A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXIV
And here too I, the latest fool of Time,
Sad child of doubt and passionate desires,
Touched with all pity, yet in league with crime,
Watched the red sunsets from the Alpine spires,
And lit my poet's lamp with kindred fires,
And dared to snatch my share of the sublime.
There was one with me, master of the choirs
Of eloquent thought, who listening to my rhyme,
And seeing in me a soul set on things
Not wholly base, although my need was sore,
Bade me take courage and essay new wings.
And thus it was I first beheld this shore,
Mourning the loss yet half consoled of gain,
The passionate pleader of youth's creed of pain.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Related quotes
Passion Of A Poet
in the world of the poet
passionate about his next poem
there are many trees reaching
high upon the skies
there are bluer skies up there
there are black and white birds
blending
day and nights
dusk and twilight
there will be more things to see
in colors and tastes and
scents of onions and
roses
there is no world as passionate as
a poet in love
with his craft
his beloved asleep in the beauty of her
closed eyes
his lips touching the nipples of her breasts
his tongue unraveling the magic
of a navel
in the world of the passionate poet
there are never aching eyes
perhaps only
an aching heart still wanting to embrace
so much love
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Platonic
I knew it the first of the summer,
I knew it the same at the end,
That you and your love were plighted,
But couldn’t you be my friend?
Couldn’t we sit in the twilight,
Couldn’t we walk on the shore
With only a pleasant friendship
To bind us, and nothing more?
There was not a word of folly
Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects –
The moon and the worlds above, -
And our talk was tinctured with science,
And everything else, save love.
A wholly Platonic friendship
You said I had proven to you
Could bind a man and a woman
The whole long season through,
With never a thought of flirting,
Though both were in their youth,
What would you have said, my lady,
If you had known the truth!
What would you have done, I wonder,
Had I gone on my knees to you
And told you my passionate story,
There in the dusk and the dew?
My burning, burdensome story,
Hidden and hushed so long –
My story of hopeless loving –
Say, would you have thought it wrong?
But I fought with my heart and conquered,
I hid my wound from sight;
You were going away in the morning,
And I said a calm goodnight.
But now when I sit in the twilight,
Or when I walk by the sea
That friendship, quite Platonic,
Comes surging over me.
And a passionate longing fills me
For the roses, the dusk, the dew;
For the beautiful summer vanished,
For the moonlight walks – and you.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Pain and Sore
What is pain
What is Sore
Let me define the too
They mean when a soul is dead
When there is nothing left
But emptiness
Where is pain
Where is sore
For me pain is everywhere
But for the sore
Thats only in my eyes
Where I cry all the time
How is pain
How is sore
Pain slowly kills a body
Sore is worse then words can explain
Who is pain
And who is sore
Pain is the enemies-thy sisters
As for the sore that would be my heart
When is pain
And when is sore
Pain is when you call
And sore is seeing everyone cry
All these are symbolizing one thing
That thing is whats inside
What hurts and is unbarriable
So thats what, where, how, who, when
Pain and Sore are
poem by Renee Ortiz
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Feel Like Talking
“There is a talk about you at the house,
Sit down for it is not a tale but a sad pity;
Your master is a liar, and you have no goal,
So happen like a lad of distress to gain pity,
Like the one lodged in the throat.”
At this snatch was a key to discussion,
For the master was a scoundrel always;
The master refused the lad and so innocence
Arrives, with queer things, queer ways,
Like the pity of a lifetime at the house.
“Flit out of doors so that you arrive,
Feeling able as you do, like a fine lad”;
The keys turn the door to alleviate the suffering
And then knowledge arrives to mock,
Feeling the fire of the mansion and everything.
poem by Naveed Akram
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With a mind like that the poet must be mad
Many men...
(He lost his marbles)
Many women...
(Poetry did this to her)
We believe
What we want to believe
He is keen to see the things
We want to see that they're
Not where we see them
With the one working ear he
Listens with tear stained
Sympathy to the outraged
Complaints of the robbed robbers
With the other not there slashed
Ear he opts not to hear the soaring
Jazz score of the pious whose only
Sin is to escape the wrath of the
Beleaguered match fixers
He's a poet of you know
So in his distress he married himself
Off to another word smith his daughter
Bought him a sympathy card and wished
The soon to be born child God's mercy
Nobody wants to be brought up in
Such a passionate household for sure
He writes with a passionate intensity
With a half crazed mind like that
Your resident poet must be hovering
Somewhere on the peripheries of madness
We learn nothing from the past the past
Haunts us because we learn nothing from history
Wearily our uneventful lives follow where
Where we walk our sloth like walk
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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A Glory Gone
What is my thought of you, beloved one,
Now you have passed from me and gone your ways?
Glory is gone with you from stars and sun,
And all wise meaning from the nights and days.
There is no colour, no delight, no praise
In the deep forest, where your dear eyes shone,
Nor any dryad face with cheeks ablaze
To paint the glades grown sere as Avalon.
--What is my thought of you? No thought have I
But just to weep the pity of lost things,
Grieve with the wind, and rain tears with the rain.
The sun may smile, who knows, in a blue sky,
To--morrow? But to--day Hope's passionate wings
Are folded and Love waits on only Pain.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Doubt
At first I had my doubt, that crossed with mystery,
Yet I hold you dear, to listened the words you say,
you never said them clear, but you said them differently,
So when you’re not there, I hear them breathe silently.
In doubt, I too fear; to repeat those words completely,
but losing fear, I may find the courage which finds you,
abiding in knowledge unclear; in time I may define reality,
yet still love you, and find manners have no clue.
We laughed and share memories passion and pain,
but doubt cheats on joy, and success can never rejoice,
to gain back every full moment left with that stain,
good manners taken to make the better choice.
Doubt at first, I thought was hard to bear,
until fear unclear removed the darkness into light,
and once that was done, I could walk on air,
and go where wisdom and mystery glow bright.
With no wings to fly, but if I sail towards that land,
that’s when I discover doubt had no place to hide,
from courage possessing the passions that are strong,
and seem content where love defines to stay inside.
poem by Gerry Legister
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0008 A Ghazal
I lie awake as the light night-rain falls, listening
to its irregularities, listening
as the breeze blows it now and then
against the window and the curtain flutters; listening
and wondering if I can hear
the rain listening
to itself, as if – I sometimes think I hear this –
there’s a moment just before it stops as if listening
to its own decision to stop, as if it sighs,
thinks, that’s enough; it could be listening
to the gratitude of the closed flowers, the wet earth,
the ecstasy of roots which are themselves listening
to the flowers sleeping, sighing in their sleep.
But do you wonder why I’m listening
instead of sleeping, this warm rainy night?
What’s so important that it needs my listening?
It was the rain that woke me; and as I turned, sighed,
it was the thought of you last night here next to me, listening
not to me, but to your own dreams – which I may never share;
though I may share you in my listening
to your sweet sleep’s breath, felt faintly on my shoulder;
and so, there’s a question in my listening –
did you awake at the same night rain, you so far away,
awake, sigh, and in your half-awakened listening
know that I too, thought of you?
Sighed that sweet thought, of our shared, single listening? …
As the perfume of a rose may be more evocative than the rose,
So sweeter, steadier than thought, dream, memory – the listening!
[A ghazal has a rhyme scheme aa ba ca da >]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet I: Love Enthroned
I marked all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:—
Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast;
And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen Past
To signal-fires, Oblivion's flight to scare;
And Youth, with still some single golden hair
Unto his shoulder clinging, since the last
Embrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast;
And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear.
Love's throne was not with these; but far above
All passionate wind of welcome and farewell
He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of;
Though Truth foreknow Love's heart, and Hope foretell,
And Fame be for Love's sake desirable,
And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Rhyme
Poets rhyme from time to time
They don’t find rhyme a crime
It’s no sin, their using rhyme
Inspired rhyme is so sublime
Can often form a perfect line
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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To A.S. on His Daughter's Wedding
THERE is no joy all set apart from pain,
The opening bud has loss as well as gain.
The brighest dewdropp gems a bending flower,
The rarest day has wept one little shower;
But wholly blest the parting pain and ruth
That hold and fold the joining love of youth.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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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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I'm very passionate about life and I want my soul mate to be equally passionate.
quote by Hill Harper
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Farewell To Youth
Ere that I say farewell to youth, and take
The homely road that leads to life's decline,
Let me be sure again I shall not pine
To taste the bliss you bid me to forsake:
That Spring's returning raptures will not wake
Too late repentance for abjuring mine,
Nor the old sweets I pledge me to resign
Behind them leave the bitterness of ache.
Yet is there nothing of one's generous prime
To bear me kindred company to the end,
Some passionate longing, some belief sublime,
Some wrong to right, some failure to befriend?
Leave me but these, I care not where I wend,
But down life's slope go hand-in-hand with Time.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Prospects
We have set out from here for the sublime
Pastures of summer shade and mountain stream;
I have no doubt we shall arrive on time.
Is all the green of that enameled prime
A snapshot recollection or a dream?
We have set out from here for the sublime
Without provisions, without one thin dime,
And yet, for all our clumsiness, I deem
It certain that we shall arrive on time.
No guidebook tells you if you'll have to climb
Or swim. However foolish we may seem,
We have set out from here for the sublime
And must get past the scene of an old crime
Before we falter and run out of steam,
Riddled by doubt that we'll arrive on time.
Yet even in winter a pale paradigm
Of birdsong utters its obsessive theme.
We have set out from here for the sublime;
I have no doubt we shall arrive on time.
poem by Anthony Evan Hecht
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Although no stupid scoffer
Although no stupid scoffer, I
Am wholly at a loss
To apprehend the reason why
You kiss Lorenzo's Cross.
For though indeed a hundred days'
Indulgence thus you win,
There does not move a lip but says
That you did never sin.
Ha! but I did not read the whole.
I see it now; the gain
May be applied to any soul
In purgatorial pain.
And oh, how many spirits lie
In such sad bondage through
Having too often passed it by
Whilst gazing after you!
They longed, instead, your lips to kiss;
Their wish, though vain, was clear;
They fondly thought they would by this
Make sure of heaven here.
Indulgence each your lip acquires,
On them it doth bestow;
And you who lighted here their fires,
Do quench their flames below.
And so you soothe-'tis only fair-
The souls you lately vexed.
'Tis lucky you have grace to spare
For this world and-the next.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: IV
And thus it is. The tale I have to tell
Is such another. He who reads shall find
That which he brings to it of Heaven or Hell
For his best recompense where much is blind,
A jest--book or a sermon or mere wind,--
Each as he may,--for life's least godly mirth
Is mingled strangely here with fate unkind,
And this is a true story of the Earth.
The passionate heart of youth with its desires
Is not all noble, and some baseness clings
For ever mixed with its eternal fires,
Else were it single among human things.
And all life's wisdom learns but this last plan,
To jest at tears and weep Man's mirth and Man.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Necessitarian
I know not in Whose hands are laid
To empty upon earth
From unsuspected ambuscade
The very Urns of Mirth;
Who bids the Heavenly Lark arise
And cheer our solemn round--
The Jest beheld with streaming eyes
And grovellings on the ground;
Who joins the flats of Time and Chance
Behind the prey preferred,
And thrones on Shrieking Circumstance
The Sacredly Absurd,
Till Laughter, voiceless through excess,
Waves mute appeal and sore,
Above the midriff's deep distress,
For breath to laugh once more.
No creed hath dared to hail Him Lord,
No raptured choirs proclaim,
And Nature's strenuous Overword
Hath nowhere breathed His Name.
Yet, it must be, on wayside jape,
The selfsame Power bestows
The selfsame power as went to shape
His Planet or His Rose.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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(Death) Loss
My paper, my pencils, my keychains, my glue,
They're nowhere to be found,
Nowhere, it's true,
But it does not matter much
That, now, I don't have any work to do.
The sigh for the loss of rainy days overcast
Along the lake
After the shingly overpass
Does not matter much
That, now, the time does not go so fast.
The weeping for the loss of diamond rings,
Fitted and shiny,
Bright as angel wings,
Does not matter much
That, now, I need not the shape of things.
And the loss of my home, beneath the sky,
That sits near a river
Where the salmon swim by,
Does not matter much
That, now, home is here, where I now lie.
And I lost where all my cities were lain,
Where the lions
Slept on every lane,
But it does not matter much,
For I have an even greater pain.
The tragedy of the loss of you, my child,
For the only one I've wept for,
The only one I adore,
Never passes
Because you know I'll wait for you
On God's golden shore.
poem by K. Jared Hosein
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I, Believe
I have never seen or touched GOD,
I have never seen or heard the Sea,
I have never seen or touched the wind,
But in them all, I do believe.
I have never seen a Man kill another,
I have never seen a Man that was not free,
I have never seen a Man to die for love,
But in them, I do believe.
Many Souls have often told me
That surely they do not believe,
In something you feel in your heart and soul,
Unless you can touch it, hear it, and then see.
My Soul has no ears, but it does hear,
My heart has no eyes, but it does see,
My brain knows the difference between right and wrong,
So in many things, I whole heartily believe.
I have never seen or tasted prejudice,
I have never seen or touched creed,
I have never seen or heard death,
But in them, I do believe.
I believe in the things that I cannot see,
Though people tell me they do not exist,
For I see in my heart, and hear it in my soul,
And its belief feels like a gentle kiss,
Oh wonderful Child how you I do envy,
To live my life through your dreams,
To believe with my heart and then the soul,
And everything lived and loved as it seemed,
Child with you, I do believe,
Your world is much better than mine,
You feel with your heart and touch with your soul,
And you don't know of hate, envy or lying.
In dreams and wishes I do believe,
In the impossible and extraordinary I do believe,
In a Child's hopes and thoughts I do believe,
And in the belief of beliefs, I shall always believe.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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