Related quotes: 'O Poesy! for thee I...

Because They Rhyme They Live, Not I

'O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
Of flowering bays, that I may die a death...'

- John Keats, 'Sleep and Poetry

I suppose it is the late, or soon to be, poet's lot to jot one
for daffodils. At least one. This is mine, a last will to verse.

But first, I take a pill before dying, I mean,
its meager meal, yellow sun on a jaundiced plate.
'Consumption' is the word I want. I've got that,
and few breaths left and a flat voice to tell it in.

'The daffodils were yellow as the sun.'
So lay down thy pen. Ungrasp! I say.
An olden voice pulls at bruised skin.
I grow thin. And gasp. I grow thin as winter air.
I'll not see them rise again from bulbs perennially.
Not me, annulled in this season of the lung
though each breath mimics leaven, assumes
Eternity's aspirations, but...(where was I?) ...
not me, not long for my tongue to sing.

Meanwhile, bright petaled mouths flaunt, gape,
gulp in early spring, whereas, I flop here, leaden,
landed, banked, a carp brought to heel from bluer
lake pulling gills swallowing nothing that can sustain,
or not much. I sympathize, yes, then down another
pill for more air to clutch, breath an almost perennial
memory of last spring when it first edged me in,
clipped my singing short, when seasonal flowers so
easily rhymed but in a minor wheeze for a minor voice.

Fine then. Some one, some other poet write a
line for when I've gone under forfeiting all final drafts.
Those yard yellows spoon dirt to a useless
feeding sun, useless because I'm soon done in.

I'd do the same for you, Mr. Keats, in a soft, bleating tone of voice.

poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Spring Flowers ~ Daffodils & Jonquils

Brightest flowers of early spring
Daffodils and Jonquils
Shout seasonal joy aloud
These lovely flowers always bring
Sunshine that never will
Be dimmed by veil of cloud

With trumpets lifted to face the sun
And petals opened wide to drink
Those warming rays
Daffodils and Jonquils imply fun
Encouraging mankind to think
Of brighter days

Daffodils and Jonquils seek the sun
As it travels along
Days that are lengthening
Seeing them proves Spring has begun
And that before long
We will be summering

poem by Mary Havran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strong

My breath smells of a thousand fags
And when I'm drunk I dance like me Dad
I've started to dress a bit like him

Early morning when I wake up
I look like Kiss but without the make up
And that's a good line to take it to
The bridge

And you know and you know
Cos my life's a mess
And I'm trying to grow so before
I'm old I'll confess
You think that I'm strong you're wrong
You're wrong
I'll sing my song my song my song

My bed's full of takeaways and fantasies
Of easy lays
The pause button's broke on my video
And is this real cos I feel fake
Oprah Winfrey Ricki Lake
Teach me things I don't need to know

And you know and you know
Cos my life's a mess
And it's starting to show so before
I'm old I'll confess
You think that I'm strong you're wrong
You're wrong
I'll sing my song my song my song

If I did it all again I'd be a nun
The rain was never cold when I was young
I'm still young we're still young
Life's too short to be afraid
Step inside the sun

And you know and you know
Cos my life's a mess
And I'm trying to grow

You think that I'm strong you're wrong
You're wrong
I'll sing my song my song my song

Life's too short to be afraid
So take a pill to numb the pain
You don't have to take the blame

song performed by by Robbie Williams from Ego Has Landed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Miss my Spring

The spring takes leave as soon as it peeps
Says go, blooming flowers and giving sudden wind.
The spring comes only to maintain its rule, we cannot
Touch its deep. The spring did not sing the sky
Of the Bangladesh after the poet Rabindranath
These is no such noteworthy research is done in course
Of the short existence of spring. It is not discussed in
the seminar. Only a few poets wrote a few lines on some
poems of lamentations. We shall not get back
the spring as we the poet does. Only singing
(poet) song and seeing the yellow cloth
wearing women. We shall recollect it with
joy once the spring was in the royal throne

poem by Ravisankar Maitree
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What She Said

She said: Would I might sleep
With the bulbs I plant so deep,
Forgetting all the long Winter
That I must awake and weep.

A dreamless sleepy-head,
Forgetting my Dear was dead;
Nothing caring nor knowing
While the dark season sped.

I am so young, so young,
And the years stretch out so long,
The weeks and the months so endless;
The long life does me wrong.

I would grow old and grey,
As though 'twere only a day,
Till his voice came calling, calling
To me under the clay.

Then I should spring to the sun,
Life done with, Life begun,
And run where he waited to lift me
Over the threshold stone.

She sighed in the Autumn weather: --
Would I and the bulbs together,
For Spring lay quietly waiting;
I and the bulbs together.

poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spring

'YES, Spring has come,' the grocer said,
And tied a final knot of string,
Rang up the change and becked his head,
Elated at the breath of Spring.

'Yes, Spring has come,' the poet said,
And poured his ecstasy in rhymes,
Which eager, homesick exiles read
Long winter-locked in frozen climes.

Perhaps the grocer's way was best,
If joy can better be, or worse:
He saved his rapture unexpressed,
The poet spent his for a verse.

poem by Alice Duer Miller
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To John Keats, Poet, At Spring Time

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats
My last year's song and next year's bliss.
I know, in spite of all men say
Of Beauty, you have felt her most.
Yea, even in your grave her way
Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost,
Spring never was so fair and dear
As Beauty makes her seem this year.

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats,
I am as helpless in the toil
Of Spring as any lamb that bleats
To feel the solid earth recoil
Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats
her tocsin call to those who love her,
And lo! the dogwood petals cover
Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek
White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover
About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek,
While white and purple lilacs muster
A strength that bears them to a cluster
Of color and odor; for her sake
All things that slept are now awake.

And you and I, shall we lie still,
John Keats, while Beauty summons us?
Somehow I feel your sensitive will
Is pulsing up some tremulous
Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves
Grow music as they grow, since your
Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves
For life that opens death's dark door.
Though dust, your fingers still can push
The Vision Splendid to a birth,
Though now they work as grass in the hush
Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.

'John Keats is dead,' they say, but I
Who hear your full insistent cry
In bud and blossom, leaf and tree,
Know John Keats still writes poetry.
And while my head is earthward bowed
To read new life sprung from your shroud,
Folks seeing me must think it strange
That merely spring should so derange
My mind. They do not know that you,
John Keats, keep revel with me, too.

poem by Countee Cullen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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