Sonnet 50: Stella, The Fullness Of My Thoughts
Stella, the fullness of my thoughts of thee
Cannot be stay'd within my panting breast,
But they do swell and struggle forth of me,
Till that in words thy figure be express'd.
And yet as soon as they so formed be,
According to my Lord Love's own behest:
With sad eyes I their weak proportion see,
To portrait that which in this world is best.
So that I cannot choose but write my mind,
And cannot choose but put out what I write,
While these poor babes their death in birth do find:
And now my pen these lines had dashed quite,
But that they stopp'd his fury from the same,
Because their forefront bare sweet Stella's name.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet XII: Cupid, Because Thou
Cupid, because thou shin'st in Stella's eyes,
That from her locks, thy day-nets, noe scapes free,
That those lips swell, so full of thee they be,
That her sweet breath makes oft thy flames to rise,
That in her breast thy pap well sugared lies,
That he Grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that she
What words so ere she speak persuades for thee,
That her clear voice lifts thy fame to the skies:
Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powers
Having got up a breach by fighting well,
Cry, "Victory, this fair day all is ours."
Oh no, her heart is such a citadel,
So fortified with wit, stored with disdain,
That to win it, is all the skill and pain.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 52: A Strife Is Grown
A strife is grown between Virtue and Love,
While each pretends that Stella must be his:
Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this
Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove.
But Virtue thus that title doth disprove:
That Stella (oh dear name) that Stella is
That virtuous soul, sure heir of heav'nly bliss,
Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move;
And therefore, though her beauty and her grace
Be Love's indeed, in Stella's self he may
By no pretense claim any manner place.
Well, Love, since this demur our suit will stay,
Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus
That Virtue but that body grant to us.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 87: When I Was Forc'd From Stella
When I was forc'd from Stella, ever dear
Stella, food of my thoughts, heart of my heart;
Stella, whose eyes make all my tempests clear,
By iron laws of duty to depart:
Alas I found that she with me did smart;
I saw that tears did in her eyes appear;
I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part,
And her sad words my saddest sense did hear.
For me, I wept to see pearls scatter'd so;
I sigh'd her sighs, and wailed for her woe,
Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen.
Thus, while th'effect most bitter was to me,
And nothing than the couse more sweet could be,
I had been vex'd, if vex'd I had not been.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 34: Come Let Me Write
Come, let me write. 'And to what end?' To ease
A burthen'd heart. 'How can words ease, which are
The glasses of thy daily vexing care?'
Oft cruel fights well pictur'd forth do please.
'Art not asham'd to publish thy disease?'
Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare.
'But will not wise men think thy words fond ware?'
Then be they close, and so none shall displease.
'What idler thing than speak and not be heard?'
What harder thing than smart, and not to speak?
Peace, foolish wit, with wit my wit is marr'd.
Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreak
My harms on ink's poor loss; perhaps some find
Stella's great powers, that so confuse my mind.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Stella And Flavia.
Stella and Flavia, ev'ry Hour,
Unnumber'd Hearts surprize:
In Stella's Soul lies all her Pow'r,
And Flavia's, in her Eyes.
More boundless Flavia's Conquests are,
And Stella's more confin'd:
All can discern a Face that's fair,
But few a lovely Mind.
Stella, like Britain's Monarch, reigns
O'er cultivated Lands;
Like Eastern Tyrants, Flavia deigns
To rule o'er barren Sands.
Then boast, fair Flavia, boast your Face,
Your Beauty's only Store:
Your Charms will ev'ry Day decrease,
Each Day gives Stella more.
poem by Mary Barber
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I'd Rather Write
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than mow the lawn today,
As mowing grass I'd soon be bored
And choose to walk away...
That wall needs painting, yes, I know,
Another month won't hurt,
I'd rather write and watch words flow
Than paint and hide the dirt...
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than tidy up that room,
A tidy room's a poor reward
Compared with words that bloom...
That pile of clothes I'll get round to,
No pressure, they can wait,
I'd rather write my point of view,
As my views are first rate...
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than wash the car outside,
It's not a Rolls, it's just a Ford,
With scratches dust can hide...
That stack of dishes, won't complain,
No rush to stand, wipe, stir,
I'd rather write my thoughts again
Before they melt and blur...
I'd rather write a poem, Lord,
Than shop for milk and bread,
Black coffee's okay, rest assured,
I'll give up toast instead...
I'll see my girlfriend, next week, soon,
Tomorrow or tonight...
I'd rather write this afternoon,
Please, Lord, if that's all right...
Denis Martindale, copyright, March 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Accidental Insults
Although I write mainly for me.
I choose to share my poetry.
With other poets on the net.
The only thing that I regret.
Sometimes I find I have upset.
Somebody inadvertently.
Albeit unintentionally.
I can only apologise
For bringing teardrops to their eyes.
Though I am taken by surprise.
By what they read into my words.
I often find it quite absurd.
They take offence at what I write.
They see it in a different light.
And choose to take the opposite.
view. Because they fail to understand.
They then dismiss me out of hand.
As they have every right to do.
Because sometimes I've chosen to.
Criticise what they hold true.
I do not mean to cause offence
I offer this in self defence.
The words I write, you filter through
Experiences peculiar to you.
That's why you read them as you do.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Sonnet 106: Oh Absent Presence
Oh absent presence, Stella is not here;
False flattering Hope, that with so fair a face
Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place,
Stella, I say my Stella, should appear:
What sayest thou now? Where is that dainty cheer
Thou toldst mine eyes should help their famish'd case?
But thou art gone, now that self felt disgrace
Doth make me most to wish my comfort near.
But here I do store of fair ladies meet,
Who may with charm of conversation sweet
Make in my heavy mold new thought to grow:
Sure they prevail as much with me as he
That bade his friend, but then new maim'd, to be
Merry with him, and not think of his woe.
poem by Philip Sidney
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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To Miss Hickman, Playing the Spinet
Bright Stella, form'd for universal reign,
Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;
When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey,
And yield reluctant to despotic sway;
But when your music soothes the raging pain,
We bid propitious heaven prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.
When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king:
Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,
He pants for room in one poor world confined.
Thus waked to rage by music's dreadful power,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.
Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt the nobler fire:
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair;
Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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A matter of opinion.
Some people say I am perverse
because I choose to write in verse.
The kind of stories I compose.
They think I ought to write in prose.
They have the right to I suppose.
But I won’t do as they propose.
I much prefer to write in verse
Because I think there’s nothing worse
Than badly written boring prose.
That is the reason why I chose.
To concentrate on rhyming verse.
I see no reason to reverse.
My original decision
to conform to your opinion.
I do not choose to write in prose
I am convinced that I would lose.
My rhyming capability
reducing my ability.
To write my words spontaneously.
I don’t expect you to agree.
Although I am compelled to write.
You’re free to exercise your right
To read or not as you choose to.
Though I confess I hope you do.
I know I can’t please everyone.
That is something that can’t be done
By any writer though they try
A truth no writer can deny.
Your comments are of interest
they spur me on to do my best.
We can agree to disagree
on which is best quite easily.
A poet must choose poetry.
But other writers are quite free.
to share their thoughts written in prose
Because they choose to I suppose.
If you should doubt my competence.
I will not choose to take offence.
You are entitled to your view
Please remember I am too
Sunday,02 May 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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To Stella, Written On The Day Of Her Birth. March 13, 1723-4, But Not On The Subject, When I Was Sick In Bed
Tormented with incessant pains,
Can I devise poetic strains?
Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verse to Stella's native day:
But now unable grown to write,
I grieve she ever saw the light.
Ungrateful! since to her I owe
That I these pains can undergo.
She tends me like an humble slave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutish passions break,
With gall in every word I speak,
She with soft speech my anguish cheers,
Or melts my passions down with tears;
Although 'tis easy to descry
She wants assistance more than I;
Yet seems to feel my pains alone,
And is a stoic in her own.
When, among scholars, can we find
So soft and yet so firm a mind?
All accidents of life conspire
To raise up Stella's virtue higher;
Or else to introduce the rest
Which had been latent in her breast.
Her firmness who could e'er have known,
Had she not evils of her own?
Her kindness who could ever guess,
Had not her friends been in distress?
Whatever base returns you find
From me, dear Stella, still be kind.
In your own heart you'll reap the fruit,
Though I continue still a brute.
But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again;
Meantime, your other juster friends
Shall for my follies make amends;
So may we long continue thus,
Admiring you, you pitying us.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Sonnet # 20
Thy velvet hair shines like the purest gold
Youe soft liquid eyes be a joy to see
Thy beauty is like a priceless portrait
You are the inspiration this poet would ever need
To write a thousand words upon a thousand lines
Flowing verse in a romantic theme
All dedicated to the thought of you
From a passion you brought to life in me
What dreams could be when one thinks of thee
Maybe? romance fill'd fairy tales
Where true love would always reign supreme
And a knight's love for thee would never fail
Though I have only seen thee but twice
Thy beauty twas enough to enflame my soul to write
poem by John A. Hancock
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I want to write
I want to write, something nice, but nothing comes to mind. Today words are unkind and will not come out from where they normally hide.
Today I want to write, write something nice, and make someone smile, to look forward to a lovely day and an even more an exciting night.
Words of the powerful mind, tell me where you hide, where in the world can I find, find you to create a masterpiece, burn paper with ink, write till I no more blink, as you take me to a place of so many tears, peaceful sleeps, sorrow, happiness, and enchanted dreams…
I want to write, something nice, but nothing comes to mind. Words have deserted me, why are they so unkind and will not come out from where they normally hide…
poem by Thato Maluleka
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Sonnet 74: I Never Drank
I never drank of Aganippe well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to swell;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some do I hear of poets' fury tell,
But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it:
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.
How fall it then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please?
Guess we the cause. 'What, it it thus?' Fie, no.
'Or so?' Much less. 'How then?' Sure, thus it is:
My lips are sweet, inspir'd with Stella's kiss.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Free2rhyme
How blessed are those that choose to write,
Expressing thoughts sublime,
As if to seek the greatest height,
Perchance then free2rhyme...
For they shall find God's thoughts revealed,
From age to age to age,
With precious truths that always yield
Sweet poems page by page...
Thus through the day and through the night,
God's thoughts are shared on Earth,
Such that our weary hearts take flight
Remembering God's worth...
To think, that He should be so kind,
With prophecies and such,
Allowing us to keep in mind
God loves us very much...
I know that there are sad times, too,
Yet faith still proves the key
That's always there for me and you,
For all eternity...
Yes, blessed are those that choose to write,
For they shall learn God's love,
And free2rhyme will gain insight
Till called to Him above...
Just think of all the great rewards
That people could yet gain,
If serving Christ, the Lord of Lords,
God's Gospel to explain...
God's pardon isn't once a year,
It's every day we live,
It's every time that we draw near
And ask Him to forgive...
No wonder, then, God's poets share
Amazing grace and more,
They hear Good News, then kneel in prayer,
Then preach from shore to shore...
If free2rhyme, what strides we'd make,
Improving as we go,
Lost souls to Heaven we could take,
More wonders there to know...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
Live broadcasts are also on some UK
Freeview HD and Roku set top boxes.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Sonnet XXXV: Some, Misbelieving
To Miracle
Some, misbelieving and profane in love,
When I do speak of miracles by thee,
May say, that thou art flattered by me,
Who only write my skill in verse to prove.
See miracles, ye unbelieving, see
A dumb-born Muse made t'express the mind,
A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,
One by thy name, the other touching thee;
Blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine,
And mine ears deaf by thy fame healed be,
My vices cur'd by virtues sprung from thee,
My hopes reviv'd, which long in grave had lien,
All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me
Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Why I Write?
I write poems for myself and I write for the readers
I write for the masses and I write for the leaders
I write to imprint my thoughts in people's mind
I write to make the bad guys helpful and kind
I write to light up our path to Great God
I write for everyone home and abroad
I write to preserve values new and old
I write to make my ink precious like gold
I write for peace and I write for progress
I write to make the world a better place
All major issues I want to address
I write to see smile on God's face
poem by Asif Andalib
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The Sound Of Poetry!
God keeps a library up above
And there records Man’s thoughts on love!
The best are gentle, like a dove,
And warm and tender, like a glove...
I’ve heard that angels gather near,
Each time a writer sheds a tear...
Above his shoulders, thus to peer,
To read the words his heart holds dear!
Lord, let me write with this in mind!
Please stir my heart until I find
New thoughts with wisdom underlined
And God-blessed visions, pure and kind...
Resplendent rhythms set in rhyme!
Lyrical lines, like steps to climb!
Exquisite thoughts compressed in time!
Together, evermore sublime!
Let sacred souls find ecstasy
In Christian verse of Cavalry!
Lord, bid me write... yet hear my plea...
God bless the sound of poetry!
poem by Denis Martindale
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A Short Poem Written At The Moment When A Rising River Looked Like A Rolling Ocean
I was stubborn by nature and addicted to perfect lines,
fought to the death to find words that startle.
Now in old age my poems flow out freely, the way
flowers and birds forget deep sorrow in spring.
A new water pavilion has been built for fishing with a rod.
I choose to use a bamboo raft instead of a boat.
If only my thoughts were guided by poets Tao and Xie,1
we'd travel and together write poems.