To An African Child Starving To Death
(References to the nightingale and the Grecian urn are to the two wonderful odes by Keats, and the athlete dying young recalls the lovely poem by Housman) .
.....................................
You unprepossessing brat!
You are no nightingale, no Grecian urn,
not even any athlete dying young -
ah, dying young perhaps, but you never were
an athlete, never strove,
never achieved,
never broke
any records, nor, I suppose,
any hearts that might mourn for you,
except perhaps for your mother,
who sits there dumbly with sagging breasts
waiting for you to die, staring vacantly
from no past that could ever be celebrated
towards no future in the burning sands.
God curse the fate that brought me here
to have to write an ode for such as you,
unmemorable, already unremembered
even before you are dead!
to write in such a horrid spot
revolting in its barrenness and heat
that never ends -
that brings no peace ever -
that brings no poetic thoughts -
no inspiration -
nothing but dull, prosaic perspiration
which I must wipe from my brow
as you stare at me
with those damned eyes -
the eyes of the damned -
the innumerable damned -
and what am I to do?
I would rather look past you
than see those hollow eyes
and sunken cheeks again;
but all I see is your mother close to you
sitting wordlessly
as it were in reproach -
but what am I to do?
I had a mother too, you know -
she is dead now,
as, no doubt, you also soon will be
and no doubt your mother too.
She would look -
she would look like that
at me sometimes hopelessly
reproaching my incapacity;
my lack of any ode;
my inability to see
my nearness to death.
I see that you would like to speak,
but you cannot, your throat is too parched,
as I am too parched
to write as I should write
an ode to you
to save you some kind of immortality -
ah, if I could,
I promise you I would,
to save myself also some kind of immortality
and even relief from the drought of my life….
I see your skin is dry;
it is like parchment in the sun.
I touch it, and it seems to cling -
it chafes against me -
under your ribs I feel
your heartbeat impossibly faint,
the pulse of your life trying to reach my hand
as my arms reach for you through the dust in the air
to feel your death coming for me in our embrace -
and let us share this,
for I know
that death has visited me like this before,
leaving me unpoetically, impotently to die unmourned,
as my soul may die again now without an ode
in your clasping skeletal arms
reaching out for mine
as I hold you close and precious -
my unprepossessing
anonymous brother.
poem by Rory Hudson
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Related quotes
Damned
(young - young)
Dont smoke dont fight dont light no cigarettes
Or else youll wind up in the can
No jokes no rights sit tight dont fool around
You are a guest of uncle sam
Stand up look right dont slouch and stand at ease
Allow no sex above the knees
When I snap you jump into the master plan
Ill be damned
Well Ill be damned
Ill be damned if I drink or smoke
Damned if I steal your joke
Ill be damned if I go for broke
Damned if I do
Damned if I dont
Dont talk dont fool dont try to mess around
Ill make a monkey outta you
You sign your name right on that dotted line boy
Ill be damned
Ill be damned if I drink or smoke
Damned if I steal your joke
Ill be damned if I go for broke
Damned if I do
And damned if I dont, yeah
Come on
Ill be damned if I drink or smoke
Damned if I steal your joke
Ill be damned if I go for broke
Im damned if I do
Im damned if I dont
Ill be damned if I drink or smoke
Damned if I steal your joke
Ill be damned if I go for broke
Im damned if I do
Im damned if I dont
Ill be damned
Ill be damned
Ill be damned
Ill be damned
Ill be damned
Ill be damned
2000, j. albert & son, pty.
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Death-Song
Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
Death is darkly drawing near.
Mother, mother! the bitter shame
Eats into my very soul;
And longing love, like a wrapping flame,
Burns me away without control.
Mother, mother! upon my brow
The clammy death-sweats coldly rise;
How dim and strange your features grow
Through the hot mist that veils my eyes.
Mother, mother! sing me the song
They sing on sunny August eves,
The rustling barley fields along,
Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.
Mother, mother! I do not hear
Your voice—but his—oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
His clasping arms are round me still.
Mother, mother! unbind my vest,
Upon my heart lies his first token:
Now lay me in my narrow nest,
Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.
poem by Frances Anne Kemble
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I'll Be Back
Messages come, and make us suffer
A letter comes, and keeps on asking…
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty
The one's I trust
A form of rose
Has written me this letter
And has asked me
Someone's breaths, Someone's heartbeat
Someone's desires, Someone's smile
Someone's dull mornings, sleepy evenings
Lonely nights, unsaid words
Longing arms
And have asked her
Longing eyes
That...
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty
The ones with love
My best friends
Have wrote and asked me
My village, my people
Old trees, White clouds
Green grass, my soil
My celebrations, my religion
My farms, my land
My parents and
My wife has asked
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this country is lonely and empty
Sometimes a motherly river's letter comes by
And brings along
My childhood days, my games in the backyard
My mother's support, being protected
My mother's lullaby, the softness of her hands
The desire in the eyes, the worries in her words
Hard on the outside, Lovely from the inside
Acts my mom
And asks me in each letter
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you my lap is empty
Hey the passing wind tell me
Will u please do a little favor for me?
Go to my state and salute to my friends
In that state there's a road
Where my wife and kids live
Just tell them that I love them
Just tell them that I love them
Further down that road
Is my old mother
Just touch her feet and
Say my name in her ear
Hey the passing wind
Just to my friends
My wife and kids,
And my old mother
Send them this message
And tell them that…
I will come home
I will come home
The promise I made to…
My soil
To its colorful nature
To my mother lap
To my blossomed flowers
And to someone's heart…
I will fulfill it
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
poem by Kiara Davar
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My Darkest Hour
My darkened eyes for death craves
sacred souls it fails to raise
death will soon be by my side
death soon will save me
God I’m your weakest slave
you can never leave me alone
join shall I soon be damned
for what I did down on earth
I carry this blessed glass of wine
will shove my fear down my swallowed
hypnotized underground demise
close to fragility it ends. Tonight.
Oh sweet death.
Sweet as I can taste
my soul you’re taking
I lay for you
oh death how warm
how warm you feel
your black wings you hold me down
please stay with me always by my side
Loneliness for God I stay
I pray, I hold my hands up
I know you hear me God
I’m asking for my downfall
you’ll cease it all at once
handful of mercy and death
close my eyes for once
close my eyes forever
Seems another attribute of death
cancer and shit, and disease all at once
forbidden to fall, to grieve to die
leave me for myself
by myself.
poem by Rakan Sliman
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Continental Divide
Handcuffed by time,
I travel across this broad
beautiful America-
mesas, deserts,
peaks with clouds caught
upon them,
the Continental Divide
where a dropp of rain
must decide
whether to roll east or west
like the rest of us.
I speak to a group
of avid, aging Californians
about daring to embrace
the second half of life.
The passions of the old
are deeper
than any wells
the young can plumb.
Meanwhile, you are dying
in New York Hospital-
your beautiful face drained
of blood,
your arms too heavy
to seize the day,
your shining eyes
dimmed by pain
& drugs to dull it.
You have boycotted food,
yet all you can do is apologize
to your grieving children
for the trouble you cause
by dying.
'Don't worry, I'm fine,'
you say, eternal mother.
Solitary as you will ever be,
our love cannot save you
from this last loneliness,
this last sea voyage
where no one
dresses for dinner.
Meanwhile
I am listening to a doctor
who claims we can all live
to be a hundred,
a hundred and twenty,
If only we expand
our arteries with exercise,
our genitals with sex,
our brains with crossword puzzles,
poems & proverbs . . .
Wingless, we can fly
over death
if only the body
-that laggard-
consents.
I suppose the dropp of rain decided
to roll west with the setting sun,
taking you along.
The Californian doctor is quoting
Victor Hugo now:
the eyes of the young show flame,
the eyes of the old, light.
More light, Doctor!
How can we accept
time's jagged jaws
even as we are being eaten?
How can we accept
the extinguishing of eyes?
Doctor-
is death the aberration.
or is life?
And as for love-
why is it never enough
to save us?
poem by Erica Jong
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Agony Of A Child For Her Mother
my mother is the sweetest.
my mother is the cutest.
my mother is the smartest.
my mother is the greatest of all in the world.
my mother is the most wisest.
to save me from accident, she happily enjoyed to die.
i haven't seen my mother's face as i was of 4 years old then.
in my thoughts my mother is the most beautiful person.
she is like:
my mother's face is as white as snow.
my mother's eyes are as white as milk.
my mother is as white as cloud.
because she is completely covered with bandages.
my mother is the happiest person in the whole world.
because she can't feel any thing.
she can't feel any feelings.
she can't feel any pain.
she can't be sad.
as she was in comma, when i saw her.
i am the luckiest child in the whole world.
as i couldn't see her face.
i couldn't talk to her.
i couldn't play with her.
i couldn't share my feelings with her.
i am the reason why she was suffering such agony in life.
to save me from death, she sacrificed everything including her life.
i am the luckiest.
i am the fortunate.
i am the most happiest child for bearing this agony in my life.
As my mother is not with me on this earth.
she will always be with me in my thoughts.
poem by Neelapu Suresh
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I Shall Cry These Tears No More
For everything happen for a reason. Blame no one nor yourself accept the changes and challenges within. Cry these tears no more
for if somethings get tough in life its not your fault cry no more. For a mother lost at a young age its painfull but i shall dropp these tears no more
children dying at the young age loosing parents and become house hold heads please hold on because God is here always cry these tears no more
my mom died when i was an infant what did i know? But with God i still have a father i shall cry these tears no more
our youth is dying. Can we do anything please dry that face i shall cry no more
i shall wet these face no more with tears if i can speak today and walk read and write if i still feel all things that means im alive and thank God
remember nothing is hard or impossible make it a point to achieve and therefore i shall cry these tears no more
poem by Ernest Makuakua
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Moonchild
Seven deadly sins
Seven ways to win
Seven holy paths to hell
And your trip begins
Seven downward slopes
Seven bloodied hopes
Seven are your burning fires
Seven your desires
I am the bornless one
The fallen angel watching you
Babylon the scarlet whore
Ill infiltrate your gratitude
Dont you dare to save your son
Kill him now and save the young ones
Be the mother of a birth strangled babe
Be the devils own lucifers my name
Moonchild - hear the mandrake scream
Moonchild - open the seventh seal
Moonchild - youll be mine soon child
Moonchild - take my hand tonight
I count the heads of those unborn
The accursed ones Ill find them all
If you die by your own hand
As a suicide you shall be damned
And if you try to save your soul
I will torment you - you shall not grow old
With every second and passing breath
Youll be so alone your soul will bleed to death
The twind they are exhausted seven is the night
Gemini is rising as the red lips kiss to bite
Seven angels seven demons battle for his soul
When gabriel lies sleeping this child was born to die
One more dies one more lives
One baby cries one mother grieves
For all the sins you will commit
Youll beg forgiveness and none Ill give
A web of fear shall be your coat
To clothe you in the night
A lucky escape for now young man
But Ill see you damned in endless night
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother o' Mine
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Dying Bondman
Life was trembling, faintly trembling
On the bondman's latest breath,
And he felt the chilling pressure
Of the cold, hard hand of Death.
He had been an Afric chieftain,
Worn his manhood as a crown;
But upon the field of battle
Had been fiercely stricken down.
He had longed to gain his freedom,
Waited, watched and hoped in vain,
Till his life was slowly ebbing --
Almost broken was his chain.
By his bedside stood the master,
Gazing on the dying one,
Knowing by the dull grey shadows
That life's sands were almost run.
"Master," said the dying bondman,
"Home and friends I soon shall see;
But before I reach my country,
Master write that I am free;
"For the spirits of my fathers
Would shrink back from me in pride,
If I told them at our greeting
I a slave had lived and died;
"Give to me the precious token,
That my kindred dead may see --
Master! write it, write it quickly!
Master! write that I am free!"
At his earnest plea the master
Wrote for him the glad release,
O'er his wan and wasted features
Flitted one sweet smile of peace.
Eagerly he grasped the writing;
"I am free!" at last he said.
Backward fell upon the pillow,
He was free among the dead.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Letter To Mother
Receive greetings mother
Whole i hope you are
Did the doctor treat thee?
Hope he stopped disturbance
Pain had occupied you
It made you thin
Do i call it slim?
My journey was safe
The sun city received me
It had lost me in
I was swallowed by people
This was until sunset
The city is big
Mother, i saw houses!
Not like ons at the village
They touch the sky
And have moving things
They climb to the top
I think to the heavens
Then to the bottom mother
Jacob took me to one
I was frightened
It never grow dark mother
When the sun runs away
There are lights all over
Bright as the sun
And the people never change
Morning as the night
They never go to their houses
The city is very busy
Remember Koya's words?
He told of the city evils
Mother, i have seen death
I even contemplated one
Robbers had attacked us
They took away everything
Mother, even my teeth
I thought of dying
Life was difficult then
City life
Worry not!
Am a man of your womb
I work hard daily
Change came yesterday
It brought a stool
And will stay for long mother
I can now buy tea and bread
Not forgetting a daily newspaper
Mother,
Everyone has someone
My eyes have been open
And i have seen a lovely girl
She carries all beauty
My heart is no longer mine
It belongs to her
She stole it away
My body has been feeling weak
The knees cannot withstand her
They always collapse
Is this how you felt mother
When daddy was wooing you?
The girl has made me write
She is not one of ours
Her language is different
But her colour is as yours
I know she is like you
Do not dissatisfy my point
Mother, accept her as she is
Allow me to go mother
Because i have to
My pen has felt tired
Let me go and strengthen it
Do not forget the full stop
I will start there next time
Am not yet finished mother
That girl is wonderful
I wont stop talking
I will always write it to you
My heart has loved
I will be back to you soon.
poem by John Muthoni
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If You Disown Your Parents
If you disown your father
Then you'll be damned
And you'll be damned indeed!
If you disown your mother
Then you'll be damned,
You'll be damned for that particular deed!
If you disown your father
Just because they're disabled
Will you ever receive a divine blessing?
If you disown your handicapped mother
Your curses will be by God assembled
And your troubles will - like wild fire - be kept blazing...!
If you curse your parents
Whom always you must respect and love,
You'll suddenly fall under bad weather currents
Yet you'll fail to fly and flee like a broken-winged dove.
If you disown the ones who brought you to this earth
Then beware, beware of nature's terror!
If you disown your parents then what you're worth
Will turn towards hassle and horror.
Without your parents where would you now be?
Now that you're famous then you reject them?
Learn to respect and embrace your parents
Nomatter what misfortune did to them,
Even when they do find death in life,
Respect, love and remember them.
poem by Comfort Ndlovu
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Scribbler's Stymie
Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write
Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write
Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write
It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write
My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write
It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write
In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write
I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write
Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write
Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write
It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write
poem by Julia Grace
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My Young Brothers
young brother young brother i see we are close to cross that mountain, no matter your age orgin or color i consider you my young brothers, giving, the time...
young brother young brother as generation evaluation, we all need a helping hand, can we see to have peace, i know im just of coming, but seeing this horror made me write for kin,
dear brother my brother words are all we can share, by that can we nurture to make peace,
i am not that of, of a man lacking wood, but would you like to hear my full story?
my brother oh brother! ! !
poem by Louis Borgo
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Once Again I Write...
This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
I write to save my sanity.
I write to ease my heart.
I write to cleanse my soul.
I write to feel alive.
I write to keep my mind strong and my thoughts clear.
I write my words of sorrow, despair, pain, and love, as well as words of wisdom.
I write so that one day someone will truly know me.
This paper, this pen is once again my inspiration.
It is the inspiration to what I see.
It is the inspiration to what I hear.
It is the inspiration to what I feel.
It is the inspiration to the art I create.
It is the inspiration to what I draw.
It is the inspiration to the love for my daughter.
It is the inspiration to the love for my husband.
This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
Once again I write to say thank you my timeless friends.
Thank you for saving me time and time again.
poem by Sara Jo Andrews
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0005 Letter to a Younger Poet
Thanks for your letter. Though
you’ve caught me at a rather awkward time –
I’m going into surgery tomorrow – a rather
risky op; so I’ll try to put all the answers that I’ve got
into this one letter;
I hope you'll understand...
and that helps me to make my first point to you:
write as if you, too, may not live
beyond tomorrow – write as if
it’s the last thing that you’ll ever write –
give it everything you’ve got,
hold nothing back;
or better still – write as if
the world will end for everyone tomorrow:
write so that in their last hours, too, this
will make them feel, will make them know
we’ve faced life fully, faced it so complete
that death is relatively unimportant now…
write as if it were only yesterday
that, in an air crash, all your family –
parents, wife or husband, partner, children, and best friend,
had lost their lives; write as if,
were you not to write,
your heart would break forever, or you would go mad...
write as if you’re writing somewhere
where there’s no such thing around, as ink;
you’ll have to use your own blood in the pen,
so use it carefully; so red, so living,
look at it… so beautiful, so precious,
and so solemn – use it carefully, don’t spill a drop…
write as if you’re borrowing every word
from the very centre of the universe, where suns and gods are made;
and need thus to account for every word
with your whole life, no less; know that every word
must be given back, cleaner, stronger, brighter
with your own power, than when you borrowed it;
write as if every poet that ever lived
is leaning over your shoulder, so that you
can feel their breath upon your neck as they say
‘Tell them all that we would tell,
but cannot now; tell them all of this’…
this, now, is how you must deeply be and speak;
write as if you are the only being on earth
who can tell them this; as if tomorrow, if tomorrow comes,
you shall visit them every one, at home,
and look them in the eye; write as if
you love them more than they will ever know;
write as if you were offering to live their lives with them;
write as if you were a force of nature in yourself:
as if whatever earthquake, hurricane or flood might do,
whatever law or love may greatly do,
whatever gods or men can speak, in fullest force,
this you may do, because the sound of poetry is such;
yes, write ‘as if’ – but know you really write ‘because’…
write as if – no, write because –
you know that only poetry can tell
all, that must be told, and must be known;
and as all hearts melt in the heat of your own love,
be in no doubt – and see that all are in no doubt too –
that life was never, never more serious,
never more glorious, than it is right now;
write all this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Lack of Sympathy
She tries to feel sympathy for the boy who cries
Looking deep into his eyes
She wants to comfort him and say it is alright
Most likely though it is not alright
She can’t lie to this boy who will not go
She can tell him that there’s something’s he doesn’t know
She tries to say don’t cry baby for you mother
Begs to believe that someday she’ll see her father
These words do not slip her lips
Because she knows the feel of wrong fingertips
She would have loved to say brother don’t drink and drive tonight
Given up her own life to save him from that terrible sight
Where blood and death made home
But all she does is sit and write about it in poems.
She wants to feel that grace of sympathy
But how can she
So all she says is this
Yes it is horrible to lose a father
Never to return home to say I love you and goodnight
Pleading to God why did he have to go
Yes for your father to be dead when twelve is sad
But for him to touch you when you’re eight you just wish him so
Yet I Am A Mother
18years is all I am and yet I am a mother
A mother so young
A mother so immature
A mother who can't take care of the responsibilities
But yet I am a mother
A mother who bergs from parents when she's in need
But what was I doing not thinking about the consequences of my action leaving todays and not tomorrow's satisfaction.
One visit to his house and now I am a mother
A mother so young
A mother still in school
A mother so immature.
poem by Nomusa Promise Ndimande
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The Forgotten Ones
The hopelessness that weighs heavy-
On the soul
Tears that fall from sunken eyes
Bearing witness to the hunger and disease
To the pain and the death
Of both the young and the old
Frail, fragile arms
Reach out from a lonely forsaken land
Where a true blessing would be
Clean water to quench their thirst
Where too many are suffering
And too few are willing
To lend a helping hand
In poverty and sickness,
The weak and starving lie
Trapped in a place
Where it's a struggle to live
And much too easy to die
Without a voice
To call for help
Given no choice
For what they've been dealt
Desperate prayers sent up from
A dark, cruel world
Words that are meant from the heart
For the mercy of the Lord
Wails from a broken body
Where death eagerly awaits
Swinging his sharp sword
A baby's painful cry
Haunts its Mother
In the agony of her last goodbye
Her dying child staring up at her
A gaze without innocence or trust
Only fearful and betrayed eyes
Existing in such endless, utter despair
Beneath the unrelenting, scorching sun
I can hear the pleas of these poor,
Precious souls
They are the Forgotten ones
poem by Erika Wingo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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