Sentiment
To have Valor, to have Honor,
Is the Poet's only Banner.
poem by Sandra Feldman
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Related quotes
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
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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
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What Shall I Do For the Land that Bred Me
What shall I do for the land that bred me,
Her homes and fields that folded and fed me?—
Be under her banner and live for her honour:
Under her banner I’ll live for her honour.
CHORUS. Under her banner live for her honour.
Not the pleasure, the pay, the plunder,
But country and flag, the flag I am under—
There is the shilling that finds me willing
To follow a banner and fight for honour.
CH. We follow her banner, we fight for her honour.
Call me England’s fame’s fond lover,
Her fame to keep, her fame to recover.
Spend me or end me what God shall send me,
But under her banner I live for her honour.
CH. Under her banner we march for her honour.
Where is the field I must play the man on?
O welcome there their steel or cannon.
Immortal beauty is death with duty,
If under her banner I fall for her honour.
CH. Under her banner we fall for her honour.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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The Thieves of Honor
The Phony Hero, the fake marine
with stolen valor, bemedalled chests.
These are the lowest of the low
Who steal the honor due our best.
Those who never took the field
Who never had to face the foe
Common thieves usurp the medals
owed to men who lie in rows.
True heroes lie in Arlington,
Or in a hundred foreign fields
Or else live private quiet lives’
And never speak about their deeds.
The thieves of honor think to gain
high office by casuistry.
But they will only garner shame
Once we expose their perfidy.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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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
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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
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X
I have decorated this banner to honor my brother.
Our parents did not want his name used publicly
-- from an unnamed child's banner in the AIDS Memorial Quilt.
The boatpond, broken off, looks back at the sky.
I remember looking at you, X, this way,
taking in your red hair, your eyes' light, and I miss you
so. I know,
you are you, and real, standing there in the doorway,
whether dead or whether living, real. -- Then Y
said, "who will remember me three years after I die?
What is there for my eye
to read then?"
The lamb should not have given
his wool.
He was so small. At the end, X, you were so small.
Playing with a stone
on your bedspread at the edge of the ocean.
Submitted by Jimmy Lo
poem by Jean Valentine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Thief of Honor
The Thief of Honor
The Phony Hero, the fake marine
with their stolen valor, bemedalled chests.
These are the lowest of the low
Who steal the honors of our best.
Those who never took the field
Never came face to face with death.
Presume to wear the highest honors
And campaign ribbons on their chests.
True heroes lie in Arlington,
Or in a hundred foreign fields
Or else live quiet private lives’
And never boast about their deeds.
The thieves of honor think to gain
high office from their pilfery.
But they will only garner shame
Once we expose their perfidy.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Few, The Brave
As proof of our remembrance, we lay a flag by each and every grave;
With perpetual solemnity, we ensure that it shall always wave
Under the free skies of the land that they and our forebears created:
For God, Duty and Country-they never hesitated
To serve with Honor and Valor for a higher purpose;
All gave some, and some gave all-all, in service
To a most grateful nation, which must always remember,
Whether on a Summer morn in May, or a blustery one in September:
If not for their bravery, indeed, their sacrifice, we'd not be free!
Surely, if I did not take time to pause, I'd not be me-
Because I stand under free skies, and make my very own choices
All because, even from hallowed graves, they provide us voices
In all we do, see, hear, touch, and feel.
No one may blind or mute us, and steal
This freedom away-we will fight as fiercely as they
Should any try-and would rather die than give it away.
This is how we need honor them, each and every day:
To live as they would have, in each and every way.
They did not die in vain, they perished as noble defenders
Of Liberty at all costs, in a world of raucous pretenders.
Their Valor was as uncommon as they were brave;
Due this Gallantry, Freedom and Democracy were saved
From the depths of tyranny, and totalitarian subjugation-
Not the cornerstones upon which to build a nation!
We, the 'many', need always appreciate 'the few, the brave':
Their sacrifice ensures that the flag shall always wave!
-Maurice Harris,29 May 2012
poem by Maurice Harris
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Obligation Of Remembrance
Champions of freedom, each and every one;
We solemnly remember thee, for all the battles you have won,
With valor, honor, and wholly selfless dedication;
You served served God, and a country in need of your protection,
From those who sought our liberty's end;
Without regard for your own life, you stood to defend
The very precepts that make our country great!
When the call to arms came, you did not hesitate
To stand, and be counted, amongst a very select few;
Freedom is not free-its price was paid by men and women, like you!
On behalf of a grateful nation, with an obligation of remembrance,
Thank you for your sacrifice-I know this fails, as recompense,
Yet, it is all that I now possess, to bestow,
Upon so many brave souls, I had not, the honor, to know!
poem by Maurice Harris
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Today... 'My Banner
The Banner of Jesus is flying high
there nailed upon the cross was He to die.
With arms opened wide as a flag unfurled
as men passed by and their insults hurled.
Upon Calvary's hilltop the banner flies
as Jesus lays down His life for us and dies.
There the veil of the temple was torn in two
and heavens door opened we go through.
He said 'When I am hung upon the tree'
then I will draw Jews and Gentiles to me, '
To all who believe the cross leads to heaven
and all who come in repentance are forgiven.
Outstretched upon Calvary's cross I see
the full extent of Jesus' love for me.
The 'agape' love of God was outpoured
for this poor, vile sinner by Christ adored.
From the Root of Jesse the banner flies
'Come, enter the gates of heaven it cries.'
The Sovereign Lord beckons us to come
and calls us to our great heavenly home.
There praise shall be my glorious battle cry
and His great love my soul shall occupy.
Called into His Banqueting house above
where His great banner over me is love.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
It is a brave act of valor to condemn death, but where life is more terrible than death it is then the truest valor to dare to live.
quote by Thomas Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Poet And The Young Poet
a young poet complains
the life of a poet gets too boring
when there are no readers
or hands clapping
perhaps he is searching for
fame or honor
the old poet believes otherwise
the years of silence
bury him into oblivion
he had those hands clapping
in the passions of his youth
the summit of fame is the mountain
he worked for
he once lived on top of the hill
the naives think he is the cloud king
it is when you still love to write
even if no one is listening
that the life of the poet becomes
a perfect volcanic cone
on the day of the eruption
red magma not lava flows on the river
no one screams
there are no more hands
asking for help
no one no one
tells any story
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poet
The poet can only utter the word fine
The poet has to bear the sorrow and the sin.
The poet can only say I am happy
The poet can only say I feel no aches no pain
The poet can only say I am not in loss
The poet can only say I am in the side of only gain.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Who No Longer Believes In Himself
THE POET WHO NO LONGER BELIEVES IN HIMSELF
The poet who no longer believes in himself
And writes on anyway-
The poet who is too weak to stop writing-
The poet who has died as a poet,
Before he has as a person-
The poet who may never have lived as a poet-
The old old old schnook,
Still trying to write a poem
And believing he has done it once again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Valor is abraded
Soldier of oddities, autumnal fog
aborning valor, confer to overfly
recalling his home, in misty bog
counting raindrops, of a gray sky..
Valor is abraded, functions a log,
his red diluted, in drizzle complies
Maiden of oddities, autumnal rain,
recalls his dark uniform, and rank,
he smiled departing, in dark train,
acclaiming prowess, his eyes sunk..
Rain drops fall from skies above,
adorning a smile, clouds to assay,
he stares in solitude, a courtly love,
her sweet glance, upon their quay..
Friendly raindrops. of a gray sky,
form splendid, in clouds ascends,
staring at cumulus, a mizzle nigh,
sweetly waving, amid his friends..
Honor is abraded, beckons away,
his crimson diluted, in rain amends.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second.
quote by Helen Hunt Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sung for norway's riflemen
Fly the banner, fly the banner!
For our freedom fight!
'Neath the banner, 'neath the banner,
Riflemen unite!
Graybeard in the Storting
Gives his vote for right and truth,
Rifle-voice supporting
Of our armèd youth.
Music runeful
Ring out tuneful
Bullets sent point-blank,
Fiery coursing,
Freedom forcing
Way to royal rank;
They from silent valleys
To the Storting's rallies
Bring the clear 'Rah! Rah!'
And there clamors o'er us
Loud the rifle chorus,
Piercing and repeated: 'Rah! Rah!
Rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah, rah-rah.'
As the lingering echo rattles,
Listens sure our Mother Norway,
That her sons can go the war-way,
Fight her freedom's future battles.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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