I'm William Shakespeare
I’m born in April,1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon
I’m 100 miles northwest of London
I’m According to the records of Stratford's Holy Trinity Church
I’m baptized on April 26
I’m traditional birth date April 23rd, St. George's day
I’m married Anne Hathaway on November 27,1582
I’m 18; Anne was 26, eight years older than me.
I’m Susanna was born around May 26,1583; twins, Hamnet and Judith, were born around February 2,1585.
I’m likely educated at the grammar school in Stratford from the age of six or seven.
I’m published my first poem, 'Venus and Adonis, ' in 1593. I then wrote 154 poems and 37 plays, and my fame has only increased with time.
I’m recognized as one of the greatest writers of all time, known for works like 'Hamlet, ' 'Much Ado About Nothing, ' 'Romeo and Juliet, ' 'Othello, ' 'The Tempest, ' and many other works.
I’m With the 154 poems and 37 plays of my literary career, my body of works are among the most quoted in literature. I created comedies, histories, tragedies, and poetry. Despite the authorship controversies that have surrounded my works, the name of my continues to be revered by scholars and writers from around the world
I’m William Shakespeare
poem by Valya Madden
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Shakespeare's Marriage
SHAKESPEARE'S MARRIAGE
November 1582
William Shagspere,18
of Stratford
marries
Anne Hathwey,26
Of Shottery
and six months later
the timer bell
at the oven rings
and out pops a fine young baby -
lovely Susanna
OK, time for village gossips
to exercise their tongues
---------
1.The varied spellings of Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway in this poem
are as were spelled in various documents in Shakespeare's time.
2. There is no judgement in this poem of anyone or any action.
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Lines on Stratford
Our Canadian County Perth
Commemorates great bard of earth ;
Stratford and Avon both are here,
And they enshrine the name Shakespeare.
For here in Stratford every ward
Is named from drama of great bard.
Here you may roam o'er Romeo
Or glance on Juliet bestow.
The valley of the Thames we presume includes Stratford
on the north and Woodstock and Ingersoll on the south.
The Avon, on whose banks Stratford is located, joins the
Thames near St.Mary's. The middle branch flows through
Embro and Thamesford, the south and middle branches
unite and flow through Dorchester and Westminster and
blend with the northern branch at London, where it deviates
to Elgin in the south.
poem by James McIntyre
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Happy Birthday to the Bard
Happy Birthday Mr Shakespeare
all power to your quill and ink
your works are still as powerful today
as when you were alive and in the Pink.
You gave us the lovers Romeo and Juliet
Hamlet, Macbeth, The Taming of the Shrew,
characters like Lysander, Claudius,
King Lear, and Henry the fifth part Two.
You wrote about murder and death,
treachery, war, and hideous lives,
but you also liked to make us laugh
with tales about all those merry wives.
You even had your own language and words
which is still giving your fans lots of pleasure
your plays are known all around the World
people just love The Tempest and Measure for Measure.
So happy Birthday to you William Shakespeare
even though I've found your work heavy and hard
but there's no doubt you were a literary genius
and that's why they call you our number one Bard.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Ela Toghat Al Alaam' (To the tyrants of the world) أ ب و ا ل ق ا س م ا ل ش ا ب ي ;)
Arabic script of the poem by Abo Al Qassim Al Shab (Arabic
أ ل ا أ ي ه ا ا ل ظ ا ل م ا ل م س ت ب د
ح ب ي ب ا ل ظ ل ا م ع د و ا ل ح ي ا ه
س خ ر ت ب أ ن ا ت ش ع ب ض ع ي ف
و ك ف ك م خ ض و ب ة م ن د م ا ه
و س ر ت ت ش و ه س ح ر ا ل و ج و د
و ت ب ذ ر ش و ك ا ل ا س ى ف ي ر ب ا ه
ر و ي د ك ل ا ي خ د ع ن ك ا ل ر ب ي ع
و ص ح و ا ل ف ض ا ء و ض و ء ا ل ص ب ا ح
ف ف ي ا ل ا ف ق ا ل ر ح ب ه و ل ا ل ظ ل ا م و ق ص ف ا ل ر ع و د و ع ص ف ا ل ر ي ا ح
ح ذ ا ر ف ت ح ت ا ل ر م ا د ا ل ل ه ي ب
و م ن ي ب ذ ر ا ل ش و ك ي ج ن ا ل ج ر ا ح
ت أ م ل ه ن ا ل ك ا ن ى ح ص د ت ر ؤ و س ا ل و ر ى و ز ه و ر ا ل أ م ل
و ر و ي ت ب ا ل د م ق ل ب ا ل ت ر ا ب ا ش ر ب ت ه ا ل د م ع ح ت ى ث م ل
س ي ج ر ف ك س ي ل ا ل د م ا ء
و ي أ ك ل ك ا ل ع ا ص ف ا ل م ش ت ع ل
Hey you, the unfair tyrants...
You the lovers of the darkness...
You the enemies of life...
You've made fun of innocent people's wounds; and your palm covered with their blood
You kept walking while you were deforming the charm of existence and growing seeds of sadness in their land
Wait, don't let the spring, the clearness of the sky and the shine of the morning light fool you...
Because the darkness, the thunder rumble and the blowing of the wind are coming toward you from the horizon
Beware because there is a fire underneath the ash
Who grows thorns will reap wounds
You've taken off heads of people and the flowers of hope; and watered the cure of the sand with blood and tears until it was drunk
The blood's river will sweep you away and you will be burned by the fiery storm.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Places To Inspire
There are places in this world,
that when you are there inspire
you to do things
associated with that place.
Some are artistic and others of prayer.
I have been to both
and the validity of those words I can swear.
Once I went to Knock
the most holy place in Ireland.
A place where serenity
hangs over everything.
A feeling of something beautiful
comes over you.
That you never want to leave.
Another place is Stratford,
the birthplace of the bard.
Any would be poet,
can’t help to be inspired there.
It has to be something in the air.
Words just keep forming lines in your head,
and urge you to write them down.
Therefore, you feed your compulsion
and a new poem is found.
So if you are feeling,
the need to write, but can’t.
Go to Stratford on Avon,
and change the situation around.
You will find yourself inspired,
under the eyes of the bard,
when you follow the Shakespeare way.
2 June 2007
poem by David Harris
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Because She Allowed It She Was Destroyed
one summer she attended a poetry workshop
upon invitation of some writers
and wannabes like her
her name is poetess
modest
shy
truthtful to every word chosen by her
in the poem that she chooses to
read before them
these writers listening to her
after which
the chopping begins, the stabbing knife, the slices of her self
the sharp teeth biting her to pieces
the slapping criticisms of her works
her poems her life
she was bleeding to death
they have no inkling to save her
she shrinks
like some sundried raisin
she shatters like some broken glass
she shuts up
she runs away and throws all her poems to the trash can
she is ugly she is a witch
since then she never wrote again
because of them
these writers ahead of her
she was the object of their ridicule
she was utterly destroyed
because she allowed it
she had known better
that one should write
because one must write
not for anybody else
but for oneself alone
one need not even win
or excel
one only needs to write
because you love to write
because you must
survive this love of your life
your poetry, now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: My Record in Sonnets
If born I were a Bard on Thames’ banks,
And read in Oxford/ Cambridge Grammar Schools,
I would have had chances to join the ranks,
Of the world’s greatest of poetic pools.
If I had rendered my poems at first
To people who loved my literary work,
Never in life, would I have seen the worst;
My travails overhead would not me lurk.
To be born in India is my ‘sad’ fate;
There aren’t prizes for Poetry at stake;
My sonnets are a record on this date,
And my solemn statement is not a fake.
But still, I love to be an Indian Poet!
My poems will surprise the world, I bet.
poem by John Celes
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Problem
Some one has put me in problem
It was better if I was not born
Life is full all that of burden
Sleeping, eating and poetry - writing
It does not mean, I do not have other works
As all the works are seemed to me nothing
The love of my wife and the love of mine for my child
Are all routine works, worthless and monotonous
Lead me nowhere, the name -fame- money is
The game too tiresome, today's ambition is tomorrow's
Achievements but when I get them, I put them in sacks
As they become valueless and I kick them out
I am fed up with this game , too
In one thing where I have no problem is that
‘Where you have kept my heart ‘
But how to keep safe
The heart you gave
Certainly, to me is a big problem.
So I say,
It was better if I was not born
poem by Abdul Wahab
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11.11.11
Today is the 11th of November 2011!
And, you were born at 11: 11 A.M.27 years ago! !
However, the kiss of your lips with my muse was like,
The sweet muse of love and care in the land of beauty!
For, you are all that i need.
At 11: 11 P.M. i found your nakedness to the world so sweet!
And like the words of love to satisfy my muse in the land of beautiful roses;
But, i have a lot to learn from you as well,
Because, you are 27 years old today and,
You are a virgin! !
You were born 27 years ago but,
The sweet love of your muse came and touched my heart!
And, you will always remember my kiss;
For, this love is all about you and i! !
And like words of peace in the land of unity,
For, i am always ready fro your love.
11.11.11!
And like the date reserved for many Germans to marry;
But all over the world are the works and words of love to move us on,
For, you are like the words so sweet to touch my lips!
And i will always remember you because, you were born on this day.
You came into this world 27 years ago in the land of survival! !
Naked to the world to respect your muse;
But, the joy of your birth had brought peace to your culture,
For, you have really made a mark to respect my muse.
You were born on the 11th of November 1984,
And today, you are 27 years olf to respect the muse of love;
But your first kiss came along like the works of peace,
Because, you waited for it for a very long time! !
And today, you are ready for marriage;
But, try to keep your virginity for the man of your heart.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Young William And Young April
Young William and young April
Met in the park one day.
Young William said to April,
'Why did you come this way? '
Young April said to William,
'I thought I might see you.'
Young William, then to April,
'It's funny, what you do.'
Young April gave to William
A sweet, young childhood kiss.
Young William said to April,
'Don't bother me like this.'
Young April stood in silence,
Not knowing what to do.
Then young William turned away.
Young April, torn in two.
Young William said, 'Don't follow me.'
Away from her he fled.
April then, sat down and cried,
And wished that she was dead.
William never came again.
At least, for many years.
Fearful that young April still,
Might be there shedding tears.
William walked the park again.
It seemed just like before.
Wondering if he might see her.
Young April, there once more.
Young William never noticed.
The roses hid it well.
The place they found Young April.
The place she used to dwell.
poem by Greenwolfe 1962
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Date of birth
Third April is
My date of birth
I do not agree
And you to agree.
And you observed
Third April as
My date of birth
I did not attend.
Third April
Is not actual
As you think
My day of birth.
It is correct to say
I have not taken any
Birth at any time
And assume I have no death.
Third April is
Just is imaginary
I am not you to think
Think and act accordingly.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Years are magnifying Glass
the years are
magnifying glass
throw the years
talents, throw
the years paintings
poems, written works
a van gogh, an emily,
a leonardo, a cave painting
the most unknown works
the years would come back
with a vision whether the works
are of class, taste and great
to hold onto for posterity
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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She Works Hard For The Money
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
Onetta there in the corner stand
and wonders where she is and
it's strange to her
some people seem to have everything
Nine a.m. on the hour hand
and she's waiting for the bell
and she's looking real pretty
just wait for her clientele
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
Twenty five years have
come and gone
and she' seen a lot of tears
of the ones who come in
they really seem to need her there
It's a sacrifice working day to day
for little money just tips for pay
But it's worth it all
just to hear them say that they care
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She already knows
she's seen her bad times
she already knows
these are the good times
She'll never sell out
she never will
not for a dollar bill
she works hard
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
song performed by by Donna Summer from The Donna Summer Anthology
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Comedy of Errors
COMEDY OF ERRORS
Shrew tamed, All's Well, though here is Much Ado!
Antony and Cleopatra met
No Rape, no Tragedy, since each stayed true,
Grave born, like Romeo and Juliet.
Thus Richard, John and Harry had preferred
One History where each could heed thy call!
Measured each Tempest's threat is, for unheard
All envy's Comic Error is withal!
My love as Pilgrim Passionate here's signed,
As Venus to Adonis here allied,
Urge Lover's Complaint in neatest verse aligned, -
Dove Turtle are to Phoenix true supplied.
Echoed are Plays with Sonnets' sequent frame,
Continued may sustain Shakespearian flame.
12 November 1990 revised 22 September 2008 as Sonnet CLXXIV Maude Care Is Our Dream Shakespeare's Plays Parodies
robi03_0356_robi03_0000 PAS_MXX
… original version Sandrine Sonnet Cycle
poem by Jonathan Robin
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What Is The Next Step?
told my cousin Chris
i was going to out write
every past classical poet
this year (that was in 2011)
put an average of 100 poems
a month on line...
Chris replied with one word BS
that was April 16th 2011
needed to write 600 new poems
that year alone...
in truth i had already out written
almost all past classical poets
these great artists had often written
novels essays plays short stories
i write none of these marvels
i was merely writing my poems
next to catch on my shrinking list
final last magnificent seven
were on 534 Aussie Henry Lawson
master of plays on 550 William Shakespeare
master of lyric on 561 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
popular poetess on 571 Ella Wheeler Wilcox
all sing lines of fascinating allure siren calls
Nobel Prize Literature on 593 Rudyard Kipling
then months long lonely haul to cloud heights
Bard of the Yukon on 832 Robert William Service
crafted persona on then 1123 Emily Dickinson
all i esteemed in awe delight their literary heights
i kept my rare masterpiece best posted the worst the rest
ah sheer delight to think in verse to write to write at last
crazy never worked so hard later often worked all night
i had a focus a standard a bar a goal a philosophy of poetry
i never said what i would write would be good or what
i thought of what i wrote i wasted little time on interaction
comment was all locked self contained in verse writ
race was on half run those who can do love every bit
of creation imagination muse who calls cannot be caught
awesome to have time for that kind of inspiration
"but you did it? " "yes i did it, i believed"
although before i started it was impossible to believe?
Emily Dickinson published less than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems during her lifetime.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Everlasting love
'Twas over 45 years ago that we became aware
of each other at school and sweet love did flare.
Unhindered by youth our love in infancy began
and had started according to God's great plan.
Then to Stratford by coach we went on our way
to see Romeo and Juliet the Shakespearean play.
Such a great love story penned so many years ago
and tragic relationship which ended in such woe.
Can such love as theirs exist in this world today?
Then in our hearts something happened that day
unknown to us the seed of lasting love was laid
and began in us as Romeo and Juliet was played.
When we returned home from that wonderful day
we met again in the clay pit in loves sweet way.
We walked and talked together as young lovers do
enjoying gazing at stars and looking for planets too.
I played the leading role in the annual school play
as a gallant knight I kept all the ruffians at bay.
And then all victorious I sweet Jennifer embraced
'Oh dear', you looked so red and all embarrassed.
To church I went and soon found Christ as my Lord
and into my heart entered the great love of God.
But tragedy struck as it did in Romeo and Juliet
'She does not love me', I thought with deep regret
You were too young to understand love so strong
I was too serious and my approach was all wrong.
To the background of your heart I had to withdraw
to wait patiently for the flame to be lit once more.
And this seed of love God had sown into my heart
lay dormant waiting another opportunity to start.
Whilst on an Outward Bound Course on Dartmoor
by letter, love was fanned into a flame once more.
The love I had could not be deterred in any way
I even climbed a ladder to your bedroom one Sunday.
My lips met yours early one wonderful morn
and by the garden gate we kissed well before the dawn.
Like Romeo and Juliet had died for their love
we too laid down life to sin our love to prove.
Dead in Christ but now alive in God we stand
love grew and we were married as God planned.
He created our marriage with heavenly blessing
as 'Finlandia' He made the church bells ring.
Our love grew and with three children was blessed
love was tested and like true love withstood the test.
It blossomed as we weathered the storms of life
I love you my dear, You're such a wonderful wife.
The love we have comes from Christ Jesus our Lord
a lasting love that is founded upon God's word.
That young girl who smote my heart that day
still has my love and will for many years I pray.
What God began in us at Stratford so long ago
has blossomed into the love that we now know.
Our love has grown stronger through the years
and withstood all the tests of time and tears.
No tragedy will be able to destroy this great love
nothing will separate us from the love of God above.
By God's good grace we will take it into eternity
a love much stronger than Shakespeare's tragedy.
Yes love much stronger than theirs really does exist
such love we have for each other is heavenly bliss.
Little did we know that more than forty years later
that seed of love would grow and blossom even greater
into the wonderful love that will not let each other go.
For you are my own sweet Juliet and I your Romeo
Fictional
everything i write comes back to me
like they are real
in flesh and blood and friends write
how come
how is it that we are there in your poems
when they are supposedly
some works of a writer
imaginary and fictional
i have no answer
i write about love and broken hearts
and another friend
emails if i am alright
is there anything she can do to help?
but i say again
this is not me this has nothing to do with me
this is fiction
and she does not believe me
she says,
there you are trying to lie again
when blood runs surging like some pulse
of a dying man wanting to be alive
in your poetry,
i have no answer
the poems are works of fiction
it is not me it is about him and her and them
she shrugs off her shoulders
and reads again about the old church where
she once knelt and prayed
there was this girl who fell in love
and whose heart was
beautifully torn to pieces
she says she is her
the poem is true
and there was this boy
who was with her praying
who, when he became a man
broke her heart
she says it is you it is you
the poem is true,
the poems are true
who will ever believe me now?
i have always lied all along
count it from the first poem
when i said about
it and i said it was
it is
all about nothing and
it will always be about nothing
but fiction, nothing personal, but it can be also painful and lingering.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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John Masefield Was More
John Masefield was more than a man of rhyme
Perhaps the greatest poet of his time
At least that's how I feel about him anyway
Though some may not agree with what I say.
John Masefield he penned many a verse play
And even his longer poems enjoyed and read today
The Everlasting Mercy and The Widow in the Bye Street
As narrative masterpieces would be hard to beat.
John Masefield literary works will live forever more
His fame has spread far beyond England's shore
He was a master of the wordsmith trade
'Tis true that poets are born and not made.
John Masefield was more than a literary man of note
He was indeed a very brilliant poet
A high standard of writing into old age he did attain
And will we ever see his likes again?
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sonnet: On Shakespeare
O Master Bard and supreme Dramatist!
A self-styled, literary genius, Thou art!
Globe’s unsurpassed, sole word-painting Artist!
Ev’r-living soul who canst never depart!
Mortal Thou wert, now immortal Thou art!
This world can never fill Thy earthly void;
Swan of Stratford-on-Avon’s mighty Heart!
With human destiny, Thou so well toy’d.
O grace-imbued Creator’s choicest Bard!
Revealed Thou hast Truth’s beauty supernal;
All human emotions are in Thy card;
In men’s hearts live shall Thine works eternal.
From Thy pen flowed the ink of magic words,
For ‘World’s a Stage’ and hearts of many herds!
poem by John Celes
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Those Who Copy Murder Poetry
Unkind are those
Who disrespect
Their fellow writers' work,
They presuppose
We can't expect
That duplication lurks.
So with temerity
Their works will show
That titles are just 'copy'
They mock the art,
And refuse to grow
...Then murder Poetry.
Copyright Cynthia Buhain Baello
April 1,2010
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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