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Being myself a protective grandmother now, I mind learning this chant as a child of eight and being seduced by the patterns and interweaving tunes of the sounds,the work concealing the lovemaking, the rhymes and inversions twisting the Irish out of the English.


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Enda Wyley Some of the finest, most moving love poems in the world have grown out of desolation and isolation. And yet, the right love poem is strangely reassuring. Someone else has felt like us and has actually survived to write about it. Suddenly we know we are not alone. Suddenly we can make the love poem our own. Here is a favourite, a simple four line love lyric which I have always admired.

It aches with loneliness and longing and is short but unforgettable. That the poet is anonymous, adds further to the mystery of the piece written about Western wind, when will thou blow, The small rain down can rain? If my love were in my arms, And I in my bed again! Peter Sirr When it comes to love poems I like to go back to the source of it all: the troubadours of southern France who kicked off the entire tradition of the lyric love poem as we know it, poets like Bernart de Ventadorn or Arnaut Daniel who inspired Dante so much he considered writing in Occitan.

Some of the best of the poetry was written by women. My tender beautiful cavalier when will I have you for myself? For one night only naked in your arms.

Poetry Books for Children

It was written to his on-off lover Lily Brik. In it was revealed Lily was NKVD agent and had been informing the authorities about his disillusionment with the regime of that nice Mr Stalin. The poem was left as a note when Mayakovsky shot himself in It appeals because, big eejit that I used to be, I once had a tendency to fall for the likes of Lily. You must have gone to bed. The Milky Way streams silver through the night. And, as they say, the incident is closed. Now you and I are quits.

Why bother then To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts. Behold what quiet settles on the world. Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars. In hours like these, one rises to address The ages, history, and all creation.

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Paddy said his mother loved the poem and his father hated it. Better again.

Rudyard Kipling

My mother smiled. My father raged. He liked his women young, he said And not half-dead. Summer When summer came My father left the house He tied a ribbon in his hair And wore a Kaftan dress. He toured the world And met a guru in Tibet. Autumn Through autumn days My father felt the leaves Burning in the corners of his mind.

My mother, who was younger by a year, Looked young and fair, The sailors from the port of Martinique Had kissed her cheek. He searched the house And hidden in a trunk beneath the bed My father found his second-hand guitar.

He found her see-through skirt With matching vest. He made the bed, He wore his Kaftan dress A ribbon in his hair. Winter At sixty-four My mother died At sixty-five My father. Thomas McCarthy Love possesses poets like no other feeling. That X could be an Ex. The skill with which Groarke layers those feelings is astonishing. And before you can be treated badly by someone you think you care about while in a naive, vulnerable state, you have to feel inferior to that person. And before you can feel inferior to that person, you have to watch him laughing and walking towards his drum kit with his shirt off and the sun all over him.

And before you can watch him laughing and walking towards his drum kit with his shirt off and the sun all over him, you have to go to one of his outdoor shows. And before you can go to one of his outdoor shows, you have to pretend to know something about music. And before you can pretend to know something about music, you have to feel embarrassed about your real interests. And before you can be regularly misunderstood, you have to be almost completely socially debilitated. And before you can be rejected by your entire group of friends, you have to be suffocatingly loyal to your friends.

And before you can lose something of value, you have to realize that that thing will never change. And before you can realize that that thing will never change, you have to have the same conversation with your grandmother forty or fifty times. And before you can have the same conversation with your grandmother forty or fifty times, you have to have a desire to talk to her and form a meaningful relationship.

And before you can have a desire to talk to her and form a meaningful relationship, you have to love her. And before you can notice the great tolerance she has for you, you have to break one of her favorite china teacups that her mother gave her and forget to apologize. And before you can break one of her favorite china teacups that her mother gave her and forget to apologize, you have to insist on using the teacups for your imaginary tea party.

And before you can insist on using the teacups for your imaginary tea party, you have to cultivate your imagination. And before you can spend a lot of time alone, you have to find ways to sneak away from your siblings. And before you can be quiet, polite and unnoticeable, you have to understand that it is possible to disappoint your parents. And before you can understand that it is possible to disappoint your parents, you have to be harshly reprimanded. And before you can know distress, you have to be watched by an insufficient babysitter for one week.

And before you can be watched by an insufficient babysitter for one week, you have to vomit on the other, more pleasant babysitter. And before they can have in-school suspension on the same day, they have to get caught sneaking off campus separately. And before they can get caught sneaking off campus separately, they have to think of somewhere to go. Feeling the icy kick, the endless waves Reaching around my life, I moved my arms And coughed, and in the end saw land.

Somebody, I suppose, Remembering the medieval maxim, Had tossed me in, Had wanted me to learn to swim,. Not knowing that none of us, who ever came back From that long lonely fall and frenzied rising, Ever learned anything at all About swimming, but only How to put off, one by one, Dreams and pity, love and grace, — How to survive in any place.

I come by it honestly, an heirloom passed from my father and grandmother before me. In the bed by the window she stares at the ceiling, pills untouched on the dresser.

The Best Mary Oliver Poems: Where To Start With Her Work | Book Riot

Cancer uncurls in her brain. The saddest leave the least of clues… poetry quotes depression pic. It would kill me to take those secrets out So my mother may know they exist But she lets me keep them. Want more powerful and important reads about depression? Try these comics about depression , teen books about depression , and these self-help books about depression.

Listen Shop Insiders. View this post on Instagram. When I ask Paolo how to draw the line between. He says if I ever left him he would keep my body.

The Day You Begin

Tate wisely never says. His instinct was to take a dumb-funny idea and leave a gaping abyss. Some of these poems are fizzles, and far too many are misfires—jokes vainly seeking punchlines, or punchlines mopily looking for jokes. Such manic, somewhat terrifying poems start off like tin wind-up toys with a great whirring of gears and then halfway across the room run down and expire with a tinny mechanical sigh. The reader has to put up with a lot of riffing while waiting for a poem to get to the point. Tate rarely knew when to quit—he was no story teller, as a writer of prose poems almost has to be.

I recall a reading more than forty years ago when he kept interrupting himself with a fit of giggles. I admire a poet who can read his own work and laugh himself silly.

I thought about calling my mother, but she was in heaven. I called her anyway. I had fallen asleep with my teacup in my hand. When I awoke I realized I thought it was a phone. My mother would never be so sarcastic about heaven. The Brothers Grimm stand in the background, as, perhaps, do Edward Gorey and the now almost forgotten meta-plagiarist Jerzy Kosinski. With their bizarre events, unlikely coincidences, mad turns of plot, and appalling misfortunes, these poems strive to be filleted versions of nineteenth-century dime novels.

There are even a few magical resurrections, as if Matthew and Mark had been brought in to punch up the script. Stallings fell in love with the classics in college and never fell out of it. Her poems are knowledgeable and knowing, with cultivated intelligence and a disturbing love of poetic form. With the decline of Biblical knowledge, the Greco-Roman dramatis personae have become convenient stand-ins for setting the ancient world face to face with the modern.

Stallings is capable of astonishing passages, rich with antique sins and flash-forwards to the star turns of their distant descendants.

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