Part V: 15 More Favourite Poems
I Bargained with Life for a Penny, by Jessie B. Rittenhouse
Rain, by Raymond Carver
Poems from Dear Sal, by Jeremy Radin
Starlings in Winter, and
In Blackwater Woods, by Mary Oliver
Two Insomnias, and
Let the Lover Be, and
Without Cause, by Rumi
Life, by Charlotte Brontë
Spring and Fall, by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Departure, by Louise Glück
A Man Said to the Universe, by Stephen Crane
Short Song, by Justin Quinn
A Shropshire Lad XL, by A.E. Houseman
Idyll, by Siegfried Sassoon
See also Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four
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The Firefly
Luring him in was as easy
As flashing valentines.
But like a lady firefly
They hid a secret call to die.
A final touch,
Unfinished;
The last step, a trap.
Down, down he falls,
His eyes still holding mine
Until they see another world.
I saw them change.
First a question,
Then an answer,
Finally an end.
And love itself passing
To whatever it was before it began. A.H.
Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing
just wow
p.s : 319 days to go
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WEEKLY POETRY REC: Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
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I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ”
Sonnet XVII | Pablo Neruda
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Throwing Away the Alarm Clock
my father always said, "early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise."
it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.
my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.
taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.
now, I'm not saying that I've conquered
the world but I've avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
people
one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.
Charles Bukowski
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(...)
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
Walt Whitman
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Sometimes You’ll just be too much woman. Too smart, Too beautiful, Too strong. Too much of something That makes a man feel like less of a man, Which will start making you feel like you have to be less of a woman. The biggest mistake you can make Is removing jewels from your crown To make it easier for a man to carry. When this happens, I need you to understand, You do not need a smaller crown – You need a man with bigger hands. -Michael Ried #favpoem #toomuchofawoman #dontdullyourshine #cherylcharles #thecherylcharles
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PAG-IBIG
Isang aklat na maputi, ang isinusulat: luha!
Kaya’t wala kang mabasa kahit isa mang talata.
Kinabisa at inisip mulang ating pagkabata,
tumanda ka’t nagkauban, hindi mo pa maunawa.
Ang pag-ibig, isipin mo, pag inisip, nasa puso;
pag pinuso nasa isip, kaya’t hindi mo makuro.
Lapitan mo nang matagal ang pagsuyo. . . naglalaho,
layuan mo at kay lungkot, nananaghoy ang pagsuyo.
Ang pag-ibig na dakila’y aayaw ng matagalan,
parang lintik kung gumuhit sa pisngi ng kadiliman.
Ang halik na ubos-tindi, minsan lamang sa halikan,
at ang ilog kung bumaha, tandaan mo’t minsan lamang.
Ang pag-ibig kapag duwag ay payapa’t walang agos,
walang talon, walang baha, walang luha, walang lunos.
Ang pag-ibig na matapang ay puso ang inaanod
pati dangal, yama’t dunong nalulunod sa pag-irog.
Ang pag-ibig na buko pa’y nakikinig pa sa aral,
tandang di pa umiibig, nakikita pa ang ilaw,
ngunit kapag nag-alab na’t pati mundo’y nalimutan
iyan, ganyan ang pag-ibig, damdamin at puso lamang!
Kapag ikaw’y umuurong sa sakuna’t sa panganib
ay talagang maliwanag at buo ang iyong isip.
Takot pa ang pag-ibig mo, hindi ka pa umiibig,
pag umibig, pati hukay ay aariin mong langit.
Iyang mga taong duwag na ang puso’y mahihina,
umibig man ay ano pa, di pag-ibig, kundi awa.
Kailangan sa pag-ibig ay hirap at mga luha
at ang duwag ay malayong sa pag-ibig dumakila.
Ang pag-ibig ay may mata, ang pag-ibig ay di bulag,
ang marunong na umibig, bawat sugat ay bulaklak.
Ang pag-ibig ay masakim at aayaw sa kakabyak,
o wala na kahit ano, o ibigay mo nang lahat!
“Ako’y hindi makasulat at ang nanay, nakabantay.”
Asahan mo, katoto ko, hindi ka pa minamahal.
Ngunit kapag sumulat na sa ibabaw man ng hukay
minamahal ka na niya nang higit pa kaysa buhay.
Kayo mga kabataang pag-ibig ang ninanais,
kayo’y mga paruparong sa ilawan lumiligid.
Kapag kayo’y umibig na, hahamakin ang panganib,
at ang mga pakpak ninyo’y masusunog sa pag-ibig!
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WEEKLY POETRY REC: The Waking by Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
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.
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