People write poetry for a multitude of reasons, ranging from personal expression to cultural commentary. The decision to critique a poem should be guided by an understanding of the poet’s intent, the context in which the poem is shared, and the nature of the critique itself. While some poems may be open to feedback and discussion, others may be more suited to personal appreciation and respect. Ultimately,... https://t.co/HsvQhcSzrp
guys, are we allowed to post other people's poems? anyway this one always had a place in my heart:
Alone
Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
’Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
from
https://t.co/gTphO94L8V
not that i dont have my own poems to post, but here is a fav of mine:
A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self- conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
—Berkeley, 1955
from
https://t.co/C1dIKAyJZk
ok, trip down memory lane, so years ago before they had this x twitter thing, like 25 years ago in 1999, they had yahoo chat rooms and one of the rooms was a poetry chat room where people posted their poems, kinda like here.
There were a few of those poems that I saved. These people who posted were anonymous so I never knew who the person was who posted this poem but I love the poem and you can tell by the words that this was someone who knew how to write a poem, so here it is a blast from the past and I liked it so much i got an artist buddy of mine to do the drawing (by the way that is supposed to be me hanging with Aristotle's bones):
Aristotle's Bones
Aristotle from his grave
taps with chalky fingers
on Society's front door.
His chalky mouth
long sealed shut by the dust of eons
still seeks to proclaim
that "a thing is what it is!"
But the Party
drowns out Reason
and he turns back to his hoary tomb
rubbing a bony finger
on his bony skull
in wondrous sorrow.
Written by the online poet UncleJedd
Learning Spanish? I have created this fun Spanish class which is poetry based. My home educated children loved it and asked for more like this.
Poetry is the best for language study.
I'll glue it back with golden inlays!
Did I spell inlays correctly?
This poem made my day. I wrote another warm poem earlier, but this might be my favorite poem from now on.
I copied this poem 25 years ago from an online poetry chat room; I liked it and saved it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Laughing like some crazed hyena
With a face like a pit bull
Chewing a hornet.
I never really saw him before
Well, not clearly
Just a figure that drifts by
But today I took some time
and looked.
Jesus he is an ugly bastard
When he is like that.
It fascinated me
Almost like a film script
Played by some B movie actor.
Even the dialogue was corny.
I should stop looking in mirrors.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
hayzee