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#famous poets
sh4rpobjects · 1 year
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Sylvia Plath Photographed at the Beach (1954)
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ardent-reflections · 9 months
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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Robert Frost
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maihonhassan · 3 months
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Four poets same types of pain:
Erin Stewart:
"When the wounds that deep, its the healing, that's hurts."
Parveen Shakir:
"Hum tou samjhe the ki ek zakhm hai bhar jayega, kya khabar thi ki rag-e-jaan mein utar jayega"
Ammar Iqbal:
"Main ne chaha tha zakhm bhar jayen, zakhm hi zakhm bhar gaye mujh mein"
Sahir Ludhianvi:
"Hum tou samjhe the ki hum bhool gaye hain un ko, kya hua aaj ye kis baat pe rona aaya"
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dark-romantics · 2 years
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~ f. scott fitzgerald
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literaturecravings · 1 year
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—Extract from: XVII. Here I Love You; Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair, Pablo Neruda
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kassandra-g · 1 year
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“Never tell her to keep the mask on, I prefer every man see the annoyance on her angelic face.”
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poetry-universes · 4 months
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howamidrivinginlimbo · 3 months
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The graves of John Keats, his friend Joseph Severn and Percy Bysshe Shelley, in the Non-Catholic Cemetery (in Testaccio, Rome, Italy)
Keats went to Italy (with Severn) for his health in 1820, but died a year later of tuberculosis at the age of 25. Shelley drowned in the Gulf of La Spezia in 1822, which was nicknamed the Gulf of Poets thereafter.
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irfanullashariff · 7 months
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Thinking
If you think you are beaten, you are If you think you dare not, you don’t, If you like to win, but you think you can’t It is almost certain you won’t. If you think you’ll lose, you’re lost For out of the world we find, Success begins with a fellow’s will It’s all in the state of mind. If you think you are outclassed, you are You’ve got to think high to rise, You’ve got to be sure of yourself before You can ever win a prize. Life’s battles don’t always go To the stronger or faster man, But soon or late the man who wins Is the man who thinks he can!
  -  Walter D. Wintle
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ending-thoughts · 1 year
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One of my hobbies is collecting poetry books. This book is signed by Robert Frost in 1956 (not to me) which comes with an original photo of Frost (sitting front row center). I have books signed by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Kurt Vonnegut, and several others. I’ve also had in my possession signatures from both Earnest Hemingway and Edgar Allan Poe. I will never tire of collecting and reading books.
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dailypoetryforyou · 11 months
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The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe.
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Today, we will be talking about The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.
The Raven is a poem that was first published in 1845 and has become one of the most famous poems in western literature. It is a narrative poem that tells the story of a man who is visited by a raven one night as he is grieving the loss of his lover,Lenore.
The poem is written in trochaic octameter, which means that each line has eight stressed syllables followed by eight unstressed syllables. The use of this meter gives the poem a haunting, rhythmic quality that adds to its eerie atmosphere(reading this as child was like watching a horror movie ngl).
It begins with the narrator reading a book as he tries to forget about his lost love, However he is interrupted by a tapping at his chamber door, and when he opens it, he finds nothing there. He repeats this process several times, becoming increasingly agitated, until a raven enters his room and perches upon a bust of Pallas Athena(the audacity of this bish).
The narrator tries to engage the raven in conversation, asking it questions about its identity and its purpose for visiting him. the raven only responds with the repeated phrase "Nevermore," which gradually drives the narrator to despair.
Throughout the poem, Poe employs a range of literary techniques to create a sense of foreboding and uneas. For example, he uses alliteration and internal rhyme to create a sense of repetition and monotony, which reflects the narrator's growing frustration with the ravens unchanging response. Additionally, he uses vivid imagery to create a sense of darkness and decay, with references to the "bleak December" night and the "grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous" raven.
Overall i find that the The Raven is a haunting and evocative poem that has stood the test of time, and has definitely made an impression on me as a writer. It has also in my opinion been a significant influence on the development of modernism in poetry. Modernist poets, such as T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, were influenced by Poe's use of rhythm and meter, as well as his ability to create a unified, cohesive work of art. Ithink jts safe to say it had a profound impact on the poetry scene, helping to establish new forms of poetry and new ways of thinking about the art of poetry. Its influence can still be seen in modern poetry, where poets continue to experiment with new forms and styles, where symbolism and the use of the first-person narrator remain prominent features of the art form.
Throughrough out it leads your heart into a frenzy that lingers long after the poem has been read, undoubtedly one of my favourite reads. Feel free to Share you own thoughts and interpretations.
For those who haven't had the pleasure of reading this poem before here you go! Enjoy!
The Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.
    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”
    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
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1introvertedsage · 8 months
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I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.
I knew not but the next Would be my final inch, - This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.
~Emily Dickinson~
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ardent-reflections · 8 months
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If I were to kiss you then go to hell, I would. So then I can brag with the devils I saw heaven without ever entering it.
William Shakespeare
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maihonhassan · 7 days
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When the poet said this;
Us ne poocha nahi sabab udaasi ka,
Aik sabab yai bhi hai udaasi ka
I felt that !
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feralchaton · 9 months
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Louise Glück | Poems 1962 - 2012 | excerpt from Parable Of The Dove | Meadowlands
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lavendarneverlands · 1 year
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By Robert Frost
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
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