Category: poetry

For love’s sake

Inside my heart, this sacred place
Where freely mingle truth and grace
Where friends and enemies alike
Are viewed as equals for love’s sake

Inhabited by deeper self
In touch with all that in me dwells
I leave  my failures  gladly here
I will not live in morbid fear

I don’t insult the force divine
By pride in any good that’s mine
For willpower cannot birth virtue
But  can  attend to the eye’s  view

By trusting in   the vast unknown
We turn  attention from the known.
Our eyes relax and  gaze without
To  bring proportion  to our doubts

Trust, itself. will widen gaze
And enable us to find our ways.
With terror,fear or loss of pride
Constriction comes to human eyes.

Perception is the highest good
By what we see,we choose our road.
The blind rush like the swine to hell
In patient,watchfulness  let’s  dwell.

Spanish

good_luck_sign

Vagaban por la destrucción en las calles de Roma
Y cuando el sol brillaba en la noche , rojo ,
La luna es,sin lugar a dudas ,
1 querían aferrarse a volar
En los ojos de mi estado de ánimo furia estrellas
La mente estaba en estado de shock
Antes de una hora , no se debe descuidar .
Hervidor de agua con hielo seco
Recubisse ropa del gato
Cannes ¿Es usted una postal de París el
Y mantener un águila en el zoológico
Y empresas de todo con leche
Y ella me dio una patada
Lo que es caro preguntados

Die Worte kommen zu denen, die das Verlangen


Geworfelt war der Ertrag meines Herzens
Und Glück begünstigt mich auf diesen Ta
Für das, was übrig blieb, war verdient Respekt
Und hat mir geholfen, über den Rauch und ausfransen steigen.

Das Bewußtsein des Guten wurde gut angenommen
Meine Seele und Herz waren wie durchnässt Brot in Wein.
Obwohl ich das kreative Wort nicht daran zweifeln, hat
Um sich dieses Zeichen der Ehre es meinen gemacht .

Wie so fruchtbar ist, eine Leistung ist ,
Und die Arbeit gut gemacht wird geschätzt und bewundert
Dann werde ich Ruhe und lasse meine Gedanken schweifen frei
Replenishing wieder meinen inneren Feuer .

Der Arbeiter ist seines Lohnes wert .
Die Worte kommen zu denen, die das Verlangen



	


	



			
				


			

			
When true love’s gone
		
	
	

		





























When true love’s gone and doom hangs over head

When life runs like a river to the sea

Then shall I take new lovers to my bed?

And with their carnal touch consoled be?




When my love lies,so breaks my tender heart.

When life seems grey and rocks bestrew my path.

Then, shall I my life of evil start?

And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?


When true love lies and wrecks all loyalty.

When puzzlement makes all my world seem mad.

Then I shall upend causality

And let myself do deeds which make me glad.


For I have love’s sweet child inside my soul

And I shall tend her till at last she’s whole





























	


	



			
				


			

			
By sacredness
		
	
	

		




 


Before we go to bed   we   vegetate

No need for teacher but  a compost heap.

And as we vegetate, we drift to sleep

While in our dreams  our little mind debates


But mostly we’re  unknowing in this dark

Where  God himself may manifest at will.

His dazzling darkness  makes our souls be still

And wait  for strikes by  living ,glowing spark.


But in the morning ,we  come  back to  strife

Take up our work and suffer every stroke.

From sapling to the oldest,strongest oak

Each  must choose again its proper life


Every look we cast at others  strikes

Reflects and shows us what we have become

And when there is no movement,  we are done

Our mind and  heart have chosen what they like.


So in our end we vegetate again

And  no more rise to labour in the day

We  fertilise the fields passed on our way

We show the end of woman and of man.


A  daily round becomes  our life and death.

We  live because  we’re  breathed by sacredness.


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins
		
	
	

		










Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –




























   When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;


   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush


Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring


The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;


   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush


   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush


With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.




What is all this juice and all this joy?


   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning


In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,


   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,


Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,


   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.



















	


	



			
				


			

			
Dark jewels
		
	
	

		
I have listened to the arguments of fools

I have heard them like a donkey bray

I have looked within and found dark jewels.


I have studied  algebra like Boole’s

I read the works of Euclid and  obeyed

I have listened to the arguments of fools.


I have  been to colleges and schools

I have seen the wolves therein who prey.

I have looked within and found dark jewels


I have earned my knowledge and my tools

I have kept them current day by day

I have listened to the arguments of  fools


I have loved strange men whom I thought cool

I have often felt the need to pray

I have looked within and found dark jewels


 


So we each must fumble  through the day

Knowledge and perception show the way

I have listened to the arguments of fools

I have looked within and found dark jewels.


 


 


 


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
Honeysuckle
		
	
	

		
The pink flowers of the honeysuckle rise

Like crocuses in springtime from the green

Like eager maidens wanting to   be seen

As sunshine glitters on their shapely thighs.


Too much sun has made them over-bold

They’re at risk of suffering from their  desperate joy.

For all the rain and clouds made them annoyed;

They must be fertilised or  die  before they’re old.


 


This   fierce  sun makes me a melting splodge

A lick of  oil paint mixed and uncomposed.

Who was this artist; what did she propose?

And will this portrait in  her  memory lodge?


As flowers will inevitably die

They do not lose by hurling up their joys.

But should we  women imitate their ploys?

For we might live in shame, though we defy


 


Each child of nature   feels the touch of sun.

Some stretch out in joy while others run.

If you   vacillate  and never choose,

She who  chooses has the least to lose .


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
The flow
		
	
	

		
My old blue fountain pen allows

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush.

Enchanting through the hand which writes,

Bewitched with art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score

Through which we pass as through a door.

Imagination’s home.

As ,mysteriously.to you, to me,

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,

By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.

They enter vision quite unplanned,

Like moths to flutter softly round

Fire joined heart and hand.

The pen slows down,the hand goes still

And just as dreams at daybreak will,

They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.

I almost caught that one!

	


	



			
				


			

			
Like new mown grass
		
	
	

		
13335795_717967215009826_3551374442510483070_nNerve endings shriek

Like new mown blades  of grass

Arms are tender,feel raw inside

As if  the hands can’t deal  with loss

I satisfy them with scented lotion

They want to retract into my body

I have no shell to protect me.

Tension makes me  steely.

But the hands can’t lie

Thin and bony,no fat to  cover

The nerves give out a message

Lost,loveless,lonely

Touch me with your invisible glance.

Embrace me with your  eternal mind.

	


	



			
				


			

			
The Death of Silence
		
	
	

		








    

  • IMG_0187
    • 

  • RELATED CONTENT [poetry foundation]

    Discover this poem’s context and related poetry.
    

    • 































    

  • 

      

    • 

    

    • 























BY ROBIN EKISS












A car’s backfire


rifles the ear




with skeleton clatter,


the crowd’s walla walla




draws near, caterwaul


evaporating in thin air.




Silence is dead.


(Long live silence.)




Let’s observe a moment


of it, call it what it’s not:




splatter of rain


that can’t soothe




the window’s pane,


dog barking




up the wrong tree.


Which tree, which air




apparent is there to hear


a word at its worth?




Hammer that drums


its water-logged warning




against the side


of the submarine:




I’m buried to the hilt


like the knife,




after it’s thrown,


continues to bow




to the apple


it’s split.



























	


	



			
				


			

			
The depth of heart
		
	
	

		
To grow is both a process and an art

Requiring food with richness  aptly packed

And growth’s success requires a depth of heart


Trust and truth we need to even start

As wondering muses contemplate our tricks

Growth is both a process and an art.


On the surface thoughts like fishes dart

Bigger fish are swarming through the wrecks

Growth’s process requires the depths,the heart


Five fathoms we must sink when we depart.

We leave behind our sacred scrolls and texts

To grow is both a process and an art.


The path is absent from all current charts.

From libraries and colleges run  next.

Growth’s success will need a sturdy heart.


To say,I am, tempts pain to hit us quick

The fire,the flames around us  duly lick.

To grow is both a process and an art

We  must endure the depths of  our own hearts


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
Yet fear surprise
		
	
	

		


The point of living is to feel alive

Not caged  by  too high walls or steely fence

We want to love,be taken by surprise.


Our  wounded mangled self we can’t deride,

Recalling  fights and  struggles lived  through once.

The point of living is to feel alive.


We dither to and fro in puzzled ways

We feel the anguish, still and quite intent.

We want to love,be taken by surprise.


The self’s spontaneous, not a thing contrived;

Formed with love and  hate,with all intense.

The rage of living is to be alive.


When washed away by feelings glad,immense

That cross our borders without our lament

The  hope,the need of living is  our life

We want to  give and take  yet fear surprise


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
Ariel BY SYLVIA PLATH
		
	
	

		








Stasis in darkness.




































Then the substanceless blue


Pour of tor and distances.




God’s lioness,


How one we grow,


Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow




Splits and passes, sister to


The brown arc


Of the neck I cannot catch,




Nigger-eye


Berries cast dark


Hooks—




Black sweet blood mouthfuls,


Shadows.


Something else




Hauls me through air—


Thighs, hair;


Flakes from my heels.




White


Godiva, I unpeel—


Dead hands, dead stringencies.




And now I


Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.


The child’s cry




Melts in the wall.


And I


Am the arrow,




The dew that flies


Suicidal, at one with the drive


Into the red




Eye, the cauldron of morning


Stanley Plumly


“Ariel” is, of course, Plath’s singular and famous example of the form completely at one with its substance, the language exactly the speedy act of its text. The point for the poet is obvious: “How one we grow,/Pivot of heels and knees.” The speaker thus becomes as much Ariel as the horse, and together they become the one thing, the poem itself, “the arrow,/ /The dew that flies/Suicidal, at one with the drive.” The run from stasis in darkness into the red eye of morning is a miraculous inhabiting, in which the natural and referential world dissembles, blurs into absence, to the point that the transformation of the horse and rider can become absolute. “Something else / / Hauls me through air . . . ” In seconds, she is a white Godiva, unpeeling dead hands and stringencies, then, almost simultaneously, she is foam to wheat, and at that freeing instant, in terror or in esctasy, the child’s cry melts in the wall. “Ariel” is as close to a poetry of pure, self-generating, associative action as we could hope for, as if the spirit, at last, had found its correlative, had transcended, in the moment, memory.


From “What Ceremony of Words” in Ariel Ascending: Writings about Sylvia Plath. Ed. Paul Alexander. Copyright © 1985 by Paul Alexander.

































	


	



			
				


			

			
I’d be sent to buy mint
		
	
	

		
Do you remember squirming under the table

Banging your head on the corner

Or falling down    the stairs.

I broke my leg once.

Knees scabbed and bruised; we don’t see that now

I suppose they don’t do the dangerous things we used to do.

Mr Turner had an allotment where he grew flowers and herbs

I’d be sent to buy mint sometimes and a bunch of flowers

Then the council made the land into garages for rent.

And hardly anyone had a car.Until Beeching.

The Great Train Robber.

	


	



			
				


			

			
I am in a study brown
		
	
	

		
Oh,doctor I am in a flap
I cannot turn this childproof cap
I cannot take my medicine
So I shall toss it in the bin

The beta blockers make me down
I am in a study brown.
The mini aspirins make me bruise
And my mind is quite confused.

The ibuprofen hurt my heart
Yet without one I cannot start.
The thyroxine has no effect
So now I feel my life is dreck.

The codeine fails to make me high
I'm not addicted, though I try.
I'll have to take a shot of gin
And alcohol will make me sin.

I'll go to parties in a dress
That makes men's hormones more or less.
I'll take a big one home with me,
And give him poison in his tea.

And when I am in jail at last
I'll feel remorse for all my past.
For as I suffer dreadful pain
God has hit me yet again.

It's not enough that I am blind
And suffer terrors in my mind
Not enough that lovers cruel
Give me stick instead of jewels.

Or maybe life does not make sense
Especially when I feel so tense.
Maybe random are my days
and my life has gone astray.

I think that I shall buy a cat
And love it tenderly and chat.
But if my cat gives me a scratch...
I'll light its tail up with a match.

All the world must me obey
Else I'll be enraged all day.
I want my own way all the time.
Other people must conform.

I am here and full of ills
What do you think of these blue pills?
If they take away my heart
That at least will be a start.

Then they can remove my brain
To help me with this damned pain.
Why not kill me right away
Then I'll be from pain astray?

	


	



			
				


			

			
I have  heard  grass singing in the wind.
		
	
	

		
I have  heard  grass singing in  the wind.

I   have walked through poppy fields in  sun

I have  suffered  when dark rain descends


I have watched  trees’ shadows in the ponds

I have  known the  arctic wastes of pain

I have  heard  grass singing in the wind.


Another soul is writing  with my hand

Yet I have  wept  while loaning him  my pen

I have  suffered  when dark rain descends


I have known  the edges  of the mind

I ‘ve   sensed  hollow silence un-contained.

I have  heard  grass singing in  the wind.


I have sorrowed for  humans confined

I have  watched  the antics  of bad  men

I have  suffered  when dark rain descends


I have seen the storm by camera lens.

I have felt the   solar system bend.

I have  heard  grass singing in  the wind.

I have  suffered  when dark rain descends


 


 


 


 


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
Precision in poetry
		
	
	

		
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA


 


http://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/articles/detail/68419


“Poetry charts the changes in language, but it never merely reproduces or recapitulates what it finds. The lyric poem defamiliarizes words, it wrenches them from familiar or habitual contexts, it puts a spell on them. The lyric is cognate with those childish forms, the riddle and the nursery rhyme, with whatever form of verbal art turns language inside out and draws attention to its categories. As the eighteenth-century English poet Christopher Smart put it, freely translating from Horace’s Art of Poetry:”


It is exceedingly well

To give a common word the spell

To greet you as intirely new


In Smart’s belief, as Marcus Walsh observes in Christopher Smart: Selected Poems(1979), “every creature worships God simply by being itself, through its peculiar actions and properties….

	


	



			
				


			

			
Garden
		
	
	

		
Soft rain is falling

Pink honeysuckle rises

Looks like crocuses


Growing on shed roof

It was “suitable for shade”

But it climbed over


Until it found  sun.

The wisteria has moved

To a tree next door.


I can see upstairs

How it drapes and dangles from

A young rowan tree.


The apple blossom

I’ve not noticed it again

But I saw the wren.


The wren  is near now

Hides in weigelia

With its wren babies.


My friend saw a thrush

We’ve not seen one here lately.

Only the blackbirds.

	


	



			
				


			

			
Oh, what art
		
	
	

		
The gift for  imitation   is an art

Needs eyes and face and mind to work as one;

And who would dare to play the darkest parts?


To reproduce another being’s heart;

To manifest a self  till acting’s done.

The gift for imitation is an art


To  play another, may one’s soul contort;

Although a little demon may be fun.

But who would dare to play the darkest part?


I’d sooner play a demon than a tart

Especially if I had a  piper and a drum

The gift for imitation, oh,  what art.


When we play  adult games we have no charts

And we know too many use a gun

But who would  dare to play the darkest parts?


We  face a trump and devils may become

Our fellow citizens   till all’s undone.

The  gift for  imitation   is an art

Yet  will  he dare to play the darkest part?


 


 


 


 


 


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
Theodore Roethke:The Waking
		
	
	

		
https://youtu.be/IxY2g4mR8Xk


 


We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.


Of those so close beside me, which are you?

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,

And learn by going where I have to go.


Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.


Great Nature has another thing to do

To you and me, so take the lively air,

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.


This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.

	


	



			
				


			

			
Villanelles:what I think so far
		
	
	

		
Let’s start with one of the most well known poems by Dylan Thomas






Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.


Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


And you, my father, there on that sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.




Dylan Thomas




Form: Villanelle


I enjoyed writing some villanelles;I found it hard too.One reason is clear.

Look at the first three lines in the above poem.Lines 1 and 3 are going to be repeated several times.They also come together to end the poem.

This means they have to be good.These lines  in Thomas’;s poem are often quoted.As it happens I disagree with them as advice but I think they are marvellous as poetry.And who takes advice from poets?

So thinking of  two good lines before you start… or even one good line to begin with is something I have found more difficult than I do with sonnets.Of course I only began last week so I can’t be surprised by my lack.

However I found the repetition and the sounds were very enjoyable and memorable.More so after I had tried to write my own.And that is one good reason for writing poetry.You  will enjoy other people’s poetry much more, if it is good.As we don’t see what Dylan Thomas threw away we don’t know how much effort  and work was involved in writing his beautiful poem.Sometimes I have done nearly 30 revisions to a poem.Sometimes I put one on Facebook,not for my family to read,but just moving it and re-reading it often suggests an improvement.Sometimes  someone reads it but not always.But it’s good for me.

If I can think up another first line,I shall continue  my study.








 


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
So sorrow’s ale   brings   memories of joy
		
	
	

		
 


The art of musing isn’t hard to learn

Instead of tablets,screens,electric toys=…….

A spacious mind may entertain  the spurned


We sometimes  learn this when we need to mourn

As  companions leave, of sympathy  devoid

The art of musing isn’t hard to learn.


As milk ‘s transformed to  butter  as we churn

So sorrow’s ale  brings   memories  of joy

A spacious mind  may entertain  the spurned


 


 


 

The art of living is  one art  we earn

By patience and  with tempers un-annoyed

The art of musing isn’t hard to learn


 


As life goes by,how greatly we may yearn

For lovers lost in  wars akin to Troy

A spacious mind can entertain  the spurned.


 


Unlike  that  mistress tempted to be coy,

We open up our our minds to marvelled joy

The art of musing isn’t hard to learn

A spacious mind  may  entertain  the spurned


 


 


 


 


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
Days
		
	
	

		


Some days are days for losing






Diaries,letters,lovers.

Some days are days for losing

Fathers,money,mothers.Some days are days for finding

Mobile phones and patience.

Some days are days for finding

New friends and old relations.


Some days I feel at sea for hours,

Some days I feel so lost.

Some days I know that life’s worthwhile

Whatever the emotional cost.


Days are special units

In the journey we call life.

Days are short so don’t waste time

In needless haste or strife.





	


	



			
				


			

			
Villanelle for an Anniversary  By Seamus Heaney
		
	
	

		
350th Anniversary of Harvard






CanadaGeeseCOPR111905_2228



A spirit moved. John Harvard walked the yard,






The atom lay unsplit, the west unwon,

The books stood open and the gates unbarred.


The maps dreamt on like moondust. Nothing stirred.

The future was a verb in hibernation.

A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.


Before the classic style, before the clapboard,

All through the small hours of an origin,

The books stood open and the gate unbarred.


Night passage of a migratory bird.

Wingflap. Gownflap. Like a homing pigeon

A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.


Was that his soul (look) sped to its reward

By grace or works? A shooting star? An omen?

The books stood open and the gate unbarred.


Begin again where frosts and tests were hard.

Find yourself or founder. Here, imagine

A spirit moves, John Harvard walks the yard,

The books stand open and the gates unbarred.









	


	



			
				


			

			
The sin a child is born  to is not hers
		
	
	

		
The sin a child is born  to is not hers;

For mother’s body’s sacred  with its grace.

The sin a child is born to,it is ours


Yet ,at a baptism will the priest declare:

Out ye demons,leave this infant’s space.

The sin a child is born  to is not hers


 

The infant  naturally speaks in tongues of fire.

The Spirit moves eternal in its trace

The sin a child is born to,it is ours


The path we learn to walk ‘s already there

The rules  and laws were written with no haste

The sin  a child is born to is not hers


A child born now  is marked by Iraq War

A child born now, in paranoia’s traced.

The sin a child is born to,it is ours


Oh,look upon the infant’s holy face

Beatific vision is there  traced

The sin a child is born  to is not hers

The sin a child is born to,it is ours


 


 


 

	


	



			
				


			

			
I have sifted earth
		
	
	

		
I have  walked the  silent paths of grief

Sunless,dreary,cold and all alone.

I have   slept on beds of  winter leaves.


I  know  that death’s   an avaricious  thief.

Although my heart weeps and my joy has gone.

I have never felt I was deceived.


I have learned that human life is brief.

I have learned  by sorrow we’re undone.

I  have sifted earth and what’s beneath.


I felt dark emotions in me seethe

While I have  been mocked by   glaring sun.

I  have learned the geography of grief.


I wait in silence for    this  life to cease

Or will  a  fluttering wing  make chaos come,

Change my heart and give me a fresh lease?


Unconsoled  grief  can make   us dumb

Into  our  hearts, we drag the ice  that numbs

I have walked the silent paths of grief

I have made my bed on winter leaves.

	


	



			
				


			

			
The Difference Between Lack and Absence by Annie Diamond
		
	
	

		
Both mean not having, but one means missing too.

Absence can be welcome, but lack implies desire—

the absence of some noise, a lack of you


might be a good example. And it’s true

that lack makes judgment, means that we require

the thing that’s gone (a constant aching, too)


while absence just reports; we can make do

with smaller things; it doesn’t sound so dire.

Who needs the noise? (But I need you.)


Absence lets us start anew,

while lacking keeps us laced to its dark pyre.

Both are not having, but one is missing too,


and wanting nothing more than to undo

whatever sins caused lacking to transpire.

The noise is done, and so, I guess, are you


with me. In verse I struggle to subdue

my restless heart. (The lacking makes me tired.)

Both mean not having; one means missing too—

the absence of some noise, a lack of you.


Annie Diamond is a student at Barnard College, a private women’s liberal arts college affiliated with Columbia University. She has also studied abroad at Mansfield College, one of the constituent colleges of Oxford University in England. She recently completed her sophomore year at Barnard College, where she studies English and creative writing. Her work has been published in Apt, Avatar Review, Clockwise Cat, The Columbia Review and The Lyric. She was awarded first prize in The Lyric‘s College Poetry Contest for her villanelle “The Difference Between Lack and Absence.” The same poem later won the Lyric Memorial Prize and was named the best poem to appear in The Lyric for the year 2013. Her favorite writing spot is the Hungarian Pastry Shop on New York City’s 111th Street, and her number one life ambition is to appear on Jeopardy.


“It was my honor and pleasure to judge The Lyric‘s yearly and quarterly awards. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that my favorite poem for the year 2013 was written by a college student, Annie Diamond. I believe she has a very bright future.”—Michael R. Burch



	


	



			
				


			

			
Acquainted With The Night  by Robert Frost
		
	
	

		
I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.


I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.


I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,


But not to call me back or say good-by;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky


Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.


Robert Frost’s “Acquainted With The Night” is more of a sonnet than a villanelle, but it is a marvellous poem with a killer opening line that doubles as a killer closing line.

	


	



			
				


			

			
Bother me no more
		
	
	

		
 


 No sight is like the rising of sun






When promises of dreams seem  clear and still
My heart  though sore ,can fancy  love has come
Without hard times and exercise of will.

No morning is without new dawn of hope
When all our conflicts shall be put aside.
Imagination is  far flung in scope,
Never  noting dreams may fraughtly lie.

No love is like my long lost love for you
Once known,once felt,it settles in the heart.
Yet I do believe love can be found anew
But only when the lost  true love  departs.

So bother me no more with reveried bliss.
Go leave me with my  life,though all’s amiss









	


	



			
				


			

			
Joy will return one day
		
	
	

		





















































6419415_506e1f1602_m


 Some days are sad and blue










And then we feel lonely too;

Or we cause rifts.


Some days are doldrum days.

Some days are like bad plays.

Not such a gift.


Most days have joyful parts.

Most days we lift our hearts.

They pass all too swift.


Some days love speaks to me.

Some days I feel so free.

I love my craft.


Life is a patterned weave.

Love helps us when we grieve.

Love is a raft.


See how the sun comes back.

See how light fills the gaps..

Some days we laugh.


Weep now and I’ll weep with you.

I have known sorrow too.

Yet sorrow will pass.




Joy is not far away.

Joy will return one day….

With life’s arts and crafts