Thoughts on poetry?

So, I know how I feel about poetry; I think it's quite obvious since I am writing a blog on the subject.  But what are your thoughts and feelings about poetry?  What place does it occupy in your life?  What kinds do you like or dislike?  Do you prefer to write it, read it, or both?
It's always nice to discover how others feel about your passions and interests.  If you have the time, please comment and share your thoughts and feelings with me.
Wishing all of my readers a wonderful day!

Sonnet 145

In looking up information about the last poem I posted, I came across this additional poem by Shakespeare.  I cannot say I like all of his writings, but some of his love sonnets are very striking.
Here is one that he wrote for his wife, Anne Hathaway.  Once again, try reading this one out-loud.  As you reach the last two lines, look for her name in the words; if you can't see it, look at the comment I have attached to this post.
Without further ado, Shakespeare's love for his Love.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
To me that languish'd for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Sonnet 17

I've been really busy with my day-job, and so haven't prepared any of my poems to put up here.  So filling in for me today is The Bard himself.  This is one of my favorite of his poems, and I used it (as well as a certain someone...) as inspiration for a sonnet of my own.  For the full benefit of this poem, try reading it out-loud if you are in an area that you can.

 

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say 'This poet lies:

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

So should my papers yellow'd with their age

Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:

But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Amazing Grace

My mind has been much caught up with the subject of Grace this past week, what it means and how far it reaches.  I am in the process of writing a piece about grace in my life, but since it isn't finished yet, I thought I'd post my favorite poem on the subject.
This poem/hymn was written by John Newton, a slave merchant of the 1700's, and a self-described "wretch."  His was a life filled with sin and mistreatment of others.  Then, while caught in a storm at sea, his eyes were opened to the Grace that had always been there for him.  From that day on he continually worked to turn his life around, eventually becoming a well-respected preacher and hymn writer.
Here are the original words of this best known hymn of his, since heard around the world.

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.

John Newton, 1725-1807

Finalist & Spider

This afternoon I looked in my mailbox, and lo and behold, a letter - recognizing me as a finalist in a poetry contest I had entered!  I won the award last year, and so am not at all upset to give someone else a spot in the limelight this year. 
It is always nice to have your hard work validated, and this is especially true in an art as quiet as poetry.  In the next few days I will try to get around to posting the poem that I entered.
The poem below is one (again, not my own,) that I found some time ago, and just rediscovered tonight.  It got me thinking, and I decided to post it here for you to see too.  Enjoy, apply, share!

The spider at my window
will spin her web anew
in just the same location
in just a day or two

if I should swing a towel
or thrust up with a broom
to render sweeping judgment
on her subtle loom.

This is our little pattern,
our two-step for the fates:
again I snip, demolish,
again she spins, creates.

The spider never hurt me.
She doesn’t snitch my food
since I don’t like mosquitoes—
in fact, she’d do me good

if I would just ignore her,
adore her, for the whiz
of opalescent angle
and tapestry she is.

I’ve felt the broom, and bristled;
I know how swipes can smart;
so I should be the last man
to say what isn’t art.

Michael Ferris

Mortality

Here is another poem quoted in the broadcast I mentioned in my last post.  The first stanza was all they used, but I felt the whole thing was worth sharing.

This poem is said to have been the favorite of President Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest leaders of our country, and a personal hero of mine. 

He is said to have once remarked, "I would give all I am worth, and go in debt, to be able to write so fine a piece as I think that is."  Do not all poets feel so, when faced with such elegance?  Do we not all long to be given the power to convey that which lies in the depths of our hearts?  I know I do.

 

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high

Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

 

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant's affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,--

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

 

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

 

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

 

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

The scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

 

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

 

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,--

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

William Knox

About Crows

This weekend I am doing something that I look forward to every six months, and listening to the wisest men and women I know, teaching me about how to live a better, happier life. 

They often quote poetry in these broadcasts.  As a poet, I watch for and treasure it when they do.  This morning one of them quoted this poem, and I thought I would include it here for your benefit. 

(By the way, if you wish to watch this broadcast yourself, it can be found at 

http://lds.org/general-conference?lang=eng )

The old crow is getting slow;
the young crow is not.
Of what the young crow does not know,
the old crow knows a lot.

At knowing things, the old crow is still
the young crow’s master.
What does the old crow not know?
How to go faster.

The young crow flies above, below, and rings
around the slow old crow.
What does the fast young crow not know?
WHERE TO GO.

John Ciardi

Nearer, my God to Thee

This well-known Christian hymn is one of my favorites.  I find great solace in its words, and wished to share them with you tonight.  I will be conducting a church choir in singing this in a few weeks, and that brought it back to the forefront of my mind. 
A famous, favored piece for over a century-and-a-half, it is thought that the music for this poem was played as the RMS Titanic sank beneath the ocean waves. 
In living or dying, these words bring peace, as it assures us of the truth that God is always there for us, stretching out His hand for us to come nearer, nearer to Him.

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,
still all my song shall be,
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone;
yet in my dreams I'd be
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

There let the way appear, steps unto heaven;
all that thou sendest me, in mercy given;
angels to beckon me
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Then, with my waking thoughts bright with thy praise,
out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise;
so by my woes to be
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Or if, on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I fly,
still all my song shall be,
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Sarah F. Adams

I Shall Not Be Afraid

Have you ever missed an unpleasant emotion, such as missing someone?  I have.  Sometimes feeling that emotion is a good thing, because it means there is still hope.  When you miss being able to miss that special person, you'll know what I mean; it's far worse.
Today's poem is like that; back around the turn of the century (1900, not 2000,) there were two well-known poets who got married.  Joyce Kilmer served in WWI, and was killed in action, right at the height of his poetic career.  His wife, Aline Kilmer, wrote this poem after his death.  
She conveys with it the feeling of wishing for fear, for that would mean that the worst had not yet happened, and there was something left to fear for.  In other words, she wished that hope was still there to be found.
I don't know if any of what I've said will make sense to those reading this, but this poem really hit home for me.  Let me know your thoughts about it.

I shall not be afraid any more,
Either by night or day;
What would it profit me to be afraid
With you away?

 Now I am brave. In the dark night alone,
All through the house I go,
Locking the doors and making windows fast
When sharp winds blow.

 For there is only sorrow in my heart,
There is no room for fear.
But how I wish I were afraid again,
My dear, my dear!

Aline Kilmer

Opportunity

Once again, it has been some time since I last posted.  But here I am, back online and writing. 
Here is a poem I have been trying to re-locate for a while now.  It is another piece by Edward Sill, the writer of "The Fool's Prayer" (see the post for 6-25-2011.) 
This poem is non-rhyming, yet it is a rarity of its kind: it is one that I still find to be poetic; something that reaches past the eye and touches the heart.  I hope it inspires you as it has me.


This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this
Blunt thing-!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

Edward Rowland Sill

If

So, it has been a while since I last posted.  Summer-life with two jobs has a way of eating up your time.  Poetry is one of my greatest passions, but it even slips to my back-burner at times.
Here is a poem I find to be very inspiring, so much so that I wrote one myself with it as a guide.  Perhaps someday I'll share "There Is A Man Who Lived" (the piece I wrote,) with you, but for now enjoy the work of the great Rudyard Kipling; and then let me know what you think of it, and how it inspires you.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
 
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
 
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Surprise, surprise!

I've been posting now for just less than two months.  To all my readers out there, what do you think so far?  What would you like to see posted here?  What do you want more or less of?
I came across this poem today.  It brought a bit of a smile to my face; I have to ask myself, will that be the reaction I get when my time comes?
 
I dreamed death came to me last night
and Heaven's gate swung wide,
with kindly grace an angel came
and ushered me inside!
And there...to my astonishment
stood folks I'd known on earth,
Some I judged and called "unfit"
and some of little worth;
Indignant words rose to my lips
But never were set free;
For every face showed stunned surprise...
Not one expected me!

Author Unknown

The New Colossus

Note: The Colossus was a bronze statue in ancient Greece.  It was built by a harbor shortly after 300 B.C, and stood over 100 feet tall.

Written as part of a fund raising for the Statue of Liberty's pedestal, this poem is now engraved on that pedestal.  It welcomes all who pass it with these words:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

 

Emma Lazarus

Breathes There the Man

I took the Sabbath off yesterday, and so today I will be posting two poems.  I'll start off with one by a great poet of the past, and then later today I'll post one of my own.
What are your feelings when you read this well known poem?  To me this piece by Sir Walter Scott says that, if I can't say that I loved and stood up my country and all it stands for, anything else I achieve will matter very little in the grand scheme of things.
Whatever your nationality or political affiliation, I encourage you to use this day as one to ponder what makes you country special, and to thank God above for giving you a nation to call home.
God bless us, everyone!

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell.
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott

Battle-Hymn of the Republic

Out of the American Civil War, the darkest hour in our history, there were those who refused to let the horrors of total war blacken their souls.  Julia Howe Ward, an American activist and poet, was one of these unconquerable souls. 
As terrible fighting was taking place across the nation to decide the rights of all men to be free, she wrote these words.  They are a tribute to the God of freedom, and to all who have given their lives for that cause, as well as a reminder of all that must yet be done to preserve our nation and our freedom.
Even after almost 150 years, this hymn is still one of the greatest pieces of patriotic poetry of all time, and it still touches the hearts of those willing to listen to its message.
There were originally six stanzas; I have omitted here the third and sixth; otherwise it is placed here as she wrote it.

Mine eyes have seen the glory
Of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage
Where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning
Of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watchfires
Of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar
In the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence
By the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet
That shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men
Before His judgement seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him;
Be jubilant, my feet;
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies
Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom
That transfigures you and me;
As He died to make men holy,
Let us die to make men free;
While God is marching on.

Julia Howe Ward

Song of the American Eagle

In honor of America's Independence Day, I will be trying to post a patriotic poem every day for the next week or so. 
Here is a very touching piece about the eagle, our country's symbol of nobility and freedom.  I and my fellow Americans have been very blessed by God.  He has given us freedom, prosperity above many other nations, and a grand heritage, to name just a few. 
Let us always remember what we have been given, and our duty to remain "one nation under God," in Whom we trust.

I build my nest on the mountain’s crest,
Where the wild winds rock my eaglets to rest,
Where the lightnings flash, and the thunders crash,
And the roaring torrents foam and dash;
For my spirit free henceforth shall be
A type of the sons of Liberty.

Aloft I fly from my aerie high,
Through the vaulted dome of the azure sky;
On a sunbeam bright take my airy flight,
And float in a flood of liquid light;
For I love to play in the noontide ray,
And bask in a blaze from the throne of day.

Away I spring with a tireless wing,
On a feathery cloud I poise and swing;
I dart down the steep where the lightnings leap,
And the clear blue canopy swiftly sweep;
For, dear to me is the revelry
Of a free and fearless Liberty.

I love the land where the mountains stand,
Like the watch-towers high of a Patriot band;
For I may not bide in my glory and pride,
Though the land be never so fair and wide,
Where Luxury reigns o’er voluptuous plains,
And fetters the free-born soul in chains.

Then give to me in my flights to see
The land of the pilgrims ever free!
And I never will rove from the haunts I love
But watch, from my sentinel-track above,
Your banner free, o’er land and sea,
And exult in your glorious Liberty.

O, guard ye well the land where I dwell,
Lest to future times the tale I tell,
When slow expires in smoldering fires
The goodly heritage of your sires,
How Freedom’s light rose clear and bright
O’er fair Columbia’s beacon-height,
Till ye quenched the flame in a starless night.

Then will I tear from your pennon fair
The stars ye have set in triumph there;
My olive-branch on the blast I’ll launch,
The fluttering stripes from the flagstaff wrench,
And away I’ll flee; for I scorn to see
A craven race in the land of the free!

Anonymous

The Children's Hour

Of all the poets that I admire, one of my favorite is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  His gift for rhyme and meter, (not to mention his ability to convey depth of emotion,) never ceases to inspire me.
Soon I will do a series of posts about the poet; but today I want to share one of his poems with you.
This is one of his many tributes to his own family; in this case, his daughters.

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Fool's Prayer

Another treasured poem from Crimson Trove.  This one really strikes home for me.  It reminds me of the words of the prophet who said "For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have...?" 
Oh Lord, be merciful to me, a fool!

The royal feast was done the king
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,

kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before:
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool
His pleading voice arose
“Oh Lord be merciful to me, a fool!

No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool
The rod must heal the sin but, Lord
Be merciful to me, a fool!

‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, Oh Lord we stay
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the Earth from Heaven away.

These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end
These hard well-meaning hands we trust
Among the heartstrings of a friend.

The ill-timed truth we might have kept-
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say-
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse the all
But for our blunders-oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

Earth bears no balsam for mistakes
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but thou, Oh Lord
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his garden cool,
And walked apart and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Edward Rowland Sill

Don't Quit

We've all had those days when we just want to quit.  I've had quite a few myself, some more recent than others.  If today is one of those days for you, here is a poem to help pick you back up.  It is by that remarkably prolific poet, Anonymous.

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh;
When care is pressing you down a bit;
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns;
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out:
Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far.
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

Anonymous

Debt

This poem, which I found in Volume II of "Crimson Trove," reminded me of someone very special to me, someone who I am forever indebted to for making me "sing again when all the songs were mute."

My debt to you, Beloved,
Is one I cannot pay
In any coin of any realm
On any reckoning day:

For where is he shall figure
The debt, when all is said,
To one who makes you dream again
When all the dreams dead?

Or where is the appraiser
Who shall the claim compute
Of one who makes you sing again
When all the songs were mute?

Jessie Rittenhouse