.
In England it's cold,
And the yellow and red
Of October have fled ;
And the sun is wet gold
Like an emperor weeping,
When Death goes a-reaping
All through his empire, merciless comer
The dead things of summer.
The sky has cried so
That the earth is all sodden,
With dead leaves in-trodden,
And the trees to and fro
Wave their arms in the air
In despair, in despair :
They are thinking of all the hot days that are over,
And the cows in the clover.
Here the roses are out,
And the sun at high noon
Makes the birds faint and swoon.
But the cricket's about
With his song, and the hum
Of the bees as they come
To feast at the honey-board laden and groaning,
Makes musical droning.
But vainly, alas !
Do I hide in the south,
Kiss close with my mouth
Red flowers, green grass,
For Autumn has found me
And thrown her arms around me.
She has breathed on my lips and I wander apart,
Dead leaves in my heart.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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In The Winter Garden
Winter has visited our garden my love
Trees have been stripped bare and flowers wilt
A frost has been laid upon the ground
Even the birds have taken to flight, away
Amid the silence of the morning I walk
Through our garden which we nurtured
How solemn it now looks without colour
The summer seems but a distant memory
How beautiful it looked back then
How beautiful it will look once more
But now in the mornings drab light
With barren trees and wilted flowers
I walk upon the hardened earth
Which feels like stone beneath my feet
We talked of planting a fruit tree
For flavour and shade in years to come
Now that is an idea in waiting
Till winter has passed, and spring returns
Winter is here in our garden my love
As I watch the vapour of my breath rise
I say your name, a love for all time
poem by Matthew Holloway
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