POETRY - Precisely chosen words arranged to stir the human heart.
BABY SEED SONG
Edith Nesbit (1858-1924)
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark?
Here we lie cosily, close to each other:
Hark to the song of the lark
"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;
Put on your green coats and gay,
Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you
Waken! 'tis morning 'tis May!"
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
What kind of a flower will you be?
I'll be a poppy all white, like my mother;
Do be a poppy like me.
What! You're a sunflower! How I shall miss you
When you're grown golden and high!
But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;
Little brown brother, good-bye.
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TWENTY LOVE POEMS AND A SONG OF DESPAIR by Pablo Neruda, 1924
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THE LAST STATION directed by Michael Hoffman, 2009 biography, Germany
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THE ARBOR directed by Clio Barnard, 2010 documentary, United Kingdom
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THE GHOST WRITER
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BIRD by Neruda - THE SUN by Oliver - SONG by Muir - ALL DAY I HEAR THE NOISE OF WATERS by Joyce - AROUND US by Bell - YOUTH by Wright - MY GARDEN -- LIKE A BEACH by Dickinson - SEA FEVER by Masefield - ARIEL'S SONG from THE TEMPEST by Shakespeare - From THE GIFT by Hafiz - BARTER by Teasdale - MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH by Tennyson - GRATITUDE TO THE UNKNOWN INSTRUCTORS by Yeats - TREES by Kilmer - THE CHILDREN'S HOUR by Longfellow - AUTUMN MOVEMENT by Sandburg - TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL by Angelou) - SPRING POOLS by Frost - SNOW by Nye - IN SALUTATION TO THE ETERNAL PEACE by Naidu - LIFE IS FINE by Hughes - From THE SEEDS by Barry - THE FLY by Blake - THE BANYAN TREE by Rabindranath Tagore - LET EVENING COME by Kenyon - IF YOU HURT NATURE YOU ARE HURTING YOURSELF by Krishnamurti - THE GIFT by Lee - IN THE EARTH PRAYERS by Starhawk - PROBLEMS WITH HURRICANES by Cruz - APPLES by Lee - WATER by Berry - NESTING by Moody
by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air - and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
by Mary Oliver (1935-)
Have you ever seen
anything in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
by John Muir (1838-1914
Here is calm so deep, grasses cease waving.
Everything in wild nature fits into us,
as if truly part and parent of us.
The sun shines not on us but in us.
The rivers flow not past, but through us,
thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell
of the substance of our bodies,
Making them glide and sing.
The trees wave and the flowers bloom
in our bodies as well as our souls,
and every bird song, wind song,
and; tremendous storm song of the rocks
in the heart of the mountains is our song,
our very own, and sings our love.
by James Joyce (1882-1941)
All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.
The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.
by Marvin Bell (1937-)
We need some pines to assuage the darkness
when it blankets the mind,
we need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly
as a plane's wing, and a worn bed of
needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind,
and a blur or two of a wild thing
that sees and is not seen. We need these things
between appointments, after work,
and, if we keep them, then someone someday,
lying down after a walk
and supper, with the fire hole wet down,
the whole night sky set at a particular
time, without numbers or hours, will cause
a little sound of thanks--a zipper or a snap--
to close round the moment and the thought
of whatever good we did.
by James Wright (1927-1980)
Strange bird,
His song remains secret.
He worked too hard to read books.
He never heard how Sherwood Anderson
Got out of it, and fled to Chicago, furious to free himself
From his hatred of factories.
My father toiled fifty years
At Hazel-Atlas Glass,
Caught among girders that smash the kneecaps
Of dumb honyaks.
Did he shudder with hatred in the cold shadow of grease?
Maybe. But my brother and I do know
He came home as quiet as the evening.
He will be getting dark, soon,
And loom through new snow.
I know his ghost will drift home
To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone,
Whittling a root.
He will say nothing.
The waters flow past, older, younger
Than he is, or I am.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
My Garden -- like the Beach --
Denotes there be -- a Sea --
That's Summer --
Such as These -- the Pearls
She fetches -- such as Me
by John Masefield (1878-1967)
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.
The watch-dogs bark.
Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
by Hafiz (14th Century)
Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe Me."
Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
Yon orange sunset waning slow:
From fringes of the faded eve,
O, happy planet, eastward go:
Till over thy dark shoulder glow
Thy silver sister world, and rise
To glass herself in dewey eyes
That watch me from the glen below.
Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne,
Dip forward under starry light,
And move me to my marriage-morn,
And round again to happy night.
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
What they undertook to do
They brought to pass;
All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass.
by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupation,
That is know 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 in 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!
by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,
not one lasts.
by Maya Angelou (1928-2014)
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods --
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.
by Naomi Shihab Nye (1952-)
Once with my scarf knotted over my mouth
I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill
and did not know where I was going except to the top of it.
In those days we went out like that.
Even children went out like that.
Someone was crying hard at home again,
raging blizzard of sobs.
I dragged the sled by its rope,
which we normally did not do
when snow was coming down so hard,
pulling my brother whom I called by our secret name
as if we could be other people under the skin.
The snow bit into my face, prickling the rim
of the head where the hair starts coming out.
And it was a big one. It would come down and down
for days. People would dig their cars out like potatoes.
How are you doing back there?
I shouted,
and he said
Fine, I’m doing fine,
in the sunniest voice he could muster
and I think I should love him more today
for having used it.
At the top we turned and he slid down,
steering himself with the rope gripped in
his mittened hands. I stumbled behind
sinking deeply, shouting
Ho! Look at him go!
as if we were having a good time.
Alone on the hill. That was the deepest
I ever went into the snow. Now I think of it
when I stare at paper or into silences
between human beings. The drifting
accumulation. A father goes months
without speaking to his son.
How there can be a place
so cold any movement saves you.
Ho!
You bang your hands together,
stomp your feet.
The father could die!
The son! Before the weather changes.
by Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)
Men say the world is full of fear and hate,
And all life's ripening harvest-fields await
The restless sickle of relentless fate.
But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born,
When from the climbing terraces of corn
I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn.
What care I for the world's desire and pride,
Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide,
The homing pigeons of Thine eventide?
What care I for the world's loud weariness,
Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless
With delicate sheaves of mellow silences?
Say, shall I heed dull presages of doom,
Or dread the rumoured loneliness and gloom,
The mute and mythic terror of the tomb?
For my glad heart is drunk and drenched with Thee,
O inmost wind of living ecstasy!
O intimate essence of eternity!
by Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.
I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.
But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.
I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.
But it was High up there! It was high!
So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born
Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
by Wendell Barry (1934-)
But the sower
going forth to sow sets foot
into time to come, the seeds falling
on his own place. He has prepared a way
for his life to come to him, if it will.
Like a tree, he has given roots
to the earth, and stands free..
by William Blake (1757-1827)
Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
O you shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond,
have you forgotten the little chile, like the birds that have
nested in your branches and left you?
Do you not remember how he sat at the window and wondered at
the tangle of your roots and plunged underground?
The women would come to fill their jars in the pond, and your
huge black shadow would wriggle on the water like sleep struggling
to wake up.
Sunlight danced on the ripples like restless tiny shuttles
weaving golden tapestry. Two ducks swam by the weedy margin above their shadows, and
the child would sit still and think.
He longed to be the wind and blow through your resting
branches, to be your shadow and lengthen with the day on the water,
to be a bird and perch on your topmost twig, and to float like
those ducks among the weeds and shadows.
by Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
by Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986)
Nature is part of our life. We grew out of the seed, the earth, and we are part of all that.
But we are rapidly losing the sense that we are animals like the others.
Can you have a feeling for that tree, look at it, see the beauty of it,
listen to the sound it makes; be sensitive to the little plant, to the little weed,
to that creeper that is growing up the wall, to the light on the leaves and the many shadows? One must be aware of all this and have the sense of communion with nature around you. You may live in a town but you do have trees here and there.
A flower in the next garden may be ill-kept, crowded with weeds, but look at it,
feel that you are part of all that, part of all living things.
If you hurt nature you are hurting yourself.
by Li-Young Lee (1957-)
To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he'd removed
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.
I can't remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy's palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife's right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he's given something to keep.
I kissed my father.
by Starhawk (1951-)
Earth Mother, star mother,
You who are called by a thousand names,
May all remember
We are cells in your body
And dance together.
You are the grain and the loaf
That sustains us each day,
And as you are patient with our struggles to
learn, so shall we be patient
With ourselves and each other.
We are radiant light and sacred dark
-the balance-
You are the embrace that heartens
And the freedom beyond fear.
Within you we are born,
We grow, live and die -
You bring us around the circle
To rebirth,
Within us you dance
Forever.
by Victor Hernández Cruz (1949-)
A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it's not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I'll tell you he said:
it's the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.
How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.
Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.
The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don't worry about the noise
Don't worry about the water
Don't worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.
by Laurie Lee (1914-1997)
Behold the apples’ rounded worlds:
juice-green of July rain,
the black polestar of flowers, the rind
mapped with its crimson stain.
The russet, crab and cottage red
burn to the sun’s hot brass,
then drop like sweat from every branch
and bubble in the grass.
They lie as wanton as they fall,
and where they fall and break,
the stallion clamps his crunching jaws,
the starling stabs his beak.
In each plump gourd the cidery bite
of boys’ teeth tears the skin;
the waltzing wasp consumes his share,
the bent worm enters in.
I, with as easy hunger, take
entire my season’s dole;
welcome the ripe, the sweet, the sour,
the hollow and the whole.
by Wendell Berry (1934-)
I was born in a drouth year. That summer
my mother waited in the house, enclosed
in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
for the men to come back in the evenings,
bringing water from a distant spring.
veins of leaves ran dry, roots shrank.
And all my life I have dreaded the return
of that year, sure that it still is
somewhere, like a dead enemy's soul.
Fear of dust in my mouth is always with me,
and I am the faithful husband of the rain,
I love the water of wells and springs
and the taste of roofs in the water of cisterns.
I am a dry man whose thirst is praise
of clouds, and whose mind is something of a cup.
My sweetness is to wake in the night
after days of dry heat, hearing the rain.
by Nancy Carol Moody
June, and the insatiable starlings
just outside our bedroom window
are raising their second batch
of babies this season, rackety
blusterers tucked into the eaves
of the house next door.
Mornings at sunup, the nest
is a tumult of appetite
and squawk. Evenings,
in the melancholy low-light
of the just-set sun, the drama
recycles: cacophony, then a quiet.
The outcome is not so different
from the creation: how the light
turns and a hunger rises.
Sound becomes us, and then
there is the silence.
Edith Nesbit (1858-1924)
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark?
Here we lie cosily, close to each other:
Hark to the song of the lark
"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;
Put on your green coats and gay,
Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you
Waken! 'tis morning 'tis May!"
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
What kind of a flower will you be?
I'll be a poppy all white, like my mother;
Do be a poppy like me.
What! You're a sunflower! How I shall miss you
When you're grown golden and high!
But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;
Little brown brother, good-bye.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ONLINE RESOURCES
Poetry Foundation
Poetry Foundation for Children
Audio Poems
BIO Videos
Poem Hunter Poetry Outloud
Poetry Soup
SUGGESTIONS LISTED BELOW
Books about 20TH Century Poets
Books about 19TH Century Poets
Books about 18TH Century Poets
Books about 13TH Century Poets
Poetry Books
Novels Written by Poets
Films about Writers and Writing
Selected Poems About Nature
BOOKS ABOUT 20TH CENTURY POETS
TÊTE-À-TÊTE: SIMONE DE BEAUVOIR AND JEAN-PAUL SARTRE by Hazel Rowley, 2006Wikipedia Amazon
POET OF THE APPETITES: THE LIVES AND LOVES OF M. F. K by Joan Reardon, 2004
Wikipedia - Amazon
THE LIFE AND TIMES RICHARD WRIGHT by Hazel Rowley, 2008
Wikipedia - Amazon
ARTHUR MILLER: HIS LIFE AND WORK by Martin Gottfried, 2003
Wikipedia - Amazon
THE DOUBLE BOND: THE LIFE OF PRIMO LEVI by Carole Angier, 2002
Wikipedia - Amazon
THE BRADBURY CHRONICLES: THE LIFE OF RAY BRADBURY by Sam Weller, 2005
Wikipedia - Amazon
ALICE WALKER: A LIFE by Evelyn C. White, 2004
Wikipedia - Amazon
BOOKS ABOUT 19TH CENTURY POETS
CHARLES DICKENS by Jane Smiley, 2002Wikipedia - Amazon
HARRIET JACOBS: A LIFE by Jean Fagan Yellin, 2004
Wikipedia - Amazon
THE BRONTË MYTH by Lucasta Miller, 2001
Wikipedia - Amazon
DOSTOEVSKY: THE MANTLE OF THE PROPHET by Joseph Frank, 2002
Wikipedia - Amazon
BERTRAND RUSSELL: 1921-1970, THE GHOST OF MADNESS by Ray Monk, 1996
Wikipedia - Amazon
VIRGINIA WOOLF: AN INNER LIFE by Julia Briggs, 2005
Wikipedia - Amazon
D. H. LAWRENCE by John Worthen, 2005
Wikipedia - Amazon
WRAPPED IN RAINBOWS: THE LIFE OF ZORA NEALE HURSTON by Valerie Boyd, 2003
Wikipedia - Amazon
SAVAGE BEAUTY: THE LIFE OF EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLA by Nancy Milfor, 2001
Wikipedia - Amazon
BOOKS ABOUT 18TH CENTURY POETS
WILLIAM BLAKE, THE MAN by Charles Gardner, 1982Wikipedia - Amazon
HER OWN WOMAN: THE LIFE OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT by Diane Jacobs, 2001
Wikipedia - Amazon
MARY SHELLEY by Miranda Seymour, 2000
Wikipedia - Amazon
BOOKS ABOUT 13TH CENTURY POETS
DANTE by R. W. B. Lewis, 2001Wikipedia - Amazon
POETRY BOOKS
PARADISE LOST by John Milton, 1667Wikipedia - Paradise Lost's Website - Amazon
FAUST (PART I AND PART II) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1808
Wikipedia - Amazon
DON JUAN by Lord Byron, 1819
Wikipedia - Amazon
LEAVES OF GRASS by Walt Whitman, 1855
Wikipedia - Walt Whitman's Website - Amazon
THE WASTELAND by TS Eliot, 1922
Wikipedia - Amazon
TWENTY LOVE POEMS AND A SONG OF DESPAIR by Pablo Neruda, 1924
Wikipedia - Amazon
THE COLLECTED POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON by Emily Dickinson, 1948
Wikipedia - Emily Dickinson's Website - Amazon
MONTAGE OF A DREAM DEFERRED by Langston Hughes, 1951
Wikipedia - Amazon
HOWL, KADDISH AND OTHER POEMS by Allen Ginsberg, 1961
Wikipedia - Allen Ginsberg's Website - Amazon
PRAISE by Robert Hass, 1979
Wikipedia - Amazon
THE MOON IS ALWAYS FEMALE by Marge Piercy, 1980
Wikipedia - Marge Piercy's Website - Amazon
LOOSE WOMAN by Sandra Cisneros, 1994
Wikipedia - Sandra Cisneros' Website - Amazon
THE SELECTED POEMS OF LI PO by Li Po, 1996
Wikipedia - Amazon
FAMILY VALUES by Wendy Cope, 2011
Wikipedia - Amazon
APPLICATION FOR RELEASE FROM THE DREAM by Tony Hoagland, 2015
Wikipedia - Amazon
BOY WITH THORN by Rickey Laurentii, 2015
Amazon
CATALOG OF UNABASHED GRATITUDE by Ross Gay, 2015
Wikipedia - Ross Gay's Website - Amazon
FELICITY by Mary Oliver, 2015
Wikipedia - Mary Oliver's Website - Amazon
HOW TO BE DRAWN by Terrance Hayes, 2015
Wikipedia - Terrance Hayes'Website - Amazon
MISTAKING EACH OTHER FOR GHOSTS by Lawrence Raab, 2015
Wikipedia - Amazon
NOTES ON THE ASSEMBLAGE by Juan Felipe Herrera, 2015
Wikipedia - Juan Felipe Herrera's Website - Amazon
RECONNAISSANCE by Carl Phillips, 2015
Wikipedia - Amazon
VOYAGE OF THE SABLE VENUS by Robin Coste Lewis, 2015
Wikipedia - Amazon
WILD HUNDREDS by Nate Marshall, 2015
Nate Marshall's Website - Amazon
NOVELS WRITTEN BY POETS
THE NOTEBOOKS OF MALTE LAURIDS BRIGGE by Rainer Maria Rilke, 1910Wikipedia - Amazon
THE MAKING OF AMERICANS by Gertrude Stein, 1925
Wikipedia - Amazon
MALINA by Ingeborg Bachmann, 1971
Wikipedia - Amazon
INSEL by Mina Loy, 1991
Wikipedia - Amazon
FILMS ABOUT WRITERS AND WRITING
THE BLOOD OF A POET (LE SANG D’UN POETE) directed by Jean Cocteau, 1930, FranceWikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
CROSS CREEK directed by Martin Ritt, 1983 biography
Wikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
WILDE directed by Brian Gilbert, 1997 biography
Wikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
MARK TWAIN directed by Ken Burns, 2001 biography
Wikipedia - IMDb
BYRONdirected by Julian Farino, 2003 biography
Wikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
CAPOTE directed by Bennett Miller, 2005 biography
Wikipedia -IMDb - Trailer
PROOF directed by John Madden, 2005 drama
Wikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
BRIGHT STAR directed by Jane Campion, 2009 biography,
Wikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
THE LAST STATION directed by Michael Hoffman, 2009 biography, Germany
Wikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
THE ARBOR directed by Clio Barnard, 2010 documentary, United Kingdom
IMDb - Trailer
THE GHOST WRITER
directed by Roman Polanski, 2010 drama
Wikipedia - IMDb - Trailer
SELECTED POEMS ABOUT NATURE
BIRD by Neruda - THE SUN by Oliver - SONG by Muir - ALL DAY I HEAR THE NOISE OF WATERS by Joyce - AROUND US by Bell - YOUTH by Wright - MY GARDEN -- LIKE A BEACH by Dickinson - SEA FEVER by Masefield - ARIEL'S SONG from THE TEMPEST by Shakespeare - From THE GIFT by Hafiz - BARTER by Teasdale - MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH by Tennyson - GRATITUDE TO THE UNKNOWN INSTRUCTORS by Yeats - TREES by Kilmer - THE CHILDREN'S HOUR by Longfellow - AUTUMN MOVEMENT by Sandburg - TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL by Angelou) - SPRING POOLS by Frost - SNOW by Nye - IN SALUTATION TO THE ETERNAL PEACE by Naidu - LIFE IS FINE by Hughes - From THE SEEDS by Barry - THE FLY by Blake - THE BANYAN TREE by Rabindranath Tagore - LET EVENING COME by Kenyon - IF YOU HURT NATURE YOU ARE HURTING YOURSELF by Krishnamurti - THE GIFT by Lee - IN THE EARTH PRAYERS by Starhawk - PROBLEMS WITH HURRICANES by Cruz - APPLES by Lee - WATER by Berry - NESTING by Moody
BIRD
by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air - and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
THE SUN
by Mary Oliver (1935-)
Have you ever seen
anything in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
SONG
by John Muir (1838-1914
Here is calm so deep, grasses cease waving.
Everything in wild nature fits into us,
as if truly part and parent of us.
The sun shines not on us but in us.
The rivers flow not past, but through us,
thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell
of the substance of our bodies,
Making them glide and sing.
The trees wave and the flowers bloom
in our bodies as well as our souls,
and every bird song, wind song,
and; tremendous storm song of the rocks
in the heart of the mountains is our song,
our very own, and sings our love.
ALL DAY I HEAR THE NOISE OF WATERS
by James Joyce (1882-1941)
All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.
The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.
AROUND US
by Marvin Bell (1937-)
We need some pines to assuage the darkness
when it blankets the mind,
we need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly
as a plane's wing, and a worn bed of
needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind,
and a blur or two of a wild thing
that sees and is not seen. We need these things
between appointments, after work,
and, if we keep them, then someone someday,
lying down after a walk
and supper, with the fire hole wet down,
the whole night sky set at a particular
time, without numbers or hours, will cause
a little sound of thanks--a zipper or a snap--
to close round the moment and the thought
of whatever good we did.
YOUTH
by James Wright (1927-1980)
Strange bird,
His song remains secret.
He worked too hard to read books.
He never heard how Sherwood Anderson
Got out of it, and fled to Chicago, furious to free himself
From his hatred of factories.
My father toiled fifty years
At Hazel-Atlas Glass,
Caught among girders that smash the kneecaps
Of dumb honyaks.
Did he shudder with hatred in the cold shadow of grease?
Maybe. But my brother and I do know
He came home as quiet as the evening.
He will be getting dark, soon,
And loom through new snow.
I know his ghost will drift home
To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone,
Whittling a root.
He will say nothing.
The waters flow past, older, younger
Than he is, or I am.
MY GARDEN -- LIKE A BEACH
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
My Garden -- like the Beach --
Denotes there be -- a Sea --
That's Summer --
Such as These -- the Pearls
She fetches -- such as Me
SEA FEVER
by John Masefield (1878-1967)
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
ARIEL'S SONG from THE TEMPEST
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.
The watch-dogs bark.
Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
From THE GIFT
by Hafiz (14th Century)
Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe Me."
Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.
BARTER
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH
by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
Yon orange sunset waning slow:
From fringes of the faded eve,
O, happy planet, eastward go:
Till over thy dark shoulder glow
Thy silver sister world, and rise
To glass herself in dewey eyes
That watch me from the glen below.
Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne,
Dip forward under starry light,
And move me to my marriage-morn,
And round again to happy night.
GRATITUDE TO THE UNKNOWN INSTRUCTORS
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
What they undertook to do
They brought to pass;
All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass.
TREES
by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupation,
That is know 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 in 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!
AUTUMN MOVEMENT
by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,
not one lasts.
TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL
by Maya Angelou (1928-2014)
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free
SPRING POOLS
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods --
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.
SNOW
by Naomi Shihab Nye (1952-)
Once with my scarf knotted over my mouth
I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill
and did not know where I was going except to the top of it.
In those days we went out like that.
Even children went out like that.
Someone was crying hard at home again,
raging blizzard of sobs.
I dragged the sled by its rope,
which we normally did not do
when snow was coming down so hard,
pulling my brother whom I called by our secret name
as if we could be other people under the skin.
The snow bit into my face, prickling the rim
of the head where the hair starts coming out.
And it was a big one. It would come down and down
for days. People would dig their cars out like potatoes.
How are you doing back there?
I shouted,
and he said
Fine, I’m doing fine,
in the sunniest voice he could muster
and I think I should love him more today
for having used it.
At the top we turned and he slid down,
steering himself with the rope gripped in
his mittened hands. I stumbled behind
sinking deeply, shouting
Ho! Look at him go!
as if we were having a good time.
Alone on the hill. That was the deepest
I ever went into the snow. Now I think of it
when I stare at paper or into silences
between human beings. The drifting
accumulation. A father goes months
without speaking to his son.
How there can be a place
so cold any movement saves you.
Ho!
You bang your hands together,
stomp your feet.
The father could die!
The son! Before the weather changes.
IN SALUTATION TO THE ETERNAL PEACE
by Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)
Men say the world is full of fear and hate,
And all life's ripening harvest-fields await
The restless sickle of relentless fate.
But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born,
When from the climbing terraces of corn
I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn.
What care I for the world's desire and pride,
Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide,
The homing pigeons of Thine eventide?
What care I for the world's loud weariness,
Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless
With delicate sheaves of mellow silences?
Say, shall I heed dull presages of doom,
Or dread the rumoured loneliness and gloom,
The mute and mythic terror of the tomb?
For my glad heart is drunk and drenched with Thee,
O inmost wind of living ecstasy!
O intimate essence of eternity!
LIFE IS FINE
by Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.
I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.
But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.
I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.
But it was High up there! It was high!
So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born
Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
From THE SEEDS
by Wendell Barry (1934-)
But the sower
going forth to sow sets foot
into time to come, the seeds falling
on his own place. He has prepared a way
for his life to come to him, if it will.
Like a tree, he has given roots
to the earth, and stands free..
THE FLY
by William Blake (1757-1827)
Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
THE BANYAN TREE
by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
O you shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond,
have you forgotten the little chile, like the birds that have
nested in your branches and left you?
Do you not remember how he sat at the window and wondered at
the tangle of your roots and plunged underground?
The women would come to fill their jars in the pond, and your
huge black shadow would wriggle on the water like sleep struggling
to wake up.
Sunlight danced on the ripples like restless tiny shuttles
weaving golden tapestry. Two ducks swam by the weedy margin above their shadows, and
the child would sit still and think.
He longed to be the wind and blow through your resting
branches, to be your shadow and lengthen with the day on the water,
to be a bird and perch on your topmost twig, and to float like
those ducks among the weeds and shadows.
LET EVENING COME
by Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
IF YOU HURT NATURE YOU ARE HURTING YOURSELF
by Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986)
Nature is part of our life. We grew out of the seed, the earth, and we are part of all that.
But we are rapidly losing the sense that we are animals like the others.
Can you have a feeling for that tree, look at it, see the beauty of it,
listen to the sound it makes; be sensitive to the little plant, to the little weed,
to that creeper that is growing up the wall, to the light on the leaves and the many shadows? One must be aware of all this and have the sense of communion with nature around you. You may live in a town but you do have trees here and there.
A flower in the next garden may be ill-kept, crowded with weeds, but look at it,
feel that you are part of all that, part of all living things.
If you hurt nature you are hurting yourself.
THE GIFT
by Li-Young Lee (1957-)
To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he'd removed
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.
I can't remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy's palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife's right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he's given something to keep.
I kissed my father.
IN THE EARTH PRAYERS
by Starhawk (1951-)
Earth Mother, star mother,
You who are called by a thousand names,
May all remember
We are cells in your body
And dance together.
You are the grain and the loaf
That sustains us each day,
And as you are patient with our struggles to
learn, so shall we be patient
With ourselves and each other.
We are radiant light and sacred dark
-the balance-
You are the embrace that heartens
And the freedom beyond fear.
Within you we are born,
We grow, live and die -
You bring us around the circle
To rebirth,
Within us you dance
Forever.
PROBLEMS WITH HURRICANES
by Victor Hernández Cruz (1949-)
A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it's not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I'll tell you he said:
it's the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.
How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.
Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.
The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don't worry about the noise
Don't worry about the water
Don't worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.
APPLES
by Laurie Lee (1914-1997)
Behold the apples’ rounded worlds:
juice-green of July rain,
the black polestar of flowers, the rind
mapped with its crimson stain.
The russet, crab and cottage red
burn to the sun’s hot brass,
then drop like sweat from every branch
and bubble in the grass.
They lie as wanton as they fall,
and where they fall and break,
the stallion clamps his crunching jaws,
the starling stabs his beak.
In each plump gourd the cidery bite
of boys’ teeth tears the skin;
the waltzing wasp consumes his share,
the bent worm enters in.
I, with as easy hunger, take
entire my season’s dole;
welcome the ripe, the sweet, the sour,
the hollow and the whole.
WATER
by Wendell Berry (1934-)
I was born in a drouth year. That summer
my mother waited in the house, enclosed
in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
for the men to come back in the evenings,
bringing water from a distant spring.
veins of leaves ran dry, roots shrank.
And all my life I have dreaded the return
of that year, sure that it still is
somewhere, like a dead enemy's soul.
Fear of dust in my mouth is always with me,
and I am the faithful husband of the rain,
I love the water of wells and springs
and the taste of roofs in the water of cisterns.
I am a dry man whose thirst is praise
of clouds, and whose mind is something of a cup.
My sweetness is to wake in the night
after days of dry heat, hearing the rain.
NESTING
by Nancy Carol Moody
June, and the insatiable starlings
just outside our bedroom window
are raising their second batch
of babies this season, rackety
blusterers tucked into the eaves
of the house next door.
Mornings at sunup, the nest
is a tumult of appetite
and squawk. Evenings,
in the melancholy low-light
of the just-set sun, the drama
recycles: cacophony, then a quiet.
The outcome is not so different
from the creation: how the light
turns and a hunger rises.
Sound becomes us, and then
there is the silence.
