Young Writers Society

Home » Forums » Creativity Corner » Poetry Discussion

The Poem of the Week



User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Mon Sep 17, 2018 5:35 pm
View Likes
alliyah says...



I selected this poem because it uses the word "squills" which is apparently not only the name of the YWS Weekly News Source, but is also a plant. I'm only posting the first two stanzas, since the rest is a bit much... but it's about a woman going through bereavement after the loss of her fiance, and noticing the patterns that surround and bind her. Enjoy!

"Patterns" by Amy Lowell

I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whale-bone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Fri Sep 28, 2018 4:28 pm
View Likes
alliyah says...



We've been discussing "tumblr/instagram poetry" over in the discussion forums - what do you think? Is it poetry?
You can read more of Kaur's work here.


"You are strong, you are gold"
by Rupi Kaur


the world
gives you
so much pain
and here you are
making gold out of it

there is nothing purer than that - rupi kaur
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Sun Oct 07, 2018 3:12 am
View Likes
alliyah says...



from On the Pulse of the Morning
by Maya Angelou


A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Sat Oct 13, 2018 6:28 pm
View Likes
alliyah says...



Leading up to ~Spooktober~ the Poem of the Week thread will highlight a few spooky poems for your enjoyment - if you have a favorite spooky poem, join the fun and post one below before the end of October (it's not necessary to wait an entire week between poems - there are so many good ones for this season).

The Night Wind
by Eugene Field

Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?
'T is a pitiful sound to hear!
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.
'T is the voice of the night that broods outside
When folk should be asleep,
And many and many's the time I've cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide
Over the land and the deep:
Whom do you want, O lonely night,
That you wail the long hours through?"
And the night would say in its ghostly way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"

My mother told me long ago
(When I was a little tad)
That when the night went wailing so,
Somebody had been bad;
And then, when I was snug in bed,
Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I'd think of what my mother'd said,
And wonder what boy she meant!
And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask
Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"

That this was true I must allow -
You'll not believe it, though!
Yes, though I'm quite a model now,
I was not always so.
And if you doubt what things I say,
Suppose you make the test;
Suppose, when you've been bad some day
And up to bed are sent away
From mother and the rest -
Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"
And then you'll hear what's true;
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Tue Oct 16, 2018 1:48 am
View Likes
alliyah says...



A longer poem, but worth the read - by Conrad Aiken. Fair warning it may be a bit gory for some, but certainly spooky!

The Vampire
by Conrad Aiken


Throwing this one under a spoiler for length and dark themes/gore.

Spoiler! :
She rose among us where we lay.
She wept, we put our work away.
She chilled our laughter, stilled our play;
And spread a silence there.
And darkness shot across the sky,
And once, and twice, we heard her cry;
And saw her lift white hands on high
And toss her troubled hair.

What shape was this who came to us,
With basilisk eyes so ominous,
With mouth so sweet, so poisonous,
And tortured hands so pale?
We saw her wavering to and fro,
Through dark and wind we saw her go;
Yet what her name was did not know;
And felt our spirits fail.

We tried to turn away; but still
Above we heard her sorrow thrill;
And those that slept, they dreamed of ill
And dreadful things:
Of skies grown red with rending flames
And shuddering hills that cracked their frames;
Of twilights foul with wings;

And skeletons dancing to a tune;
And cries of children stifled soon;
And over all a blood-red moon
A dull and nightmare size.
They woke, and sought to go their ways,
Yet everywhere they met her gaze,
Her fixed and burning eyes.

Who are you now, —we cried to her—
Spirit so strange, so sinister?
We felt dead winds above us stir;
And in the darkness heard
A voice fall, singing, cloying sweet,
Heavily dropping, though that heat,
Heavy as honeyed pulses beat,
Slow word by anguished word.

And through the night strange music went
With voice and cry so darkly blent
We could not fathom what they meant;
Save only that they seemed
To thin the blood along our veins,
Foretelling vile, delirious pains,
And clouds divulging blood-red rains
Upon a hill undreamed.

And this we heard: “Who dies for me,
He shall possess me secretly,
My terrible beauty he shall see,
And slake my body’s flame.
But who denies me cursed shall be,
And slain, and buried loathsomely,
And slimed upon with shame.”

And darkness fell. And like a sea
Of stumbling deaths we followed, we
Who dared not stay behind.
There all night long beneath a cloud
We rose and fell, we struck and bowed,
We were the ploughman and the ploughed,
Our eyes were red and blind.

And some, they said, had touched her side,
Before she fled us there;
And some had taken her to bride;
And some lain down for her and died;
Who had not touched her hair,
Ran to and fro and cursed and cried
And sought her everywhere.

“Her eyes have feasted on the dead,
And small and shapely is her head,
And dark and small her mouth," they said,
“And beautiful to kiss;
Her mouth is sinister and red
As blood in moonlight is.”

Then poets forgot their jeweled words
And cut the sky with glittering swords;
And innocent souls turned carrion birds
To perch upon the dead.
Sweet daisy fields were drenched with death,
The air became a charnel breath,
Pale stones were splashed with red.

Green leaves were dappled bright with blood
And fruit trees murdered in the bud;
And when at length the dawn
Came green as twilight from the east,
And all that heaving horror ceased,
Silent was every bird and beast,
And that dark voice was gone.

No word was there, no song, no bell,
No furious tongue that dream to tell;
Only the dead, who rose and fell
Above the wounded men;
And whisperings and wails of pain
Blown slowly from the wounded grain,
Blown slowly from the smoking plain;
And silence fallen again.

Until at dusk, from God knows where,
Beneath dark birds that filled the air,
Like one who did not hear or care,
Under a blood-red cloud,
An aged ploughman came alone
And drove his share through flesh and bone,
And turned them under to mould and stone;
All night long he ploughed.
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Sat Oct 20, 2018 5:14 pm
View Likes
alliyah says...



And Spooktober has officially begun! Here's my very favorite spooky poem for you all to check out. When I was in 9th grade I memorized a selection of "bug themed poems that teach life lessons" and this was one of them that I still have (somewhat) memorized to this day. Be sure to give it a read!

The Spider and the Fly:
By Mary Howitt

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed.”

Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”

“Sweet creature!” said the spider, “You’re witty and you’re wise!
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:
Your robes are green and purple; there’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlor; but she ne’er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;
Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Mon Oct 29, 2018 6:12 pm
View Likes
alliyah says...



Stumbled across this today, and was struck by how one of the critiques of insta-poetry is that it's too short or too simplistic; while I don't think this poem is "simplistic" it is straight-forward and it is short and written long before instagram was around. Short poetry isn't a new invention. Enjoy!

A darting fear
by Emily Dickinson


A darting fear — a pomp — a tear —
A waking on a morn
To find that what one waked for,
Inhales the different dawn.
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar



Gender: None specified
Points: 200
Reviews: 0
Thu Nov 08, 2018 6:46 pm
View Likes
shrutidutta says...



We are the Music Makers
by Arthur O'Shaughnessy


We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams;
World losers and world forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities.
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

Shruti :)
  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Tue Nov 20, 2018 4:16 am
View Likes
alliyah says...



It's been a while! Here's a poem by Anne Porter who didn't have her first collection of poetry published until she was 83 years old! That's pretty impressive, and just goes to show, it's never too late to follow a dream or to use your creativity. The poem is about praise and gratitude, which are nice themes as the Thanksgiving and Harvest holidays are happening during this season.

A List of Praises
by Anne Porter


Give praise with psalms that tell the trees to sing,
Give praise with Gospel choirs in storefront churches,
Mad with the joy of the Sabbath,
Give praise with the babble of infants, who wake with the sun,
Give praise with children chanting their skip-rope rhymes,
A poetry not in books, a vagrant mischievous poetry
living wild on the Streets through generations of children.

Give praise with the sound of the milk-train far away
With its mutter of wheels and long-drawn-out sweet whistle
As it speeds through the fields of sleep at three in the morning,
Give praise with the immense and peaceful sigh
Of the wind in the pinewoods,
At night give praise with starry silences.

Give praise with the skirling of seagulls
And the rattle and flap of sails
And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swell
Out in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor.
Give praise with the humpback whales,
Huge in the ocean they sing to one another.

Give praise with the rasp and sizzle of crickets, katydids and cicadas,
Give praise with hum of bees,
Give praise with the little peepers who live near water.
When they fill the marsh with a shimmer of bell-like cries
We know that the winter is over.

Give praise with mockingbirds, day’s nightingales.
Hour by hour they sing in the crepe myrtle
And glossy tulip trees
On quiet side streets in southern towns.

Give praise with the rippling speech
Of the eider-duck and her ducklings
As they paddle their way downstream
In the red-gold morning
On Restiguche, their cold river,
Salmon river,
Wilderness river.

Give praise with the whitethroat sparrow.
Far, far from the cities,
Far even from the towns,
With piercing innocence
He sings in the spruce-tree tops,
Always four notes
And four notes only.

Give praise with water,
With storms of rain and thunder
And the small rains that sparkle as they dry,
And the faint floating ocean roar
That fills the seaside villages,
And the clear brooks that travel down the mountains

And with this poem, a leaf on the vast flood,
And with the angels in that other country.


Spoiler! :

And here's a little graphic I made for this one:
Image
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Fri Nov 30, 2018 10:36 pm
View Likes
alliyah says...



Here's a poem from one of my very favorite authors; Madeleine L'Engle -from her book "The Weather of The Heart." It's a poem about peace, which seems fitting for the winter-holiday season approaching us.

Sonnet, Trinity 18
by Madeleine L'Engle


Peace is the centre of the atom, the core
Of quiet within the storm. It is not
A cessation, a nothingness; more
The lightning in reverse is what
Reveals the light. It is the law that binds
The atom's structure, ordering the dance
Of proton and electron, and that finds
Within the midst of flame and wind, the glance
In the still eye of the vast hurricane.
Peace is not placidity: peace is
The power to endure the megaton of pain
With joy, the silent thunder of release,
The ordering of Love. Peace is the atom's start,
The primal image: God within the heart.
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Thu Dec 13, 2018 5:12 am
View Likes
alliyah says...



We have another winter themed Poem of the Week! It was suggested to me by fellow-poet @Traves. The poem is mostly setting descriptions, but interestingly, is still able to raise deep questions for the reader. From a literal perspective, it's just about the disconnect between life inside a warm home while looking out a window to the winter beyond - but what might that mean from figurative point of view? What does it say about the other disconnects in life?

Snow
by Louis MacNeice


The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes –
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands –
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Sat Jan 12, 2019 10:21 pm
View Likes
alliyah says...



Posting this, to go with the post over in Poet of the Week where you can check out some facts about the author of this poem, Don Marquis - truly a great poet with a unique and modern style of writing.

a spider and a fly
by Don Marquis


i heard a spider
and a fly arguing
wait said the fly
do not eat me
i serve a great purpose
in the world

you will have to
show me said the spider

i scurry around
gutters and sewers
and garbage cans
said the fly and gather
up the germs of
typhoid influenza
and pneumonia on my feet
and wings
then i carry these germs
into the households of men
and give them diseases
all the people who
have lived the right
sort of life recover
from the diseases
and the old soaks who
have weakened their systems
with liquor and iniquity
succumb it is my mission
to help rid the world
of these wicked persons
i am a vessel of righteousness
scattering seeds of justice
and serving the noblest uses
it is true said the spider
that you are more
useful in a plodding
material sort of way
than i am but i do not
serve the utilitarian deities
i serve the gods of beauty
look at the gossamer webs
i weave they float in the sun
like filaments of song
if you get what i mean
i do not work at anything
i play all the time
i am busy with the stuff
of enchantment and the materials
of fairyland my works
transcend utility
i am the artist
a creator and a demi god
it is ridiculous to suppose
that i should be denied
the food i need in order
to continue to create
beauty i tell you
plainly mister fly it is all
damned nonsense for that food
to rear up on its hind legs
and say it should not be eaten

you have convinced me
said the fly say no more
and shutting all his eyes
he prepared himself for dinner
and yet he said i could
have made out a case
for myself too if i had
had a better line of talk

of course you could said the spider
clutching a sirloin from him
but the end would have been
just the same if neither of
us had spoken at all

boss i am afraid that what
the spider said is true
and it gives me to think
furiously upon the futility
of literature
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





User avatar
79 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 2216
Reviews: 79
Thu Jan 24, 2019 9:45 pm
View Likes
Lael says...



I normally don't read much poetry, but this is my longtime favorite.

I Am
by John Clare


I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
In God I Trust

"as it is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that with full courage now as always Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death."
Philippians 1:20
  





User avatar
590 Reviews

Supporter


Gender: Female
Points: 55
Reviews: 590
Mon Jan 28, 2019 4:23 am
View Likes
fortis says...



Sister Gone
by William Barnes

When Mary on her wedding day,
At last a bride, had gone away
From all her friends that there had spent
The happy day in merriment,
And ringers rang, at evenfall,
Their peals of bells, from great to small,
Within the tower's mossy wall
So high against the evening sky,

Then Jane, that there throughout the day
Had been the gayest of the gay,
At last began to hang her head
And ponder on her sister fled,
And days that seem'd too quickly flown,
To leave her now at home alone,
With no one's life to match her own,
So sad, though hitherto so glad.

It saddened me that moonpaled night
To see her by the wall, in white,
While friends departed mate with mate
Beyond the often-swinging gate,
As there beside the lilac shade,
Where golden-chained laburnum sway'd,
Around her face her hairlocks play'd,
All black with light behind her back.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses
  





User avatar
769 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 25349
Reviews: 769
Sat Feb 02, 2019 7:02 am
View Likes
alliyah says...



George Orwell was an incredible novelist and is the famed author of "1984" and "Animal Farm," though he is not as well known for his poetry.

Sometimes in The Middle Autumn Days
by George Orwell


Sometimes in the middle autumn days,
The windless days when the swallows have flown,
And the sere elms brood in the mist,
Each tree a being, rapt, alone,

I know, not as in barren thought,
But wordlessly, as the bones know,
What quenching of my brain, what numbness,
Wait in the dark grave where I go.

And I see the people thronging the street,
The death-marked people, they and I
Goalless, rootless, like leaves drifting,
Blind to the earth and to the sky;

Nothing believing, nothing loving,
Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the stream
Of precious life that flows within us,
But fighting, toiling as in a dream.

So shall we in the rout of life
Some thought, some faith, some meaning save,
And speak it once before we go
In silence to the silent grave...
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  








A diamond is merely a lump of coal that did well under pressure.
— Unknown