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Tag Archives: poems

Welcoming the new season: ‘Autumn’ , a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

13 Thursday Oct 2016

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetry

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'Autumn' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, autumn leaves, autumn poems, lyrical poem, poem about the fall season, poems, poetry, symbolism in poetry, visually evocative poem

 

A poem which evokes a dynamic visual of

the colour rich Fall season …

autumn-leaves-gold

(image from shutterstock)

 

 

 

Autumn

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882)

 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven’s o’er-hanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

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Of an inifinite nature: ‘Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep’ a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetry

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'Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep' by Mary Elizabeth Frye, contemplative poetry, Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep"- poem, emotive poem, lyrical poem, poems, poetry

 

 

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

is a well-known poem of emotive sentiment.

First appearing circa 1932,

its authorship remained for many decades

a mystery.

 

In the late 1990s,

it was substantiated that

housewife Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905 – 2004)

had penned the poem.

 

 

It is the only poem written by Ms. Frye.

 

 

Of lyrical beauty

the poem gently reminds, that though

our corporeal self is of finite duration

our essence of self is omnipresent

forever cherished / remembered by those who hold us dear.

 

 

…

 

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

 

by Mary Elizabeth Frye

 

 

 

image, Soft-flower-field image by tanjatingcom

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

 

…

(image from tanjating.com)

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“I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul”: ‘Invictus’ a poem by William Ernest Henley

15 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetry

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'Invictus' - poem, contemplative poetry, emotive poem, poems, poetry, William Ernest Henley

Life is wrought with adversities

many of manageable proportions-

one plows through, and is left relatively unscathed.

…

A few-

sadly, wretchedly

are of the extreme, are atrocities

over which happiness at once seems ever unobtainable.

…

Yet,  that which brings sorrow, grief

need not permanently define-

if with every molecule of being

one strives to ‘invictus’-

to be unconquerable, unconquered

by that which seeks to destroy.

…

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley (1849 – 1903)

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

…

(sourced from familyfriendspoems.com)

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‘Equality’ : a poem by Maya Angelou

26 Friday Jun 2015

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetry

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contemplative poetry, Maya Angelou, poem on equality, poems, poetry

 

The right of equality

fosters

an existence of freedom.

 

 

 

Equality

by Maya Angelou (1928 – 2014)

 

You declare you see me dimly
through a glass which will not shine,
though I stand before you boldly,
trim in rank and marking time.
You do own to hear me faintly
as a whisper out of range,
while my drums beat out the message
and the rhythms never change.

Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.

You announce my ways are wanton,
that I fly from man to man,
but if I’m just a shadow to you,
could you ever understand ?

We have lived a painful history,
we know the shameful past,
but I keep on marching forward,
and you keep on coming last.

Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.

Take the blinders from your vision,
take the padding from your ears,
and confess you’ve heard me crying,
and admit you’ve seen my tears.

Hear the tempo so compelling,
hear the blood throb in my veins.
Yes, my drums are beating nightly,
and the rhythms never change.

Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.

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A message for positive anticipation: ‘There is another sky’ a poem by Emily Dickinson

14 Thursday May 2015

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetry

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'There is another sky' - poem, Emily Dickinson, imagery, poems, poetry, positive outlook

There is another sky

by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)

…

(image from gardeninggonewild):

sunlight garden,

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields –
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
…

A poem whose meaning is open to some interpretation-

There is another sky by Emily Dickinson

has an effortless quality of expression

evoking imagery of nature’s beauty in a garden scene.

Though simple, the poem sparks an element of quiet mystery.

…

At a glance,  it seems an address

that the poet directs to her brother William Austin Dickinson

known as Austin.

The poem seems to serve a purpose

of comforting him

in the wake of some unfortunate occurence;

of advising him

to consider a perspective of positive outlook;

of reminding him

that as a loving sister, she can offer solace in his time of need.

The cause of the unrest unknown; yet this little matters.

It is the effect which is of importance.

…

Though it may well be a poem with Austin as specific audience,

the poem resonates with the wider, general readership.

Its message seems to be one

of looking to the future

for new beginnings / opportunities and

of leaving to the past

memories of disappointments /  heartaches.

…

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Hello Sunshine ! : ‘Summer Sun’ a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

17 Friday Apr 2015

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetry

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"Summer Sun' - poem, personification in poetry, personifying the sun in verse, poem about the sun, poems, poetry, Robert Louis Stevenson

 

How glorious-

to wake each morn by a gentle sun kiss

puckered through one’s window blinds.

 

…

In his poem

Summer Sun (1885)

acclaimed Scottish poet and novelist,

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 – 1894)

personifies the sun as a pleasant, affable guy

who generates good feelings wherever he wanders.

 

…

(image from abbydoradesign):

sun personified, for post on poem Summer Sun by Robert Louis Stevenson

…

 

Summer Sun

by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy’s inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

 

…

 Famous and widely read novels by Robert Louis Stevenson include:

Treasure Island, Kidnapped, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

…

 

 

 

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Poems of winter musing

22 Sunday Feb 2015

Posted by meappropriatestyle in meapp poems, poems, poetry

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'Winter Musing' - poem, 'Winter: A Dirge' - poem, contemplative poetry, meapp poem, poems, poems about winter, poetry, Robert Burns - poet, winter poems

 

 

Winter:  season of quiet and contemplation:

 

(image from flickr.com):

 

winter scene, depressing

 

…

 

Winter Musing

In the midst of Winter battle still

held captive in a grip of ice solidified-

nothing to be done, but to succumb

till Spring of victory warmly won.

(2015)

 

 

…

 

 

Scottish poet Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)

lived during a period in which the British Isles

experienced brutally severe winter seasons-

often referred to as ‘The Little Ice Age’.

Those of the 1780s were said to be particularly relentless.

Burns’  poem-   Winter,  A Dirge

creates a visual of winter’s harshness of clime

and emotes a melancholia of sentiment.

…

Winter, A Dirge

The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want-O do Thou grant
This one request of mine!-
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

…

 

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Of aspirations yet realised: “my dreams, my works, must wait wait till after hell” by Gwendolyn Brooks

21 Wednesday Jan 2015

Posted by meappropriatestyle in inspiration, poems, poetry

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"my dreams my works must wait till after hell"-poem, emotive poem, Gwendolyn Brooks, poem on hopes and dreams, poems, poet, poetry, symbolism in poetry

 

The works of Pulitzer Prize winning poet,

Gwendolyn Brooks

are rich in symbolic language-

which she employs with vigorous bounce.

Her poems provoke the reader to reconsider meanings

of pieces previously perused.

Thus is the power of her talent.

 

…

Her writings are of life’s circumstances:

expectations, disappointments, longings,

decisions made- some good, some not so.

Written in a real voice, of a steady hand-

her poems are thoughtful, heartfelt, believable, courageous.

 

…

I have “befriended” works by Gwendolyn Brooks,

which I periodically revisit.

I have made some new acquaintances,

from which is received either

a measure of insight, joy, contemplation or solace.

…

F.  L., thank you for “introducing” me to Gwendolyn Brooks,

all those many years ago.

 

 

…

my dreams, my works, must wait till after hell

by Gwendolyn Brooks

 

I hold my honey and I store my bread

In little jars and cabinets of my will.

I label clearly, and each latch and lid

I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.

I am very hungry. I am incomplete.

And none can tell when I may dine again.

No man can give me any word but Wait,

The puny light. I keep eyes pointed in;

Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt

Drag out to their last dregs and I resume

On such legs as are left me, in such heart

As I can manage, remember to go home,

My taste will not have turned insensitive

To honey and bread old purity could love.

…

(image from lubbockonline.com):

poet, gwendolyn brooks

Gwendolyn Brooks

(1917 – 2000)

Poet.  Teacher.  Mentor.

Pulitzer Prize Recipient for Poetry, 1950

(Ms. Brooks was the first Black American to receive this honour)

Poet Laureate of Illinois, 1968

Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, 1985

…

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An American carol: ‘I Hear America Singing’, a poem of celebration by Walt Whitman

22 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetry

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'I Hear America Singing' - poem, 'Leaves of Grass' - volume, free verse, poems, poetry, Walt Whitman

 

One of America’s most revered and influential poets,

Walt Whitman was born on Long Island, New York (1819)

into a family of modest means.

Mostly self-taught, Whitman was an insatiable reader.

He first worked as a school teacher in one-room classrooms

and later turned to a career in journalism

as a writer and an editor.

 

…

An acute observer of the ‘American way of life’,

he utilised his position as a newspaper editor

to support women’s strife for property equality

to denounce slavery

to highlight labour issues.

Given the era on the American historical time-line,

Whitman was considered by many to be a radical thinker.

…

He turned to penning poetry as a literary means

to express his observations of life in America:

the good, the bad, the hopes, the aspirations,

the dreams for freedom, the struggles for equality.

His writing technique is that of free verse,

a rhythm of natural speech, a conversation with readers.

…

Walt Whitman self-published his celebrated volume of poetry

Leaves of Grass (1855).

He would continue to update, change and re-arrange

the work throughout the years.

…

I Hear America Singing

(published in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass)

is a poem akin to a song with lyrics, which

describe the diversity within a country that

aspires to be as one.

 

 

…

A voice of America

walt whitman, portrait

Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)

 

 

 …

 

I Hear America Singing

by Walt Whitman

 

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day — at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

…

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Indecision and regret: ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, a poem by T. S. Eliot

30 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by meappropriatestyle in poems, poetic monologue, poetry

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'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock', emotive poem, poem of lamentation, poems, poetry, stream of consciousness, Thomas Stearns (T. S.) Eliot

Written by celebrated Anglo-American poet, T. S. Eliot

‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’

is a poem of lamentation:

regret of words not spoken, actions not taken and dreams unfulfilled.

…

(image from quoteswave.com):

quote on regret and chances not taken

…

Published in 1915, the poem is composed in the stream of consciousness style

allowing the reader access to the speaker’s (Prufrock’s) inner dialogue:

his flow of uninterrupted thoughts.

…

 

The opening stanzas from:

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

by Thomas Stearns (T.  S.) Eliot

…

 

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

 

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

 

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

 

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

 

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

 

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
               So how should I presume?
…

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