You are here


Post any poem you really like (including your own)! Remember to give credit where credit is due.

Jet, by Tony Hoagland

Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though

no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed at how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.

Inspired, by ..friends..

First, close your eyes so softly
drift away from sight and sound
feel the warmth emanate from within
their presence embraces and surrounds

wind drifts from their measured flutter
the space radiates with glowing light
all around, amplified but gentle whisper
as to and fro, they take to flight

at first you are bewildered
cannot help but stop and stare
so many soar, beyond count
melodic mayhem everywhere

so many curious wayward glances
they’re playful but so sincere
though you swear you’ve never seen them
they’ve always been .. right here

still your mind and steady your thoughts
~don’t think~, just listen for the call
And in due time you’ll remember
Your true nature after all

You’ll remember where you came from
a place having no beginnings nor no ends
but perhaps almost best of all
you’ll remember, cherished - long lost friends

this place no longer peculiar
in all those faces – recognition
part of you has ~ always known
always felt, some premonition

apprehensions are being cast aside
exhilaration brings you to prance
with every moment – renewed joy
as now ~your~ wings begin to dance

rejoice with your faery friends
take flight – you’re free to roam
let fall the tears and shed your fears
embrace – you’re now back home

inspired by, and devoted to .. my faery friends .. never be afraid to dream ....


a haiku by the poet Akahito, translated from Japanese by Kenneth Rexroth

I wish I were close
To you as the wet skirt of
A salt girl to her body.
I think of you always.

Suma no ama no
Shio yaki ginu no
Narenaba ka
Hito hi mo kimi wo
Wasurete omowamu


Cante Flamenco 1785- 1930

Cuando me echaras de menos
el dia que me eches de menos
te tienes que volver loco
y has de salir a buscarme
como el caballo sin frenos

Should you miss me,
on the day you miss me
you'll go crazy
and look for me
like a horse without reins.


My favorite is too long to post, but I like this one too!

By Charlotte Brontë

LIFE, believe, is not a dream,
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day:
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
Oh, why lament its fall?
    Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
    Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly.

What though death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though Sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell,
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
    Manfuly, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
    For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell dispair!


I write for my own kind
I do not pitch my voice
that every phrase be heaard
by those who have no choice:
their quality of mind
must be withdrawn and till,
as moth that answers moth
across a roaring hill.

- John Hewitt

This is my uncle's favourite poem. I named my poetry blog after it. :)>>>



I have been writing poetry  for the last 40 years. Mostof them have been published on the net. I am posting one such as under.

A poem for child labour activists.

...And they said, children's fingers make best products

In a dingy room
Rows of children...
Very young children,
Weave coffin clothes for
their childhood ......

A childhood,
which died before they were born.
And people call them Carpets.

Same nimble fingers have
Lost sense of touch
And mechanically, now,
They roll tendu leaves
They do not fill tobacco
But each leaf roll is filled with
Their childhood.

A childhood,
Which died before they were born.
And people call them Beedies.

In an isolated factory hall,
Rows upon rows of children,
Wearly roll papers,
And fill them with
Their childhood.

A childhood,
Which died before they were born
And people call them Fireworks.


Come, let's give back their childhood,
And freedom to play and dream.
Give up with determination,
Smoke, carpets and crackers.
Each one , teach one.


Thanks for sharing peoms everyone, I enjoy reading them.
I will share two poems now.
This first poem was my theme song for a few years, as it that helped me through some rough times:

Blessed Longing
by: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Tell no one but the wise,
For philistines are quick to scoff:
What is alive I want to praise,
What longs for death by fire.

In love-nights' acquiescence,
That begot you, where you begot,
An alien touch is seizing you,
When the calm candlelight shines forth.

No longer are you caught
Obscured by darkness,
And new desire sweeps you
Up toward higher union.

No distance holds you back,
You come flying and spell-bound,
And lastly, craving for the light,
You, erfly, are burnt.

And so long as you have not got that,
This: Die and be anew!
You are a dim guest only
On the dark earth.

(translation by Alexander Corvey)

Nowadays, this following poem better illustrates my current state:

Drinking Alone by Li Po

I take my wine jug out among the flowers
to drink alone, without friends.

I raise my cup to entice the moon.
That, and my shadow, makes us three.

But the moon doesn't drink,
and my shadow silently follows.

I will travel with moon and shadow,
happy to the end of spring.

When I sing, the moon dances.
When I dance, my shadow dances, too.

We share life's joys when sober.
Drunk, each goes a separate way.

Constant friends, although we wander,
we'll meet again in the Milky Way.

Not to say anyone can be pegged by a single poem.


The Cat And The Moon by William Butler Yeats

The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.


"I Am Cherry Alive" by Delmore Schwartz

" I am cherry alive," the little girl sang,
"Each morning I am something new:                                         
I am apple, I am plum, I am just as excited
As the boys who made the Hallowe'en bang:
I am tree, I am cat, I am blossom too:
When I like, if I like, I can be someone new,
Someone very old, a witch in a zoo:
I can be someone else whenever I think who,
And I want to be everything sometimes too:
And the peach has a pit and I know that too,
And I put it in along with everything
To make the grown-ups laugh whenever I sing:
And I sing: It is true; It is untrue,
The peach has a pit,
The pit has a peach:
And both may be wrong
When I sing my song,
But I don't tell the grown-ups: because it is sad,
And I want them to laugh just like I do
Because they grew up
And forgot what they knew
And they are sure
I will forget it some day too.
They are wrong. They are wrong.
When I sang my song, I knew, I knew!
I am red, I am gold,
I am green, I am blue,
I will always be me,
I will always be new!"


The End, by A.A. Milne

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly Me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.


I love A.A. Milne, tiddly-pom.




I like seeing everyone's choices (Goethe! Woo!) and I feel compelled to share another one. I'll try not to go too post-crazy in this thread. :)

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World
by Richard Wilbur

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
``Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.''

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

``Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance.''


For the record, I'm really enjoying what everyone's posted so far. Lots of variety, and lots of things I hadn't read before! Thank you!

Poem by Anna Akhmatova

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.


Drinking Alone by Li Po

I take my wine jug out among the flowers
to drink alone, without friends.

I raise my cup to entice the moon.
That, and my shadow, makes us three.

But the moon doesn't drink,
and my shadow silently follows.

I will travel with moon and shadow,
happy to the end of spring.

When I sing, the moon dances.
When I dance, my shadow dances, too.

We share life's joys when sober.
Drunk, each goes a separate way.

Constant friends, although we wander,
we'll meet again in the Milky Way.

I just read this properly (I admit I skimmed over some poems last time)... :)>>>


A tree house
A free house
A secret you and me house
A high up in the leafy branches
A happy as can be house...
A street house:
A neat house
A be sure to wipe your feet house,
is not the kind of house for me.
Let's go and live in a treehouse
-Shel Silverstein


new;and you

know consequently a

little stiff i was

careful of her and(having

-how not to write  bad poem

Picture two Barbie dolls face to face as they utilize their plasic hands to stroke and caress one another....

She runs her fingers through her hair to show the world she don't care.

Cuz love has no boundaries-has no race-has no gender.


Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


That William had to wait to the second page is a minor feat. The poetry gatherers here seem to be quite well read.

I read this one today, and it made me tear up at my workdesk:

"Last Days"
in memory of Gabriele Helms, 1967-2004
By Elise Partridge

My friend, you wouldn't lie down.
Your wandering IV pole
glided with you, loyal,
rattling on frantic circuits;
crisp pillows didn't tempt;
round, around, around,

guppies cruised the lobby tank,
flickering sunrise-slivers
all guts, mouths urging, urging;
tube-lights buzzed like bees
over your pale shoulders;
you wadded your mauve gown,

yanked on flame-red sweats
matching the bulbs you glimpsed
blazing that Christmas week
through nearby squares downtown;
all through the bluish hours
the night janitor's mop

swung drowsily over the lino,
the nurse tucked one leg up,
barely a monitor blinked—
scout in a cornered valley,
you looped your length of ground
as cancer hurtled to break

the bones that kept you pacing,
carrying your handsbreadth girl
(five-month spindle Buddha,
her brain's coral byways
traveled by your voice);
round, around, around,

you dueled to stay alive
until she could be born.
The doctors that last Tuesday
said it had to be now
and wheeled you off, upright.
Her shivering two red pounds—

you never got to cup them.
Did you even hear her cry?
Only two days later,
your gray eyes glazed, stuck,
a cod's on melting ice.
What could wrench you down?

Your daughter's walking now;
we dash chasing after.
Round, around, around,
tentative, urgent stumbles …
Someday we will tell her
how you refused to lie down.


"Last Days"
in memory of Gabriele Helms, 1967-2004
By Elise Partridge

awwwwww .that was bittersweet.

heres another fave:

Before He Makes Each One

Before he makes each one
of us, God speaks.

Then, without speaking,
he takes each one 
out of the darkness.

And these are the cloudy
words God speaks
before each of us begins:

"You have been sent out
by your senses. Go
to the farthest edge
of desire, and give me
clothing: burn like a great
fire so that the stretched-out
shadows of the things
of the world cover
me completely.
Let everything happen
to you: beauty and terror.
You must just go--
no feeling is the farthest
you can go. Don't let
yourself be separated
from me. The country
called life is close.
By its seriousness,
you will know it.
Give me your hand."

~ Rainer Maria Rilke  ~

Poetry nerds unite!



Log in or register to post comments