she is water soft enough to offer life tough enough to drown it away -rupi kaur https://flic.kr/p/Jru5Zp
Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.** -Edwin Arlington Robinson ** = No I'm not suicidal - nobody needs to be concerned, I identify with it symbolically not literally. To me the poem means that even if someone looks like they have a great life, you don't know what they're feeling inside and what negative things about their life they're hiding from you. Just because you see the positives doesn't mean there aren't negatives they have to silently struggle with every day in private. You might wish you were someone else, but that other person also wishes they were someone else too.
The Nameless One by J.C. Mangan Spoiler Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea; God will inspire me while I deliver My soul of thee Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That once there was one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld. Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom, No star of all heaven sends to light our Path to the tomb. Roll on, my song, and to after ages Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, The way to live. And tell how trampled, derided, hated, And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, He fled for shelter to God, who mated His soul with song. --With song which always, sublime or vapid, Flow'd like a rill in the morning beam, Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid-- A mountain stream. Tell how this Nameless, condemn'd for years long To herd with demons from hell beneath, Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long For even death. Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted, He still, still strove; Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others (And some whose hands should have wrought for him, If children live not for sires and mothers), His mind grew dim; And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawn'd his soul for the devil's dismal Stock of returns. But yet redeem'd it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood on his path. And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights. And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives, enduring what future story Will never know. Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell.
Never lived a human life Kept pretending Lived a lie Trapped eveyone In the lie Always alone Always surrounded The dark monster lived inside Only kindness went outside Two opposites Always together Always fighting None ever winning Broke free Then fell back Always the circle repeated It repeats to this day Almost over Start again Winning? None ever can Alright this was my own creation I made on the spot. It's pretty fitting although I'm past those days at least a little bit. Well still feeling like this is the best definition for me.
A blazing inferno raged in the east Almost like an untamed beast It killed the land in endless feast. Is there none for which to tame the beast? The ocean gave a gift unto the sky. Making clouds that they might try; To kill the beast on the land so dry, Or the clouds themselves would die. A sudden shock the storm would send Hoping that alone would end, But the beast’s rage only did extend. The land to kill and never mend. In sadness or sorrow rain did fall Like tears they fell to answer the call The inferno grew weak and very small Till none was left none at all. by Wiley Wildcard
One Art by Elizabeth Bishop: The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Great poem! Coincidentally enough, Elizabeth Bishop was a lesbian. Myself (being a English major) have read so much poetry over the years that I almost can't decide this one.
"To a Skylark" Percy Bysshe Shelley This poem is about the bird, a skylark. This verse is how one should engage in labor. "Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun."
I’m afraid of letting you Get close enough To notice the cracks In my flawed heart. Scared you see the things I hate about myself - Terrified at the thought Of you walking away. So I try and keep you At a safe distance. They say that love is blind, But I just can’t take the chance. John Mark Green - At A Safe Distance
I find calm within the blackness Comfort in the falling rain For tears can be masqueraded and forgotten all your pain Souls stripped and left to die, the warmth of love long gone Flames of passion that burned so bright, ash and ember come the dawn So heart in tow, I drag on down this long and winding road Praying sometime before I die, real love I will have knownknown When I was younger I used to write a lot of poetry. I had over 500+ at one point. Seeking some sort of cathartic release I destroyed them all about 20 years ago. Out of all of them, this one always stuck within my memory.
Not sure it describes me but I really like this poem. Still I rise, Maya Angelou You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.
Saturday Market BY CHARLOTTE MEW Bury your heart in some deep green hollow Or hide it up in a kind old tree; Better still, give it the swallow When she goes over the sea. In Saturday’s Market there’s eggs a ’plenty And dead-alive ducks with their legs tied down, Grey old gaffers and boys of twenty— Girls and the women of the town— Pitchers and sugar-sticks, ribbons and laces, Poises and whips and dicky-birds’ seed, Silver pieces and smiling faces, In Saturday Market they’ve all they need. What were you showing in Saturday Market That set it grinning from end to end Girls and gaffers and boys of twenty—? Cover it close with your shawl, my friend— Hasten you home with the laugh behind you, Over the down—, out of sight, Fasten your door, though no one will find you, No one will look on a Market night. See, you, the shawl is wet, take out from under The red dead thing—. In the white of the moon On the flags does it stir again? Well, and no wonder! Best make an end of it; bury it soon. If there is blood on the hearth who’ll know it? Or blood on the stairs, When a murder is over and done why show it? In Saturday Market nobody cares. Then lie you straight on your bed for a short, short weeping And still, for a long, long rest, There’s never a one in the town so sure of sleeping As you, in the house on the down with a hole in your breast. Think no more of the swallow, Forget, you, the sea, Never again remember the deep green hollow Or the top of the kind old tree!
