Great Poems « Greatest Books of All Time » Life-Changing Arts. A selection of great poems from centuries of brillant authors and poets. Whether you are new to the world of poetry and wish to savor it, or a well-versed poetry connoisseur, either way you will probably enjoy the classics of world poetry. The poems are sorted by vote. To vote for a poem, click on the left of it. Voting is possible once per day. Votes PoemAuthor IfRudyard Kipling EchoChristina Georgina Rossetti If you think the best poem of all times is not even on this list, by all means, let us know which poem it is and why you think it should be added.
Get inspired.. inspire others.. Back to Greatest Books of All Time. Top 500 poems at all poetry. Woodberry Poetry Room. Do not stand at my grave and weep. Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep is a poem written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Although the origin of the poem was disputed until later in her life, Mary Frye's authorship was confirmed in 1998 after research by Abigail Van Buren, a newspaper columnist.[1] Full text[edit] 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 the 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. Origins[edit] Mary Frye, who was living in Baltimore at the time, wrote the poem in 1932. Mary Frye circulated the poem privately, never publishing or copyrighting it. The poem was introduced to many in Britain when it was read by the father of a soldier killed by a bomb in Northern Ireland. BBC poll[edit] ... Rocky J.
Stone Telling: The Magazine of Boundary-crossing Poetry. By Shira Lipkin the girl's voice the changeling voice I have studied so hard to pass as one of you. I've spent a lifetime on it. I have tells. Blisters, tremors, bruises, all the signs that I was not meant for your world, was not meant to be contained in your clothes, your shoes. When I was little, I asked my alleged mother,what's a girl? She saidyou,you're a girl, and she laced me into dresses (that I tore off in the school parking lot, in line for the bus).
My dancing was different. And everything is about containment is about being delicate and pretty laced into corsets whalebone stays digging into your ribs because it's not beauty if it doesn't hurt. But I studied. None of it is in my nature. I am something larger, more fluid, less constrained. Shira Lipkin is a writer, activist, mother, and nexus. Read Shira's discussion of this poem over at the Roundtable! Photography:Untitled, by Graham Blackall.