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Introduction
This anthology of poems is rather short. It consists of only sixteen poems that I have read from the two course textbooks. I have picked these poems from these sources because the two books are the only forms of poetry that I have in my room. I never have been a reader of poetry, but these poems have made an impact on me in some way or another. Either by making me raise an eyebrow to the unusual content, forcing me to smile, or experiencing the emotion of the author.
I have arranged this collection of poems from beginning to end in the order that I prefer them. I like the finishing poem the most and the beginning poem is my least favorite. Each of the poems are about different topics and of several different styles of poetry. The poems have different meters, rhymes schemes, and only a few are by the same author.
I like Bishop's One Art because it addresses a true problem in life. I believe that losing can become habitual, and that there are such people as professional losers. The majority of people in the world can take loss a little too easy. Heat by Denis Johnson is a poem that makes me smile. Reading poetry that has a little bit of dirt mixed in it has to bring a smile on your smile on face. Churchgoing by Robin Skelton is a poem that has me think of a minister from the days of the depression, leaning over the pulpit and thundering away at a weary congregation. Elinor Wylie's Peter and John is an interesting poem about the punishment of Judas Iscariot for his betrayal of Jesus. The story is told through the conversation of two disciples, Peter and John, about the dream they each had. I like George Hebert's Easter Wings because of the poems visual appearance. I believe the author created this poem to be visual art as well as linguistic art. The Tale of Custard the Dragon is another poem that is fun to read. The simple vocabulary and entertaining rhyme scheme make this a poem for all ages. I like the occasional sappy love poem as well, like A Quoi Bon Dire. The author of the poem uses simple vocabulary to depict two elder people who's love has endured through the years and even through death. I like O Captain! My Captain! for the image it depicts. You can almost see the large ship coming in to port. With a large crowd gathered, anxious to welcome the crew home. However, there are a few sad sailors on board who have lost their Captain. Not Waving but Drowning is a poem, which makes my mind work. After I read it I can't help but think of people in my life that need help and I can't recognize it. The Dance reminds me that we are all a part of something bigger than we know. I constantly focus on the here and now, forgetting that there is a bigger picture in life. Robin Skelton's November reminds me of the days back in grade school. When I would hurry home from school, all bundled up to keep warm, then lie down and watch TV for hours. Those were the days. No End To It by Skelton is another reminder that everything we do has an effect on us down the timeline of our lives. There is no conclusion to any event in life. Observation is a poem I like because it reminds me that life is short. Time has managed to see all there is to see in this world and I will likely see a small percentage of a small percentage this world has to offer. I like Sometimes by Skelton as well. I like it because its reference to little things. Its often the little things that I person does which will send you falling head over heals in love. Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night is such an emotional poem, how can a person not like it? The words the author uses create a fire in the text, which I love to read. My favorite poem is Yes by Muriel Rukeyser. I love this poem. I often have a hard time saying no to people or I say yes before I can think a proposition through. There are too many people who do as I do also. For many people, I believe that they say yes with no intentions of following through, because they forget the last stanza of this poem.
One Art
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something everyday. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster
places, and names and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Heat
Denis Johnson
Here in the electric dust your naked lover
tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.
It's beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,
Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,
streaming with hatred in the heat
as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin
to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,
and such a last light-full of spheres and zones.
August,
you're just an erotic hallucination,
just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,
are you serious? this large oven impersonating night,
this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,
the bogus moon to tenderness and magic
you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?
Churchgoing
Robin Skelton
Bent above pew and choir stall
he speaks as if his Christ were tall
beside him, caring for us all,
and though the sermon's old and stale
we cannot quite dismiss his tale,
but later, over snuggery ale,
protected from the night air's chill,
we think about that lonely hill
and pray good yet may come of ill.
Peter and John
Elinor Wylie
Twelve good friends
Walked under the leaves,
Binding the ends
Of the barley sheaves.
Peter and John
Lay down to sleep
Pillowed upon
A haymaker's heap.
John and Peter
Lay down to dream.
The air was sweeter
Than honey and cream.
Peter was bred
In the salty cold
His hair was red
And his eyes were gold.
John had a mouth
Like a wing bent down
His brow was smooth
And his eyes were brown.
Peter to slumber
Sank like a stone,
Of all their number
The bravest one.
John more slowly
Composed himself,
Young and holy
Among the twelve.
John as he slept
Cried out in grief,
Turned and wept
On the golden leaf
"Peter, Peter,
Stretch me your hand
Across the glitter
Of the harvest land!
"Peter, Peter,
Give me a sign!
This was a bitter
Dream of mine-
"Bitter as aloes
It parched my tongue.
Upon the gallows
My life was hung.
"Sharp it seemed
As a bloody sword.
Peter, I dreamed
I was Christ the Lord!"
Peter turned
To holy Saint John
His body burned
In the falling sun.
In the falling sun
He burned like a flame
"John, Saint John,
I have dreamed the same!
"My bones were hung
On an elder tree;
Bells were rung
Over Galilee.
"A silver penny
Sealed each of my eyes.
Many and many
A cock crew thrice."
When Peter's word
Was spoken and done,
"Were you Christ the Lord
In your dream?" said John
"No," said the other,
"That I was not.
I was our brother
Iscariot."
Easter Wings
George Herbert
Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more
Till he became
Most poor;
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did begin;
And still with sicknesses and shame
thou didst so punish sin,
That I became
Most thin.
With thee
Let me combine,
And feel this day thy victory;
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
The Tale of Custard the Dragon
Ogden Nash
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yello dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had bif sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, the rudely called him Percival,
they all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Weeck! which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! Cried Ink, and Ooh! Cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol is his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belindas dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets, but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim.
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and here little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
A Quoi Bon Dire
Charlotte Mew
Seventeen years ago you said
Something that sounded like Good-bye;
And everybody thinks that you are dead,
But I.
So I, as I grow stiff and cold
To this and that say Good-bye too;
And everybody sees that I am old
But you.
And one fine morning in a sunny lane
Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear
That nobody can love their way again
While over there
You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.
O Captain! My Captain!
Walt Whitman
O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
the ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red!
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores a-
crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Not Waving but Drowning
Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning;
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
The Dance
Robin Skelton
In the hour of the dawn
I recover a tune
that reminds me of dance,
of a measure I've known
as a movement of light
in the mind of the earth
and the steps are the steps
of both maidens and gods
in the circles of stone
that are cupped by the hills
with a canopy of sky.
In the hills of the dawn
I perceive that the tune
I have said I recall
is as new as the grass
interspersing the stones
of the pavement I tread
not remembered at all
but a gift, a surprise
from the spirit of things,
yet it motions my feet
in familiar ways.
In the temple of dawn
I am shuffling a step
that is older than dawn
or the order of time.
I am dancing the stars
that are farther than stars.
I am part of the song.
November
Robin Skelton
Again winter comes
and rain smears the pane
as firs darken green
and oaks bare their boughs.
The grey sea begins
to gnaw crumbling cliffs,
to heave rocks and scoop
out pools, gullies, caves.
while chill nights create
a new store of dreams
for springtime to claim
as truths born of love.
No End To It
Robin Skelton
Some things remain
as aftermath, an unwanted stain
on pillow or sheet
making it clear
that for us, here,
no ending is ever complete.
Always there are
the continuing, if minor, scar,
the snagged thread,
the aftertaste;
even dreams linger, must be outfaced
before leaving bed.
Each time we make an end
we try to pretend
there are actual conclusions,
even while knowing
wherever we are going
yesterdays intrude their delusions.
Observation
Robin Skelton
Oceans rise,
forests fall;
Time, watching,
sees it all.
Time, watching,
sees the rocks
break under
earthquake shocks,
sees rivers
dry to stone,
each creature
shrunk to bone,
roots withered
black as grain,
men, women
eating pain,
humankind
at an end.
Time, watching,
can't pretend
grief, shock; in
pale clear eyes
oceans fall,
forests rise.
Sometimes
Robin Skelton
Sometimes a gesture…
how she sheds her coat.
Sometimes a sound…
her footstep on the stair.
Sometimes an absence…
one hair on the pillow.
Sometimes a syllable,
her half-heard answer.
Sometimes a colour…
crimson at her throat.
Sometimes a pause…
her hand upon the door.
Sometimes time itself,
slow ticking time
sums up all the answers
I am hunting for.
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
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 gently 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 the dad 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.
Yes
Muriel Rukeyser
It's like a tap-dance
Or a new pink dress,
A shit-naïve feeling
Saying Yes.
Some say Good morning
Some say God bless-
Some say Possibly
Some say Yes.
Some say Never
Some say Unless
It's stupid and lovely
To rush into Yes.
What can it mean?
It's just like life,
One thing to you
One to your wife.
Some go local
Some go express
Some can't wait
To answer Yes.
Some complain
Of strain and stress
The answer may be
No for Yes.
Some like failure
Some like success
Some like Yes Yes
Yes Yes Yes.
Open your eyes,
Dream but don't guess
Your biggest surprise
Comes after Yes.
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