Wild About Poetry About - My poetry has appeared in several magazines and anthologies. Singers are holding song-books. New Jersey. Coming soon to Paper Press Books!
What Do the Trees Know? by Joyce Sidman [Poetry Friday]
If we meet today Rebecca. Find classic works by famous poets, as well as new collections by contemporary poets. These you hold, these you control. You are not limited in just any country. In the past, Lovelace was on Tumblr posting variations of her poetry and prose. That seems to be the over riding perception of the world - but has poetry really shuffled away into its grave? Is it really dead? Illustrated guides to creativity in the digital age by the New York Times bestselling author. The First Lady is seen in relaxed pose, with thoughtful gaze, on the open terrace of the palace at Malmaison as she perhaps takes a rest after a walk.
The 13 Best Poetry Books Of Tumblr of best selling writer David Jones. The sun is up, he says, and the wind is down. Forthcoming from Les Femmes Folles Books, Bared collects art and poetry on bras and breasts by women writers and women artists. Books by Bernard Young can be bought direct from the author. Her poetry and poetics have been translated into Turkish, Swedish, Icelandic and Danish. We especially love vignettes, epistolary poetry, graphs, erasures, illustrations, and other fun bits within collections of work.
Large selection and many more categories to choose from. If you want to submit your tattoo, see this page. On May 27, Heather Christle posted a poem on her Tumblr. Just like Instagram, Tumblr has a huge reach but not as big as a couple of years ago. Rupi Kaur's book of poetry, 'Milk and Honey,' has sold nearly a half million print copies.
While Tumblr isn't the most popular social media site out there, it's easy for posts to go viral. Margin Shift is back with 4 outstanding poets on December 20 at Common Area Maintenance in Belltown for more of our 3rd Thursday magic. Each month, you can submit poems, a selection of which will be displayed in the Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library, the busiest library in the UK.
Marvelous people you can meet. Perhaps it centers on validation and kudos. Images can be vague or subtle, brilliant or dull. We thrive on hopes, dreams, and possibilities. They can be viewed and printed with all operating systems, including Macintosh, Windows, Linux. This site is a companion to the book Newspaper Blackout by Austin Kleon. I also help with essays, choosing topics, making an outline, choosing right words. Rupi Kaur Goodreads Author shelved times as poetry avg rating 4. Amazing words are your guides. Nobody cares about poetry anymore.
Note the modalities used to create this text, and state how you might use it as a mentor text in the classroom. Poetry has any form like audio, written and books form e. By the end of his career at 28 years old he had written 11, books about Julius Caesar which he made into comedic plays and became a world class harmonica, guitar, and spoon player.
It's also a way that we share with other people, to help them with those feelings. We like translations in any sense. Follow Jen on Tumblr, or stalk her on the sassy food blog Crustcrumbs. Jul 31st, Search, discover and share your favorite Poetry GIFs. Saleem Peeradina is the internationally esteemed author of several books of poetry, memoir, and essays. One Page Poetry turned 1 today! Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love.
You can follow her on Twitter LifebyPoetry. Writing Wrongs Some writings will be personal, some will be exercises in imagination. Happy Thursday! Do you read poetry books?? If so, what are some of your faves?? The companion site, NewspaperBlackout. Also this blog is for writers who want to write better for their readers. Why join?
Tumblr is great for beginners mostly because its tagging system for poets has been built up quite nicely over the years. High Line, Manhattan. But Percy, I say, Ideas! The elegance of language! The insights, the funniness, the beautiful Juniper is a new online poetry journal, published three times a year, in February, June and October. Defying space, defying time.
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The audio books are always available to subscribing libraries and their patrons. Do you like poetry? Do you have any suggestions on where I could start?? In single word: NO. A lean and muscular collection, The Wish Book marks a new high in this poet's unstoppable career. Get A Copy. Paperback , 88 pages. Published January 7th by Milkweed Editions first published January 1st More Details Other Editions 2. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about The Wish Book , please sign up.
Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Jun 16, Sean Owen rated it liked it Shelves: first-reads. I've never really been much of a poetry reader. Every once in awhile I will come across something that I connect with, but I don't know that there's ever any theme or formula to what grabs me. I won a copy of this book through Goodreads First Reads. I don't really remember entering to win it, because I wouldn't really ever seek out poetry, but I read it anyway. Lemon is clearly capable with language.
He puts together some great lines that you just have to go back and read again. However some of t I've never really been much of a poetry reader. However some of these lines feel like a tease when encountered in these poems. There's a flash of brilliance and then it's on to the next line. Sometimes there seems to be a larger purpose at work, but for the most part it seems that Lemon is more interested in painting a mood. The mood he is painting is one of decay and consumerism in the declining days of American culture.
The entire third section of the book the weakest is a single poem that is describing the present moment as a freakish carnival. I'd love to read something by Alex Lemon in another form. He is clearly a talented writer, but poetry just isn't for me. Apr 30, Krysten rated it really liked it. I sort of screamed when this was over, because I wasn't ready for it to end. Jun 07, Deaunamiller rated it it was amazing. I liked that there was different poems from the author. I also liked how the author had different people telling their stories.
Jun 22, Jay Daze rated it it was ok Shelves: poetry , library-book. Jangly, fragmented, line-breaky all over the place until near the end, focusing on death and illness in such a focused and monotone way, with a heavy distate for modern life, I couldn't jibe with this poetry. Just had words shooting through me and leaving only a faintly scummy trace behind. Man makes a mountain of that puny word, But, like a blade of grass before the scythe , It falls and withers when a human will, Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.
Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance Is but the toy of genius. When a soul Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve, All obstacles between it and its goal-- Must vanish as the dew before the sun. The truly great Know not the word, or know it but to scorn, Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died, Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung. IT is easy to sit in the sunshine And talk to the man in the shade; It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat , And point out the places to wade. But once we pass into the shadows, We murmur and fret and frown, And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank, Or throw up our hands and go down.
It is easy to sit in your carriage , And counsel the man on foot, But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk, As you feel the peg in your boot.
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It is easy to tell the toiler How best he can carry his pack, But no one can rate a burden's weight Until it has been on his back. The up-curled mouth of pleasure, Can prate of sorrow's worth, But give it a sip, and a wryer lip, Was never made on earth. What makes life worth living? Is there a purpose to life? In a poem which resonates with some thoughts from Emily Dickinson , Ella Wheeler Wilcox expresses her view on whether action pays off.
IF one poor burdened toiler o'er life's road, Who meets us by the way, Goes on less conscious of his galling load, Then life indeed, does pay. If we can show one troubled heart the gain, That lies alway in loss, Why, then, we too, are paid for all the pain Of bearing life's hard cross. If some despondent soul to hope is stirred, Some sad lip made to smile, By any act of ours, or any word, Then, life has been worth while. Ella Wheeler Wilcox expresses in metaphor the sense of Progress that was strong in a culture and in her New Thought religious environment that fostered progressivism in religion and politics and a sense that humankind would always be changing.
GOOD-BY to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle, The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside: No more to its motion, o'er Sleep's fairy ocean, Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide; No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker Their sweet, dreamy fancies are fostered and fed; No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging-- The child of this era is put into bed! Good-by to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle,-- It lent to the twilight a mystical charm: When bees left the clover, when playtime was over, How safe seemed this shelter from danger and harm; How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling, How weird were the voices that whispered around; What dreams would come flocking as, rocking and rocking, We floated away into slumber profound.
Good-by to the cradle, the old wooden cradle, The babe of the day does not know it by sight; When day leaves the border, with system and order The child goes to bed, and we put out the light. I bow to Progression; and ask no concession, Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the Past.
So off with old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber, The dear wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.
Looking back and looking forward: Ella Wheeler Wilcox on the moment in time to live with. She expresses her sense of the centrality to ethics, "to toil for universal good. To those who burn the candle to the stick, The sputtering socket yields but little light. Long life is sadder than an early death. We cannot count on raveled threads of age Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use The warp and woof the ready present yields And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink How brief the past, the future still more brief, Calls on to action, action!
Not for me Is time for retrospection or for dreams, Not time for self-laudation or remorse. Have I done nobly? Then I must not let Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip Be my reminder in temptation's hour, And keep me silent when I would condemn. Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls So pity may shine through them.
Looking back, My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones That led the way to knowledge of the truth And made me value virtue; sorrows shine In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years, Where lie forgotten pleasures. Looking forth, Out to the westers sky still bright with noon, I feel well spurred and booted for the strife That ends not till Nirvana is attained. Battling with fate, with men and with myself, Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon, Three things I learned, three things of precious worth To guide and help me down the western slope.
I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save. To pray for courage to receive what comes, Knowing what comes to be divinely sent. To toil for universal good, since thus And only thus can good come unto me. To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have To those who have not, this alone is gain. Ella Wheeler Wilcox was committed to the temperance movement in her day, and expresses her reasons in this poem. Where are the temperance people? Well, scattered here and there: Some gathering in their produce To show at the autumn fair; Some threshing wheat for market, And others threshing rye, That will go to the fat distiller For whiskey by-and-by.
And some are selling their hop crops At a first-rate price, this year, And the seller pockets the money, While the drunkard swallows the beer. And some "staunch temperance workers"? Who'd do anything for the cause, Save to give it a dime or a moment, Or work for temperance laws,. May be seen from now to election, Near any tavern stand Where liquor flows in plenty, With a voter on either hand. And these temperance office-seekers That we hear of far and near Are the ones who furnish the money That buys the lager-beer.
But these are only the black sheep Who want the temperance name Without living up to the precepts, And so bring themselves to shame. And the true, brave temperance people, Who have the cause at heart, Are doing the work that's nearest, Each his allotted part:.
Some lifting the fallen drunkard, Some preaching unto men, Some aiding the cause with money, And others with the pen. Each has a different mission, Each works in a different way, But their works shall melt together In one grand result, some day. And one, our chief God bless him , Is working day and night: With his sword of burning eloquence, He is fighting the noble fight. Whether in lodge or convention, Whether at home or abroad, He is reaping a golden harvest To lay at the feet of God.
All scattered here and there, Sowing the seeds of righteous deeds, That the harvest may be fair. While Ella Wheeler Wilcox valued the role of personal will and choice over fate , she also asserted the value of life as it is. This poem expresses more of the latter value than the former. WE must not force events, but rather make The heart soil ready for their coming, as The earth spreads carpets for the feet of Spring, Or, with the strengthening tonic of the frost, Prepares for Winter. Should a July noon Burst suddenly upon a frozen world Small joy would follow, even tho' that world Were longing for the Summer.
Should the sting Of sharp December pierce the heart of June, What death and devastation would ensue! All things are planned. The most majestic sphere That whirls through space is governed and controlled By supreme law, as is the blade of grass Which through the bursting bosom of the earth Creeps up to kiss the light. Poor puny man Alone doth strive and battle with the Force Which rules all lives and worlds, and he alone Demands effect before producing cause. How vain the hope! We cannot harvest joy Until we sow the seed, and God alone Knows when that seed has ripened.
Oft we stand And watch the ground with anxious brooding eyes Complaining of the slow unfruitful yield, Not knowing that the shadow of ourselves Keeps off the sunlight and delays result. Sometimes our fierce impatience of desire Doth like a sultry May force tender shoots Of half-formed pleasures and unshaped events To ripen prematurely, and we reap But disappointment; or we rot the germs With briny tears ere they have time to grow. While stars are born and mighty planets die And hissing comets scorch the brow of space The Universe keeps its eternal calm.
Through patient preparation, year on year, The earth endures the travail of the Spring And Winter's desolation. So our souls In grand submission to a higher law Should move serene through all the ills of life, Believing them masked joys. After the May time and after the June time Rare with blossoms and perfume sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat, When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.
Unto my heart has come this season, O, my lady, my worshiped one, When, over the stars of Pride and Reason, Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame, It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.
The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendor, Droop like roses, and wither away. From the hills of Doubt no winds are blowing, From the isles of Pain no breeze is sent, - Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content. Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory! Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon! For the Autumn must come with its mournful story. And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.
Share Flipboard Email. Jone Johnson Lewis has a Master of Divinity, and is a humanist clergy member and certified transformational coach. She has been involved in the women's movement since the late s. Updated January 30, While few today recognize her name, some of her lines are still very familiar, such as these:. And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween, There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.
Or are you a leaner, who lets others share Your portion of labor, and worry and care? Mother says, "Be in no hurry, Marriage oft means care and worry. Auntie says, with manner grave, "Wife is synonym for slave. Father asks, in tones commanding, "How does Bradstreet rate his standing?
Sister, crooning to her twins, Sighs, "With marriage care begins. Grandma, near life's closing days, Murmurs, "Sweet are girlhood's ways. Maud, twice widowed "sod and grass" Looks at me and moans "Alas! They are six, and I am one, Life for me has just begun.
They are older, calmer, wiser: Age should aye be youth's adviser. They must knowand yet, dear me, When in Harry's eyes I see. All the world of love there burning On my six advisers turning,. I make answer, "Oh, but Harry, Is not like most men who marry. So, in spite of all they say, I shall name the wedding-day. Though he be pagan, heretic or Jew, That man is Christian and beloved of Christ. Read at Madison, Wis. Wise men tell me thou, O Fate, Art invincible and great. Well, I own thy prowess; still Dare I flount thee, with my will.
Thou canst shatter in a span All the earthly pride of man. Outward things thou canst control But stand back - I rule my soul!
Poem of the week: Catch of the Day by Finuala Dowling
What has death to do with me, Save to set my spirit free? Something in me dwells, O Fate, That can rise and dominate. Loss, and sorrow, and disaster, How, then, Fate, art thou my master? In the great primeval morn My immortal will was born. Lit the suns and filled the seas, Royalest of pedigrees. He who harbors hate one hour Saps the soul of Peace and Power. He who will not hate his foe Need not dread life's hardest blow.
In the realm of brotherhood Wishing no man aught but good. Naught but good can come to me. This is love's supreme decree. Since I fear not - Fate, I vow, I the ruler am, not thou! In Reply to a Query. Ella Wheeler Wilcox uses the very hot midsummer as a metaphor for some times in our lives. These poems are included in this collection:. Continue Reading.