Poetry is word art...
April is apparently poetry month and we're supposed to share poems, so I shall share two of my favourite poems by other people and one I wrote myself.
This is actually my favourite poem of all time. I love it deeply.
To Marguerite: Continued, by Matthew Arnold
YES! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour--
Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain--
Oh might our marges meet again!
Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renters vain their deep desire?--
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.
Life as a Sheep
(I do not know the author, it's part of a collection of poems I got when doing my 'writing for children' topic as part of my Arts degree.)
Sometimes
Oi stands
Sometimes
Oi sits
Then
Stands again
Then
Sits
For a bit.
Sometimes
Oi wanders
Sometimes
Oi stays
Sometimes
Oi chews
Sometimes
Oi strays.
Sometimes
Oi coughs
Sometimes
Oi don't
Sometimes
Oi bleats
Sometimes
Oi won't.
Sometimes
Oi watch
The human race
Or
Smiles to meself
Or
Stares into space.
And when
Oi's happy
Oi'd dance and sing
But Oi
Don't have the knack
To do
Such a thing.
At night
Oi lays
By the old church steeple
And
Falls asleep
By counting people.
Rundle Mall, by Loz
the silver gleams from far away
like a trophy on display
and the crowds stop and gawk
or stand and talk
or bustle on their way
the shops all have music blaring
and people staring
at clothes and books
- discerning looks -
but no-one’s really caring
the pigs are sentry guards
rifling through shards
and kids climb on their backs
whinging for snacks
parents pull and drag them for yards
this place is the centre of it all
a swirling squall
where people always expect more
it’s such a bore
Rundle Mall
This is actually my favourite poem of all time. I love it deeply.
To Marguerite: Continued, by Matthew Arnold
YES! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour--
Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain--
Oh might our marges meet again!
Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renters vain their deep desire?--
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.
Life as a Sheep
(I do not know the author, it's part of a collection of poems I got when doing my 'writing for children' topic as part of my Arts degree.)
Sometimes
Oi stands
Sometimes
Oi sits
Then
Stands again
Then
Sits
For a bit.
Sometimes
Oi wanders
Sometimes
Oi stays
Sometimes
Oi chews
Sometimes
Oi strays.
Sometimes
Oi coughs
Sometimes
Oi don't
Sometimes
Oi bleats
Sometimes
Oi won't.
Sometimes
Oi watch
The human race
Or
Smiles to meself
Or
Stares into space.
And when
Oi's happy
Oi'd dance and sing
But Oi
Don't have the knack
To do
Such a thing.
At night
Oi lays
By the old church steeple
And
Falls asleep
By counting people.
Rundle Mall, by Loz
the silver gleams from far away
like a trophy on display
and the crowds stop and gawk
or stand and talk
or bustle on their way
the shops all have music blaring
and people staring
at clothes and books
- discerning looks -
but no-one’s really caring
the pigs are sentry guards
rifling through shards
and kids climb on their backs
whinging for snacks
parents pull and drag them for yards
this place is the centre of it all
a swirling squall
where people always expect more
it’s such a bore
Rundle Mall