No, I'm not Byron; I am, yet
No, I'm not Byron; I am, yet,
Another choice for the sacred dole,
Like him - a persecuted soul,
But only of the Russian set.
I early start and end the whole,
And will not win the future days;
Like in an ocean, in my soul,
A cargo of lost hopes stays.
Who, oh, my ocean severe,
Could read all secrets in your scroll?
Who'll tell the people my idea?
I will or God or none at all!
Another translation by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi:
I AM NOT BYRON
I am not Byron--yet I am
One fore-elected, yet one more
Unknown, world-hunted wanderer,
A Russian in my mood and mind.
Scant from my seed the corn was ripe,
My mouth spoke young, was early hushed;
In depths of my own soul, the wreck
Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk.
Who shall the counsels of the sea,
Its awe sublime unloose? Who shall
Read clear my spirit and my soul?
Unless it be a Poet--no man!
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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A Poet's Song
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
I have read
Works of great men and women
Simple poems and stories
I also have written
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I love poetries
So too are stories
They are simple daisies
Filling my fantasies
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
It is my refuge
When in sorrow
My hopes and dreams
In my unknown tomorrow
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I am a poetess
With the dream of sharing
And with my knowledge and skills
Tomorrow, my dreams I will be fulfilling
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I and my works
May never be great
But I will never lose hope
In God, I place my faith
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I will never surrender to failure
I shall never retire until I reach my goal
I will read and write literature
I will hear the cry of my hoping soul
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
poem by Belleza Edella Marian SwanCullen
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A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature
The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn't impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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As If You Read My Mind
Close your eyes til the morning
Close your eyes til the early dew
Get inside what youve been missing
Are the very first words that I heard coming from you
Take a chance on the secret
That you hide for beneath your dreams
Use your wildest imagination
You just tell me what it is and I will make it be
As if you read my mind
As if you touched my soul
As if you knew exactly where I wanted to go
Lets get high on the happy
With a toast to you and me
Love is here just for the giving
And between us weve got all the love well ever need
As if you read my mind
As if you touched my soul
As if you knew exactly where I wanted to go
As if you read my mind
As if you touched my soul
As if you knew exactly where I wanted to go
As if you read my mind
As if you touched my soul
As if you knew exactly where I wanted to go
As if you read my mind
As if you touched my soul
As if you knew exactly where I wanted to go
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mistic Ocean
It's a beautiful the mistic ocean.
I‘m intoxicating because a unknown mystery.
The Ocean feel as my inside world and
the surf break as drops of water.
The soul was very lonely so came to see a the Ocean's kept a dreamed and
It wanted to be similiar to the Ocean.
The wide the Ocean is the native place of everything life very long time ago.
At the Ocean my mind is easy fall in love if exist person that well suit to me.
I felt the cold weather of life so I came to the Ocean.
Here I seek for that The dream of my soul.
Sometimes the Ocean was melancholy and furious.
It shows to we irdirectly that the various foms of the life
I want eagerly that
always as friend I'll do with Ocean and
permenently I'll live to keep the dream of Ocean.
If that high world
I
If that high world, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving love endears;
If there the cherished heart be fond,
The eye the same—except in tears—
How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die!
To soar from earth and find all fears
Lost in thy light—Eternity!
II
It must be so—'tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink,
And striving to o'erleap the gulph,
Yet cling to Being's breaking link.
Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares;
With them the immortal waters drink,
And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!
poem by Byron from The Hebrew Melodies (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Stanzas To Augusta (II.)
I.
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.
II.
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean.
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.
III.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain - it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue me
'Tis of thee that I think - not of them.
IV.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake;
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
V.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one;
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.
VI.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd
Thus much I at least may recall
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
I Learned My Literature As Myself
I learned my Literature as myself-
Kafka was my soul
In the days of my early anxiety-
Joyce was my soul
Also in literary striving -
Wordsworth my soul in calm and love of nature-
Salinger my soul
Bellow my soul
Singer my soul
Soul after soul
But when I came to write
Near the end
After all the meaning
I and all the other souls together conspired
A voice perhaps my own?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Dead And Gone
In years from now when I am dead and gone
Will people read the words that I had wrote
If they do will they agree with what they read
And if so truly, understand the feelings I had spoke.
Will they feel the pain and suffering that I felt
In the many days of my own life
Maybe they will etch my feelings inside their soul
And If so, I wonder for me if they will cry.
I wonder if anyone will go into a deep thought
After reading the words that I had spoke
And then will they think and understand that feeling too
While inside their soul or heart a memory I will had awoke.
Maybe they will be with me in those lonesome nights
When my soul and I felt so very alone
When I couldn't sleep so I had to write
While my soul stayed stationary, but my mind it did roam.
And will they feel the pain that I did feel
With every line that I suffered as I did write
Will they shed a tear that my lover never shed for me
While she was always in my heart and in my sight.
And when they finish my book and close it shut
Will they reflect my feelings as they walk away
Will they say they know the pain that I have felt
As they too had felt it in their very own days.
Will they cry the tears that was never cried for me
As they go searching for my last resting place
To give the sympathy they might say I deserve
While trying to visualize my soul through my face.
If they look and find and then walk unto my grave
I wander for me if i will receive long forgotten grieving
Telling me how sad and the pity they hold for me
After reading my words, maybe they will start believing.
And maybe they will walk to the graves of the others
The ones who did me wrong and who sealed my fate
Who made me the poet whom I had to become
Will they tell them their souls, and living they do hate.
So as I finish writing with these last few thoughts
I hope forever my words and feelings will continue on
As I know I am not alone and my pain is not fastened to me
But really who will know, until I am dead and gone.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Poet's Soul
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
I read the poet's inner world.
Pulse beats louder, then duller,
And all my doubts are just hurled.
The sadness sometimes a kiss cover,
Then suddenly curled at my feet,
Giving the whole body a heat,
The warmth of a true lover.
Fever passes through nervous points,
Chill runs through the whole body,
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
And feel that the soul is haughty.
I delve into the words and their nature,
Understanding destroys the walls,
Now I would like to capture
The main idea and the poems calls.
I read and my joy is in full swing,
My own soul gets the wings,
I am ready to fly with the singer,
Like me the poet is a swinger.
I am with that one who dared
To plunge into the holy spring naked,
I am with that one who shared
An inspiration and was not faked.
I read the poet's souls in the poems.
But do I read the souls of reality or dream?
Let's deem that no one here and there lies,
And the law of poetry is always precise.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 4th of April,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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From The Prometheus Vinctus Of Aeschylus
Great Jove, to whose almighty throne
Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by the side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled;
The Nymphs and Tritons dances around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.
No Poem Is An Original
No poem is an original
everyone who writes
poetry thinks their poem
was an original, it just so
happens that their poem just
surfaced to the top
of their mind first, so they
were able to write it.
Everyone has love, hate
compassion buried deep
in their soul.
Poets are able to bring
all of this to the surface,
to construct, add the words,
but it is not an original
idea, for the poet because
they wrote it now, it
becomes an original for them.
Who has not heard a song,
read a poem, story or book,
seen a movie and said,
to themselves, hey I had
that same idea.
Only thing is, someone else
brought it to the surface
of the mind, and wrote it first.
Even this poem I'm writing
now is not an original
someone out there
has this idea buried
deep in their soul.
So if you have an idea
for a poem, get busy
write it, don't wait,
or you won't write an original
start today,
don't delay.
wrote 2-2-07
Ocean Of Man's Heart
Ocean Of Man's Heart
The ocean of man's heart is deep
every now and then it will leak.
The ocean of man's heart is cold
sometimes reaching into his soul.
The ocean of man's heart is sure
sometimes polluted but spirit remains pure.
The ocean of man's heart is clear
playing silently to his inner ear.
The ocean of man's heart is deep
watch out for loves little leaks.
Debbie Wagoner 7/27/09
poem by Debbie Wagoner
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There Was A Time, I Need Not Name
There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.
And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,
None, none hath sunk so deep as this---
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone.
And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.
Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain.
Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.
Bright Be The Place Of Thy Soul!
Bright be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be:
There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest:
But nor cypress nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?
What Is There Written In The Depths Deep Therein?
Who has the courage
to look into the depths?
Of their own immortal soul
to read what is written there?
How often across the scores of years
the same sentiments keep reoccurring!
How often have you heard?
‘I do not want you to see the truth
To see too far into the depths of my soul’
It seems only a few dare
look into their own souls!
To see what is there written
in the depths deep therein!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Drinking Song
There are people, I know, to be found,
Who say, and apparently think,
That sorrow and care may be drowned
By a timely consumption of drink.
Does not man, these enthusiasts ask,
Most nearly approach the divine,
When engaged in the soul-stirring task
Of filling his body with wine?
Have not beggars been frequently known,
When satisfied, soaked, and replete,
To imagine their bench was a throne
And the civilised world at their feet?
Lord Byron has finely described
The remarkably soothing effect
Of liquor, profusely imbibed,
On a soul that is shattered and wrecked.
In short, if your body or mind
Or your soul or your purse come to grief,
You need only get drunk, and you'll find
Complete and immediate relief.
For myself, I have managed to do
Without having recourse to this plan,
So I can't write a poem for you,
And you'd better get someone who can.
poem by James Kenneth Stephen
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My Soul Came Back To Me/Hard Tough Young As I Once Was
MY SOUL CAME BACK TO ME/HARD TOUGH YOUNG AS I ONCE WAS
My soul came back to me
Hard tough young as I once was
A fighting soul
A soul that would never give in
No matter how they tried to torment it into surrender-
My soul back came to me
And once again I thought I could stand against the world
And by being brave
And going out there alone
On my own adventure
Find the Truth as no one else had
And know what no others had known=
But in my soul I know I am pretending
I have seen and known too much
Also of myself-
I am a minor mote of dust in the vast spaces
And with all the pain and power
However hard I press against the distance
I will not touch the other greater worlds-
No, no,
However my mood and my mind
The temper of my soul
The universe will lay me low
And my toughness become only
Someone else who loves me, sad memory.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Our Future
Our future is hidden
Among the vast forests of our soul.
Our future is waiting
Among the depths of our own ocean.
One’s future is ownself -
You create your future.
Run through the forests,
Swim through your ocean,
And you will find yourself -
You and your future.
{25/05/2007}
poem by Istiqur Rahman
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Russian Roulette
Take it or leave it Ive heard it been said
All this spring fevers just way over my head
Stealing my moments, taking up all my time
Its playing russian roulette with my mind
Its none of my business baby just whats going on
Im not going to wait till somebody throw me a bone
Im way out on a limb now, and nothing seems to rhyme
Its playing russian roulette with my mind
I think that youve caught on, that youve been used and all
Im going down new orleans, Ive got to see dr. john
Got my mojo working everything will be fine
Stop playing russian roulette with my mind
Its not easy baby when everything starts getting out of control
Hang on your hat now, hang on to your soul
Dont worry baby, I wanna throw you the line
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind
Too many hustlers, Ive been here before
None of them really know just who that you are
Everything gets contracted and space gets confined
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The world is one typographical error
It's like a puzzle,
poet and time.
Where one used to balance the square,
another now circles.
Like a carrion bird,
he survives, in the bomb craters,
and sideways alleys.
A new age brings a new type,
profundity and perfuctory,
or a paroxism and paradigm.
hand in the others coat,
to keep fresh, to keep warm
What one has built and abandoned,
the new poet destroys to feeds on.
Nothing is eternal
Its allways being proof read.
The world is one typographical error,
In time, his fingers, crane-like and hungry,
inconsistently try to correct.
But every language has its soul,
and every soul has his voice,
lost in translation.
poem by Jerome Moore
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