In The Lake On Rosh Hashanah
When into a lake we dive
we do not aim get from a to b,
but just to feel that we’re alive,
which also is the reason we
should be immersed now in each other
as we would be if we’d dived in
a lake, and not attempt to smother
our feelings as on Yom HaDin,
when we’re immersed in prayer to God,
but love-soaked so that we can be
a couple that does not find odd
the romance of its repartee.
Written for Linda on the eve of Rosh Hashanah 5770 for Linda after reading Joe Morgensten’s review of Jane Campion’s movie “Bright Star” (“Ode to a Romantic Biopic: ‘Bright Star’: Cornish inspires as Keats’s love, ” WSJ, September 18,2009) :
In “Bright Star, ” a dramatization of the intense though unconsummated love affair between the young Romantic poet John Keats and his younger neighbor, Fanny Brawne, the filmmaker Jane Campion has performed her own feat of romantic imagination. The production is modest in physical scale, mostly reserved in tone and touchingly simple in design (apart from Fanny's dazzling wardrobe, which is justified by her gifts as a seamstress) . Yet the effect is exhilarating, and deeply pleasurable. It's like the dive into a lake that Keats evokes to explain the experience of poetry. The point, he explains to Fanny, is not to get to the other side, but to luxuriate in the lake.
On Poets.org a reviewer writes:
One of the most intimate early scenes of the relationship takes place over an impromptu poetry lesson, though Keats is suspicious of Brawne. When she asks for an introduction concerning 'the craft of poetry, ' Keats dismisses the notion: 'Poetic craft is a carcass, a sham. If poetry doesn't come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it better not come at all.' As the conversation continues, however, Brawne earns Keats's trust, and he offers a more useful explanation: “A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore; it's to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.”
9/18/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
In The Lake Before Rosh Hashanah
When into lakes we choose to drive
it’s not to swim from a to b,
but just to feel that we’re alive,
which also is the reason we
have plunged so fully in each other,
as if together we’d dived in
a lake in which we do not smother
our feelings as on Yom HaDin,
when we’re immersed in prayer to God,
love-soaked, undried, which helps us be
a couple that does not find odd
the romance of its repartee.
Written for Linda on the eve of Rosh Hashanah 5770 for Linda after reading Joe Morgensten’s review of Jane Campion’s movie “Bright Star” (“Ode to a Romantic Biopic: ‘Bright Star’: Cornish inspires as Keats’s love, ” WSJ, September 18,2009) :
In “Bright Star, ” a dramatization of the intense though unconsummated love affair between the young Romantic poet John Keats and his younger neighbor, Fanny Brawne, the filmmaker Jane Campion has performed her own feat of romantic imagination. The production is modest in physical scale, mostly reserved in tone and touchingly simple in design (apart from Fanny's dazzling wardrobe, which is justified by her gifts as a seamstress) . Yet the effect is exhilarating, and deeply pleasurable. It's like the dive into a lake that Keats evokes to explain the experience of poetry. The point, he explains to Fanny, is not to get to the other side, but to luxuriate in the lake.
On Poets.org a reviewer writes:
One of the most intimate early scenes of the relationship takes place over an impromptu poetry lesson, though Keats is suspicious of Brawne. When she asks for an introduction concerning “the craft of poetry, ” Keats dismisses the notion: “Poetic craft is a carcass, a sham. If poetry doesn't come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it better not come at all.” As the conversation continues, however, Brawne earns Keats's trust, and he offers a more useful explanation: “A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore; it’s to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.”
9/18/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me - nothing to make my friends proud of my memory - but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
John Keats in Letter to Fanny Brawne (February 1820)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Romantic Poets Forever!
Spirit of poets immortal intoxicates me complete
With poetic mood transporting to exotic world
Full of magic, vision and fantasy never ending
Making poet and reader forget in the vast Universe!
Poets of the calibre of Coleridge, Shelley and Keats
Engross one in pure poetry inspiring high forever
Whenever the mood is out of control even for a while
By their intoxicating romantic expressions ever!
Romantic poets of the first order still rule the realm
As what they have created for the world to enjoy
Make poetry an endless source of inspiration
Changing all ever bright with sparks of ideas novel!
Whenever I am out of mood I seek their blessings
To recharge and recover the lost mood to write ever!
poem by Ramesh T A
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Like the lake a Chinese poet sits beside in a painting
Who cares about
the weight of a lake?
Who would care to weigh it?
Who cares about
the colour of a lake
without the light of the sky
to reflect in it?
Who notices its modesty,
reflecting all, but silent of itself?
Who observes that the lake
remains unaffected,
not pained by loss,
not pleased by gain?
Who notices its wisdom,
obeying every law?
Who names its generosity,
among the fish, the birds,
the animals who drink?
Who knows whether the tree
leaning over it, sees its own reflection?
Who notices its love?
It bonds with earth,
It flows when needed,
as love does.
Who asks where the lake came from,
seeing it there?
Who wonders how old that lake is?
It is without age today.
Who wonders whether the lake
knows itself water,
or if water knows itself lake?
Who does not go to seek it,
for its stillness, for its silence,
as if it understands the mind’s needs,
the heart’s nourishment?
He is like that.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Splash
[intro]
Welcome into ecstasy baby
Oh yes, I got to know, can i
Splash, splash, splash
Baby I wanna jump and dive and splash in your love, yes
Can I splash in your love baby?
I used to be afraid of water till I got a lifejacket
Now I always seem to find myself
Laughing and splashing, oh yeah
Theres no waters that fall quite like yours
How I love to swim your sticky shores
Can I splash?
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I splash?
As I used to play across you chocolate beaches
I would always vision your love canal
Dreaming I could reach it, oh yeah yeah
And as I wade in your waters of passionate cream
I realized, its not a dream
I can finally splash, I dont have ask, no
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Ooh, let me dive inside your love
Can I splash inside just once
Let me go Ill make you come
Oh, let me just feel it
S is for sexual
P is for pleasure
L is for love me, cause baby you better
A is for anytime
S is for special
H is for happiness
Whenever were together
I splash, well baby give me the chance
To get in your pants
To make sure that you feel good
I wanna know, can I feel your love?
Splash, thinking I wanna sneak
That Im a sexual freak, you gotta meet
Come and see me baby
If you let me toss youll get it proper I know
When it comes to the sexual
You know how next flow, its like incredible
R. l., tweety and t-low wanna know can we
For the moment to last, just let me splash
Can I take a dip inside your love
Youve got to let me
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
song performed by by Next
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Spa for the Brain
writing a poetry
is putting together
scintillating vibes
of words that have
taken refuge in
each man's heart
extracting their charm
and matching them
to create a vibrant
lake of shangrila,
a spa brains far away
can take a dive to soak
up its riveting energy,
and spawn more shangrilas
for the mind to swim
in its creative endearvours
or
writing poetry
is putting together
scintillating vibes
of words that have
taken refuge in each
man's heart and which now
emerge wrapped with
gifts of meanings
the poets could extract
and match to create a vibrant lake of shangrila,
a spa brains far away
can take a dive to soak
up its riveting energy,
and in the endeavour
makes way for more
shangrilas for the mind
to swim in their quest
for - more shangrilas
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
September
IT is september again
the sun is yet high shining
even the lovers
love affairs
seem dead
at the lake side
looks lı ke isolated
desolate
and in solitude
several girls
and women
are lying
awkward
aimless
and clumsily on the sun
baking
all alone
they clutch their cell phones strongly
talk talk talk aND TALK
NOBODY KNOWS
if their cell phones
are their lovers
or their lovers
are their cell phones
faal is
just going to step on the lake
the lake
with mosses
and with weeds
at its sides
fall is
embracing the waist of the summer
a breeze is blowing lightly
is it the sixth or seventh of september
ı cannot guess
it seems
only your and my love
is left on the earth
ı am swimming in the lake
water lukewarm
some gulls
and herons
aproaches me
and lands on the water
to catch fish
sometimes dive
a dog looks at me
the kind you love
and asks me
where you are
she is not here ı answer
stubborn
does not accompany me
ı tooo stubborn
swim im youyr blue green florescent eyes
ı miss you very much
even if ı cannot see you
in my dreams
oh my love
where are you
evgerything is useless
without you
fall is just
goı ng to step on the lake
hurry
before it changes our fate
or else
we would be very late
hurry
fall is is just
going to pound on the lake
poem by Metin Sahin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Lake Poets
You have heard of William Wordsworth he was bard of Cockermouth
And he truly was a great poet if that ever was in doubt
And with Southey and With Coleridge they became known as the lake poets
And they made the Lake District famous and some famous poems they wrote.
Robert Southey was a fine poet he was slave to poetry
And he was for awhile Poet Laureate proves the great poet he must be
And though he is not well known as Coleridge and Wordsworth's is a greater name
He tends to be under rated and deserve a better fame.
And as for Samuel Taylor Coleridge a name verse critics celebrate
His works were born of genius a poetic all time great
The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner his masterpiece and some say
Is even greater than the famous elegy of Gray
And as for himself Will Wordsworth his fame seem to grow and grow
He has fifty times as many readers nowadays as he had one hundred years ago
When one talks of poets and poetry Wordsworth's name can't be left out
A testimony to the greatness of the Bard of Cockermouth.
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth geniuses all three
Their names inscribed in glory and poetic history
They lived in the Lake District that beautiful English country side
And due to the fame of these men the Lake District is known World wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Soul Dies
Sky overcast, moon was sad.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Who killed the bird in morning rain?
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A hidden slaughterman did not die.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
The good old name now spells the doom.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
I will call you in pitch-dark night.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Ascending gods have ruined my life.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A child was stolen from a mother’s bed.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet. The lake and star
The mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills,
May still gaze heavenward on the evening star,
Whose distant light its dark recesses fills,
Though boundless distance must divide them far;
Still may the lake the star's bright image bear,
Still may the star, from its blue ether dome,
Shower down its silver beams across the gloom,
And light the wave that wanders darkly there.
Star of my life! thus do I turn to thee
Amid the shadows that above me roll;
Thus from thy distant sphere thou shinest on me;
Thus does thine image float upon my soul,
Through the wide space that must our lives dissever
Far as the lake and star, ah me! forever.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Vote! | Copy!
Lake Worth Herald
The Lake Worth Herald records events in Lake Worth town
Mark Easton works hard making sure Lake Worth Herald paper gets out.
It's Wednesday afternoon and the printing press is running
all of Mark's stories are real life, serious and also funny.
The Lake Worth Library had an article on me
with UniCandle unicorn and doll Melodie.
It was November 2006 and I was on
Lake Worth Herald's cover page
sitting on birthday chair where
children celebrate their age.
Lake Worth Herald is printing
my new poetry book
-the one you are reading-
soon also on the Nook.
Mark was gracious and helped get my book right
he is friendly and easy to work with editing my book
to make it out of sight!
For it has a glow in the dark cover
it is different not like any other.
Thanks Mark for your kindness in working with me
it was a pleasure working with you and also a
'Thank You' from my doll on the front cover Melodie!
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lake Worth Herald
The Lake Worth Herald records events in Lake Worth town
Mark Easton works hard making sure Lake Worth Herald paper gets out.
It's Wednesday afternoon and the printing press is running
all of Mark's stories are real life, serious and also funny.
The Lake Worth Library had an article on me
with UniCandle unicorn and doll Melodie.
It was November 2006 and I was on
Lake Worth Herald's cover page
sitting on birthday chair where
children celebrate their age.
Lake Worth Herald is printing
my new poetry book
-the one you are reading-
soon also on the Nook.
Mark was gracious and helped get my book right
he is friendly and easy to work with editing my book
to make it out of sight!
For it has a glow in the dark cover
it is different not like any other.
Thanks Mark for your kindness in working with me
it was a pleasure working with you and also a
"Thank You" from my doll on the front cover Melodie!
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry acts
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Lake Worth Herald
The Lake Worth Herald records events in Lake Worth town
Mark Easton works hard making sure Lake Worth Herald paper gets out.
It's Wednesday afternoon and the printing press is running
all of Mark's stories are real life, serious and also funny.
The Lake Worth Library had an article on me
with UniCandle unicorn and doll Melodie.
It was November 2006 and I was on
Lake Worth Herald's cover page
sitting on birthday chair where
children celebrate their age.
Lake Worth Herald is printing
my new poetry book
-the one you are reading-
soon also on the Nook.
Mark was gracious and helped get my book right
he is friendly and easy to work with editing my book
to make it out of sight!
For it has a glow in the dark cover
it is different not like any other.
Thanks Mark for your kindness in working with me
it was a pleasure working with you and also a
"Thank You" from my doll on the front cover Melodie!
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature
The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn't impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.
poem by Dorothy Parker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Promise
Take my hand
And walk with me into the sunlight;
We’ll take the poetry of Keats
And the poetry of Yeats,
We’ll pray beside flowers
And walk through sacred gates
Of a new beginning
Where every hurt is healed
And dissipates.
I’ll find child-like innocence
In your eyes,
And I promise to believe
That love will never die.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Vote! | Copy!