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Like all the literary, visual and performing arts, great poetry simultaneously reflects deeply personal and staggeringly universal themes and images. And, of course, also remains firmly rooted in the creators’ time and place, despite often possessing a transcendent nature. A delicate balance, to be certain, but understanding the balance results in influential, lasting works. Small shards of history for studying and sharing. Obviously, the entirety of the American poetry scene can’t be distilled into only 20 works, and the Internet masses should probably check themselves before they wreck themselves over inclusions and exclusions. Creative pieces are always subjective, but this happens to be one writer’s opinion of a few worth exploring because of their historical, cultural, and/or technical merit.
Boys don't want to be princes. Boys want to be shepherds who slay dragons, maybe someone gives you half a kingdom and a princess, but that's just what comes of being a shepherd boy
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example,'The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
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 ] [ edit ] Full text The "definitive version", as published by The Times and The Sunday Times in Frye's obituary, 5 November 2004: [ 2 ]
Love Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring. I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands; how did your lips feel on mine? Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks, the white statues that have neither voice nor sight. I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes. Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you.
STOP! Right there. I want to remember this image for the rest of my life. I want to remember the shape of your thighs clamped tight around mine, the shine of your tangled hair, the sheen of the impassioned sweat on your slender, outstretched arms, and the gleam of the blade on that really big knife you’re holding.
I could have kissed you under cherry blossoms, pale petals drifting down like the trees wanted to pretend they could be snowclouds. I could have kissed you in the rain, drenched to our bones and not even caring that the skies opened up above us and tried to wash us out. I could have kissed you in a clearing in the most secluded woods, with just the sound of wind rustling through the leaves and a few voyeuristic finches peeping at us.
I Don't Remember... I don't remember, any more, The exact shape of your hands As I held them in mine, Caressed them, Memorized the length of your fingers, The depth of your calluses. I don't remember, any more, Exactly your height, how much Taller than me You were, where My head rested on your chest When you held me tightly close. I don't remember, any more, Your scent, when we lay together Creating our own Magic rhythm, Matching our heartbeats as we Touched the sky, together. I don't remember, any more, The sound of your voice, calling My name as though It were a song Within itself, a precious treasure You valued with all your being.
In this poem, disaster strangely invades the ordinary. A man standing at the bus stop reading the newspaper is on fire Flames are peeking out from beneath his collar and cuffs His shoes have begun to melt The woman next to him wants to mention it to him that he is burning but she is drowning Water is everywhere in her mouth and ears in her eyes A stream of water runs steadily from her blouse