For Beginner Poets: How to Know If Your Poetry Sucks.

Written by Ami Mattison

Experienced poets, whether we acknowledge it or not, usually know when our poetry sucks.
But as a beginner, it’s natural to be confused by what makes a “good” poem.

There are so many types of poetry in culture—good, bad, and ugly. Through experience, poets
come to recognize what’s weak about a poem, what’s clichéd, and what simply isn’t working.
But when you’re first starting out, writing a strong, successful poem can seem elusive,
mysterious, or maybe even impossible.

Lacking experience, it can be difficult to tell whether or not your poetry is any good .

You know what they say about beauty being in the eye of the beholder? Well, poetry is like
that. If you think a poem is beautiful, if it moves you, if it makes you think and seems to speak
some truth to you, then that’s a “good” poem.

However, if you’re looking to publish your poems, then you’ll need to develop a sense of what
critics and poets agree makes for good poetry.

Luckily for the beginner, there are some simple indicators that distinguish good poetry from
weaker versions.

As an exercise in determining what makes for a good poem versus a weak poem, take a look at
this excerpt of one of my poems:

The light reflects your skin.

Impossibilities recede.

I trace where I have been,

find the knots and knead.

Run my fingers through your curls,

twisting and bereaved.

Pulling me into your world,

from your mouth the air I breathe.

You are not alone,

as you walk away.

I am here with you right now,

praying that you will stay.

I’m steady on this ground,

holding on with all my might.

You are not alone,

your fears eclipsing light

Umm…can you guess the title of this uninspired poem? That’s right: “You are not alone.” If you
like this poem, then great. But trust me, it’s a real stinker. The premise is terrible, the rhyme is
laughable, clichés abound, and some of it is so vague as to be nonsensical.

Now, consider this excerpt from another poem I wrote:

Stories sculpt figures,

construct apartment buildings

plant fields and wield iron, forge

whole countries of strangers

we come to believe we know.

Stories create things.

Poetry takes them apart.

Unstitching the unseemly seam, breaking

open rocks, chiseling crystal composites,

uprooting forest ferns just to smell

the fertile musk of soil and finger

the tangled, threaded flesh.

This poem is entitled “Poetry, say it.” This isn’t the greatest poem, but it is a stronger poem
than the first. It manages to use relatively original descriptions, its premise is more interesting,
its language is active, and its images are concrete.
Now, let’s compare these two excerpts to determine exactly what makes one “bad” and the
other one “better”:

Cliché vs. original description. A cliché is relatively simple to identify. If you’ve heard a phrase
used several times in people’s speech and writing, then that’s pretty much a cliché. Can you
spot the clichés in the first poem? Here are just a few: “the light reflects,” “holding on with all
my might,” and “eclipsing light.” All of those phrases are overused and not particularly
interesting. We often use clichés as short cuts to describe our feelings, thoughts, and
observations. In the second poem, “Stories sculpt figures/construct apartment buildings” is
relatively original and offers two strong images. So always try to develop strong, original lines,
phrases, and images.

Passive voice vs. Active voice. The phrase “You are not alone” is not only unoriginal but passive
voice. Also, “you are not” is a negative construction, making the phrase even more passive and
ineffective. But notice the language of the second poem. You find verbs such “sculpt,”
“construct,” “plant,” “wield,” and “forge.” These are all active descriptions. So, always try to use
interesting, action verbs.

Vague vs. concrete images. Consider the phrase “impossibilities recede.” It’s weak and vague as
an image. But compare it to “tangled, threaded flesh,” which is stronger and more concrete.
Always try to use strong, descriptive, and concrete images.

Repetition vs. variations in sentence structures. In the first poem, all the sentence structures
are repetitions of a noun and then a verb: “The light reflects,” “I trace,” “You are,” etc. The
second poem experiments with this structure, and in the last stanza, it uses gerunds as a way to
break up the sentences some. So think about your sentence structures and try some variations.

Wordiness vs. brevity. This sentence, “I am here with you right now, praying that you will stay”
is wordy. Not only could I have used conjunctions—“I’m” and “you’ll”—but “that” is
unnecessary. In the second poem, you’ll notice the language is more concise. Words you can
often avoid are “that,” “which,” prepositions, and articles. Always try to create concise wording
in your poems.

Unoriginal vs. original rhyme. The first poem uses end rhyme, meaning that the final word of
one line rhymes with the final word of another line (i.e. “skin” and “been,” “recede” and
“knead”). Also, the rhyme scheme is abab cdcd, efef, etc., meaning every other line rhymes.
This rhyme scheme is very common and very easy to compose. However, it’s also unoriginal
and uninteresting. Many poets eschew end-rhyme altogether, but that’s not really the point.
The point is to find interesting ways to rhyme. Internal rhymes can be interesting and subtle,
such as “fields and wield” and “unseemly seam” in the second poem. When first starting out,
try to avoid predictable and repetitive end rhymes.
Too much (or too little) vs. balanced alliteration. Alliteration is the repetition of consonant
sounds in two or more words that are relatively close together. For instance, in the second
poem, “crystal composites” is an example of alliteration. So is “forest ferns.” In the first poem,
“knots and knead” is another example. Definitely use alliteration, but use it sparingly. For
instance, “the rascally rabbit runs” is terrible alliteration for any serious poem.

Deadening vs. lively line breaks. Line breaks are tricky. A simple rule is to avoid breaking a line
after a preposition, an article, a conjunction, or a pronoun. Certainly, like all rules, that one is
made to be broken; but if you’re first starting out, try to adhere to it until you get a better sense
of line breaks. Each line in a poem should be an interesting image or phrase. When first starting
out, some poets break lines according to how they hear a poem. What this means is that
instead of “Stories create things.” You might be tempted to break the line like this:
“Stories/create/things.” None of those lines are particularly interesting, even if they do suggest
some dramatic reading of the sentence. Also, you’ll notice in the first poem that there is no
enjambment. Enjambment is the continuation of a sentence or thought beyond a predictable
line break. For instance, in the first poem, each line breaks in a predictable way. Consider what
happens when I shift the first line to read, “The light reflects your skin. Impossibilities…” That’s
a little more interesting. The problem with not using enjambment is that each line starts to
sound the same and has a deadening effect on the ear. So, think carefully about line breaks and
try a little enjambment.

Telling vs. showing. Finally, a good poem shows us what’s happening rather than telling us. For
a beginner, this might seem a subtle distinction, but it’s not. In the first poem, “as you walk
away” is “telling.” Now, if I’d found a metaphor to suggest how the person was walking away,
that’d be “showing.” As another example, in the second poem, “Poetry takes things apart” is
telling. “Unstitching the unseemly seam” is showing. So, try to be creative and show us what’s
happening rather than telling us.

Hopefully, these few characteristics will give you a place to start in improving your poetry.

However, Poetry is a very complex craft that requires lots of practice and experience to master.

If you’re interested in studying poetry, then I recommend a class, which you can find at art
centers, universities and colleges, and even online. If you want to do some self-study, then an
excellent place to begin is with The Poet’s Companion by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux. But
the best way to learn how to write poetry that doesn’t suck is to read lots of great poetry. So,
check out your public library and read some poetry by well-known, great poets.

Expressing yourself, enjoying the pleasure that language has to offer, and articulating your own
truths are the most significant reasons for writing poetry. So, when you’re first starting out,
don’t worry too much about whether or not your poetry sucks. Rather, try to have some fun—
experiment with words and play with meanings.

If you write enough poetry, then you’re bound to write sucky poetry occasionally. As this article
suggests, every poet does. Bad poetry clears the way for great poetry.

However, if your poetry gives you comfort, if it gives you pleasure, or if it manages to speak the
truth of your experience or observations, then it doesn’t suck at all. Rather, it’s an expression of
your creativity.

So, try not to judge your poetry too harshly and learn to love it some.

When you love your poetry, you’ll want to make it better. And if you want to make it better,
you’ll want to practice, experiment, and play; and by doing so, you’ll gain the necessary
experience to improve and maybe write a lot less sucky poetry.

MONDAY, AUGUST 12, 2013

Olumide Holloway at 6:12 PM

How to Develop a Poem for Spoken Word Performance.

Written by Ami Mattison

Developing and rehearsing a poem for spoken word performance can be as rewarding as
performing it in front of live audiences. For me, the development of a performance is an ever-
evolving process through which I come to understand and appreciate my poetry better.
Performance is a kind of bonding experience with a poem—with the experiences and
sentiments it expresses. This bonding is a creative process for me, in which I lift the words from
the page and nurture them into life with my body and breath.

Plus, developing a poem for performance is fun. It gives you an opportunity to experiment with
your body and your voice, to find new meanings in your poetry, and to express yourself in new,
creative ways.

If you’re just starting out, it’ll take time, patience, and lots of rehearsal to learn to develop your
poetry for confident and successful performances on a consistent basis. These tips, however,
will give you a head start on some simple practices that work for me.
Find a rehearsal space. A physical space in which to develop and rehearse your poem, alone
and uninterrupted, is ideal. This should be a place where you are free to be yourself and to
experiment with your voice and your body movements without worrying about disturbing
others or being overheard. However, finding such a space can be challenging, especially if you
live with others. If that’s the case, then let them know what you’re doing, ask them not to
disturb you, and try to tune them out.

Memorize your poem. Certainly, you can develop a great performance while reading your poem
from a book or the page, but dropping the paper and memorizing your poem frees up your
hands for gestures, allows you to make good eye-contact, and creates a “barrier-free” zone
between you and your audience. In other words, memorization provides a foundation for
developing an intimate interaction with your audience. If you have trouble memorizing, then
don’t worry. Instead, check out this article on memorization.

Love your poem. Learning to memorize your poem gives you an opportunity to truly love it, to
feel passionate about it and to appreciate it for what it is—an expression of your unique
creativity. If you somehow manage to memorize the poem and don’t love it yet, then take some
time and consider its strengths, why it’s important to you and why it’s important to share with
others. If it’s not important to you, then it’s unlikely to be important to anyone else. So,
cultivate some passion for your poem, and love it.

Be Unique. Hopefully, you’ve memorized your poem in ways that are natural to your own
speech patterns. But it’s also likely that your recitation sounds rote, canned, and imitational in
places. What you’ll want to do is to develop your poem into a unique expression of you, rather
than imitate someone else. In my opinion, one of the greatest creative mistakes a newbie can
make is to focus on imitating another performer, rather than taking the time to experiment
with their own speaking style, rhythm, breath, and gestures. While beginning artists often learn
through imitation of the “masters,” imitation creates limitations and nurtures habits that are
difficult to unlearn. Check out this video of a poem by Taylor Mali, mocking how some poets
present their poetry in a stereotypical and unoriginal way:

So, avoid imitation. Audiences want to experience your performance—your style, your voice,
and your gestures. While you might learn from others, be sure to focus on developing your own
unique brand of performance.

Find your own voice. How do you find and develop your own voice? First, recite your poem, go
with what feels natural, and really listen to what’s unique about your style of speaking.
Remember that the poem needs to develop and grow into something unique to you and
interesting to audiences. Once you’ve carefully listened to your natural speaking voice, try
experimenting. Vary your pitch, rhythm, speed, and volume. Play around with emphases on
different words. Try singing, yelling, or whispering. The point is to start making some interesting
choices with your voice and to commit to them. As you recite and listen to each line of your
poem, consider carefully the meanings and determine the best way to enhance those meanings
with your vocal style.

Breathe. Without breath, there is no voice. It’s important to consider when and where to inhale
and exhale. Again, go with what feels natural. If you need to breathe, then breathe. But you can
also begin to make choices around your breath. You may want to use breath or breathing for a
dramatic effect; or you may want to get to the end of those run-on lines before you inhale
again. Just remember that breathing is an important part of any vocal performance.

Add gestures and movement. It’s best if the gestures and movement you employ in your
performance have specific meaning or seem natural and spontaneous. The key to strong
gestures and body movements that enhance your performance is to make interesting choices
and commit to them. If hand or body movements don’t enhance what you’re saying, then try to
stand still, let your arms relax by your sides, and focus on your voice instead. If you want to
make dramatic, stylized gestures, then be bold. There’s a saying in stage theatre circles: If
you’re going to make a mistake, then make a BIG mistake. In other words, commit whole-
heartedly to the gesture or movement, and make it big and noticeable, as small gestures often
go unnoticed in stage performance. If your piece is conversational or quiet, then use gestures
and movements that are natural mannerisms for you. Also, try to avoid canned, predictable, or
stereotypical gestures (unless that’s your point). Most of all, don’t be afraid to move. Use your
whole body—your arms and legs, your face, your hands and feet. Play, experiment, and find
what feels natural, spontaneous, or meaningful. Through this creative process, you’ll discover
new ways to express yourself and your poem.

Rehearse. Rehearsal is foundational to offering solid performances on a consistent basis. Once

you’ve made interesting choices with your voice and movements, keep working on them. Hone
your performance. Try performing in a front of a mirror so you know what you look like and can
see the impact that your gestures and movements make. Also, try recording your voice to hear
what it sounds like to others. Using these tools, you’ll be better able to hone a solid
performance. And be sure to rehearse an adequate amount of time. Nervousness and anxiety
play a big role in the live performance experience; but if you know your piece, then you’ll be
able to focus on executing it well, rather than being distracted by the reactions of the people
watching, listening, and forming opinions about you and your poetry. There’s also such a thing
as over-rehearsing. Try to find a nice balance between knowing your poem and running it into
the ground until it sounds canned again. Try to keep it fresh.

Perform for your friends or family. Before you run off to that open mic or some other
performance opportunity, try out your poem in front of others who you trust and who will give
you positive and constructive feedback. Ask for suggestions, consider any advice given, and
bask in the positive praise you’ll surely receive.

Perform for a live audience. Finally, you’ve developed your poem. You’ve adequately rehearsed
it, and you’ve gotten feedback from loved ones. Now, you’re probably ready to perform. You’re
also probably a little nervous, which is an important and necessary sign that you’re taking a
creative risk. If you’re not at least a little nervous, then something is wrong—you’re not taking a
risk, you’re not in touch with your emotions, you’re bored, or you just don’t care. In this case,
you may not be ready to perform. A great performance hinges on passion, risk, and the honest
and authentic expression of emotions. So, for your performance, get in touch with your
emotions and focus on delivering your poem to the best of your ability. Probably, you’ll get
positive and supportive feedback from the audience. At the very least, you’ll have the
significant reward that comes with sharing your work, your thoughts, and your passion with
others.

Evolve and grow. Keep rehearsing, and keep performing. Learn what works and what doesn’t
from audience reactions. Let your performance evolve and grow over time. Keep it fresh by
making new choices. Leave some choices open-ended, and let yourself be surprised by what
you do when you’re actually performing. With continued rehearsal and live performance, your
poem will grow and evolve into a whole, new creative experience.

All of these suggestions are intended to be helpful. If you don’t find them useful, then
experiment with your own method of performance. The most important thing is that you find a
way to creatively express yourself and to deliver your poetry in your own unique style.

What’s your experience in developing poems for performance? Do you use certain methods to
offer a unique performance? Who are your favorite performance poets and what about their
performances are unique?

How to Write a Poem

Writing a poem is all about observing the world within or around you. A poem can be about
anything, from love to the rusty gate at the old farm. Writing poetry can help you become more
eloquent and improve your linguistic style. However, it's hard to know where you should start.
Although poetry writing is definitely a skill that improves with practice (just like any other type
of writing), wikiHow will get you on the right track.
Find a spark. A poem might start as a snippet of verse, maybe just a line or two that seems to
come out of nowhere, and the remainder of the poem need only be written around it. Here are
a few ways to generate sparks:

Play "Grand Theft Poetry." Gather a variety of books of poetry by different authors, or print 10
random poems off from the Internet. Then randomly pick a line out of each poem, trying to
focus only on the first line you see instead of picking the "best" one. Write all these different
lines down on a separate piece of paper, and try to arrange them into a coherent poem. The
juxtaposition of two entirely different lines of poetry might give you an idea for your own
poem.

Write down all the words and phrases that come to mind when you think of that idea. Allow
yourself to put all your ideas into words.

It may sound difficult, but do not be afraid to voice your exact feelings in the poem. Emotions
are what make poems, and if you lie about your emotions it can be easily sensed in the poem.
Write them down as quickly as possible, and when you're done, go through the list and look for
connections or certain items that get your creative juices flowing.

Try to fit into a particular scene you want to write about. For example, if you want to write
about nature, try to visit a park or a small forest nearby. The natural scenery may inspire a few
lines, even if they're not perfect.

Read and listen to poetry. Get inspired by seeking out the work of poets you admire. Explore a
wide range of works, from poems that are widely regarded as classics to popular song lyrics. As
you interact with more poetry, you'll find your aesthetic becoming more shaped and refined.

To train your ear and meet like-minded people, attend poetry readings (check your local college
or bookstore's calendar for these, or look for events you can stream online).

Find some of your favorite song lyrics and read them like poetry. You might be surprised at how
it reads on the page, instead of being spoken or sung aloud.

Think about what you want to achieve with your poem. Perhaps you want to write a poem to
express your love for your boyfriend or girlfriend; perhaps you want to commemorate a tragic
event; or perhaps you just want to get an "A" in your poetry or English class. Think about why
you are writing your poem and who your intended audience is, and then proceed in your
writing accordingly.

Decide which poetry style suits your subject. There are a ton of different poetic styles. [1]. As a
poet, you have a wide variety of set forms to choose from: limericks,
sonnets, villanelles, sestinas, haiku ... the list goes on and on.

You may also choose to abandon form altogether and write your poem in free verse. While the
choice may not always be as obvious as the example above, the best form for the poem will
usually manifest itself during the writing process.

Part One of Three:

Getting Creative

Choose the right words. It's been said that if a novel is "words in the best order," then a poem is
"the best words in the best order."

Think of the words you use as building blocks of different sizes and shapes. Some words will fit
together perfectly, and some won't. You want to keep working at your poem until you have
built a strong structure of words.

Use only those words that are necessary, and those that enhance the meaning of the poem.
Choose your words carefully. The differences between similar sounding words or synonyms can
lead to interesting word play.

A computer spreadsheet such as

OpenOffice.org Calc, is very efficient for rearranging words and checking rhythm through
columns' alignment. Put one syllable in each cell. You can transfer the text to a word processor
for fancier printing when you're done.

If you're aiming to create a rhyming poem, do some brainstorming for your word choices. After
picking a topic, write a line about it. If the next line doesn't rhyme with the line above, think of
words that rhyme with the line's last word and form a sentence around it. The trick is in the
formation of the sentence. If you need to, twist your words around so that they still make sense
but you end each line with a rhyme.

Use concrete imagery and vivid descriptions. Most poetry appeals to the senses (yes, plural) in
some way, in order to help the reader become more fully immersed in the text. Here are some
things to consider when you're constructing descriptions.

Love, hate, happiness: these are all abstract concepts. Many (perhaps all) poems are, deep
down, about emotions and other abstractions. Nevertheless, it's hard to build a strong poem
using only abstractions — it's just not interesting. The key, then, is to replace or enhance
abstractions with concrete images, things that you can appreciate with your senses: a rose, a
shark, or a crackling fire, for example. The concept of the objective correlative may be useful.
An objective correlative is an object, several objects, or a series of events (all concrete things)
that evoke the emotion or idea of the poem.

Really powerful poetry not only uses concrete images; it also describes them vividly. Show your
readers and listeners what you're talking about — help them to experience the imagery of the
poem. Put in some "sensory" handles. These are words that describe the things that you hear,
see, taste, touch, and smell, so that the reader can identify with their own experience.

Give some examples rather than purely mental/intellectual descriptions. As a silly example,
consider "He made a loud sound", versus "He made a loud sound like a hippo eating 100 stale
pecan pies with metal teeth."

Use poetic devices to enhance your poem's beauty and meaning. The most well known poetic
device is rhyme. Rhyme can add suspense to your lines, enhance your meaning, or make the
poem more cohesive. It can also make it prettier. Don't overuse rhyme. It's a crime.

If you are opting for the rhyming route, there are three basic types to choose from: the couplet,
tercet, and ballad stanza.

The couplet is two phrases that each rhyme at their end.

This will be a couplet when the final word is penned.

Did you catch that meter?!

The tercet has three lines. 1 and 2 rhyme, as do 4 and 5, 3 and 6. As in,

"My dog has a toy,

it resembles a boy.

A boy with the dark colored glasses.

His lightning scar

can be seen from afar

and gee, does he love molasses."

A ballad stanza's second and fourth lines rhyme. For example:

Hey, I just met you

And this is crazy

But here's my number

So, call me maybe?[2]

Other poetic devices include meter, metaphor, assonance, alliteration, and repetition. If you
don't know what these are, you may want to look in a poetry book or search the Internet.
Poetic devices can establish a poem, or, if they bring too much attention to themselves, can
ruin it.

Add a "turn" to the end of the poem. Save your most powerful message or insight for the end of
your poem. The last line is to a poem what a punch line is to a joke — something that evokes an
emotional response. Give the reader something to think about, something to dwell on after
reading your poem.

Resist the urge to explain it; let the reader become engaged with the poem in developing an
understanding of your experience or message.

Avoid the sense that you're stopping there just because you're short of ideas. End with a
powerful point, and leave your reader thinking.

Part Two of Three:

Letting the Creativity Flow

Listen to your poem. While many people today have been exposed to poetry only in written
form, poetry was predominantly an oral art for thousands of years, and the sound of a poem is
still important. As you write and edit your poem, read it aloud and listen to how it sounds.

A poem's internal structure commonly focuses on rhythm, rhyme, or both. Consider classic
styles like sonnets and

Greek epics for inspiration.

A lot of spoken English is based on iambic pentameter, in which speech follows an alternating
pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables for a total of 10 syllables. A lot of poetry written in
iambic pentameter, such as that of Shakespeare, begins with an unstressed, one-syllable word
such as "an" or "the" to start the alternating pattern.

This is where poems can become songs. It is easier to find a tune for regular meter, so maybe
you want to cut words out or put some in to get the same number of syllables in each line.
Memorize it. If you believe it, then maybe someone else will learn it and love it before it is a
song.
Edit your poem. When the basic poem is written, set it aside for awhile and then read the poem
out loud to yourself. Go through it and balance the choice of words with the rhythm. Take out
unnecessary words and replace imagery that isn't working.

Some people edit a poem all at once, while others come back to it again and again over time.

Don't be afraid to rewrite if some part of the poem is not working. Some poems have lines that
simply don't convey an element well, and can be replaced.

Share your work. It can be hard to critique your own work, so after you've done an initial edit,
try to get some friends or a poetry group (there are plenty online) to look at your poem for you.
You may not like all their suggestions, and you don't have to take any of them, but you might
find some insight that will make your poem better.

Feedback is good. Pass your poem around, and ask your friends to critique your work. Tell them
to be honest, even if it's painful.

Never apologize for your work as it's being critiqued, and focus instead on listening to the
opinions of your readers. Filter their responses, heeding and ignoring, then edit as you see fit.

Offer to critique the work of others, as well. Offering someone else feedback on their work can
help you develop a critical eye, which you can apply to your own work.

Tips:

Don't frustrate yourself by too persistently sharing your work with people who do not
appreciate poetry. This is a mistake that can discourage you from being a poet. It is often
difficult to explain that you are just trying your hand at something new. The best thing to do is
ask someone supportive (who also happens to appreciate the art of the written word) to kindly
critique you.

Try to take a break once in a while. It is helpful just to go for a walk and collect your thoughts.

Be relaxed when writing. Try to start getting ideas when you get a sudden surge of emotion.
Many times, this will help you get started.

Avoid clichés or overused images. "The world is your oyster" is neither a brilliant nor an original
observation.

Do not block your feelings when writing, try to write down whatever comes to your mind and
then put it together.
Solve poet's block by carrying a notebook (some people call them Living Books) with you
everywhere, in which you can jot down poem ideas as they come to you. Creative ideas don't
always strike at the most ideal times. Then, when you're ready to write, get out the notebook
and find an idea that catches your fancy.

Emotion is a big part of poetry. If some sort of emotion isn't intertwined with the poem, it's as
though you threatened your muse at gunpoint. Your reader will probably see through your
forced effort.

When you start writing poems, it may help to write a single "subject-word" in the middle of a
sheet ("Love," for instance), and begin to think of words matching with the "subject-word"
("friendship" or "happiness"). When you do this before you write your poem, you already have
a foundation of words you can use. This is of real value to beginners.

If you want others to read your poetry, ask yourself "If somebody else showed me this, would I
like it?" If the answer is "no," continue editing the poem.

Your poems need not rhyme all the time. Even a blank verse poem can be moving and
beautiful.

Don't write for too long! Give yourself a break, as it will rest your mind.

Always be confident in your poem because you made the effort to write it.

Take your time to think about what you are doing your poem about. Don't rush your ideas.

Don't take constructive criticism the wrong way.

All The World's A Stage

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

© by owner. Added by volunteers for educational purposes and provided at no charge. Dmca

From: As you Like It

Act II

Scene VII

Sonnet 7: “Lo in the orient when the gracious light…”

Lo in the orient when the gracious light

Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

Serving with looks his sacred majesty,

And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,

Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

Attending on his golden pilgrimage:

But when from highmost pitch with weary car,

Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,

The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are

From his low tract and look another way:

So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon:

Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

Sonnet 9: “Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye…”

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,

That thou consum'st thy self in single life?

Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die,

The world will wail thee like a makeless wife,

The world will be thy widow and still weep,

That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

When every private widow well may keep,

By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:

Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend

Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,

And kept unused the user so destroys it:

No love toward others in that bosom sits

That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.

The Procreation Sonnets (1 - 17)

The Procreation Sonnets are grouped together

because they all address the same young man,

and all encourage him — with a variety of

themes and arguements — to marry and father

children (hence 'procreation').

———————————————————————————————————————

————

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby beauty's rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:

Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

II

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,

Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held:

Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;

To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,

Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,

If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine

Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'

Proving his beauty by succession thine!

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

III

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest

Now is the time that face should form another;

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.

For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

Or who is he so fond will be the tomb

Of his self-love, to stop posterity?

Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime;

So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,

Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.

But if thou live, remember'd not to be,

Die single and thine image dies with thee.

IV

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?

Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,

And being frank she lends to those are free:

Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse

The bounteous largess given thee to give?

Profitless usurer, why dost thou use

So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?

For having traffic with thy self alone,

Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:

Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,

What acceptable audit canst thou leave?

Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,

Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,

Will play the tyrants to the very same

And that unfair which fairly doth excel;

For never-resting time leads summer on

To hideous winter, and confounds him there;

Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,

Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:

Then were not summer's distillation left,

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,

Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:

But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,

Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

VI

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:

Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place

With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.

That use is not forbidden usury,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan;

That's for thy self to breed another thee,

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,

If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:

Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair

To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

VII

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light

Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

Serving with looks his sacred majesty;

And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,

Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

Attending on his golden pilgrimage:

But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,

Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,

The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are

From his low tract, and look another way:

So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon

Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

VIII

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:

Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,

Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,

By unions married, do offend thine ear,

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds

In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,

Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;

Resembling sire and child and happy mother,

Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:

Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,

Sings this to thee: 'Thou single wilt prove none.'

IX

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,

That thou consum'st thy self in single life?

Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,

The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;

The world will be thy widow and still weep

That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

When every private widow well may keep

By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:

Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend

Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,

And kept unused the user so destroys it.

No love toward others in that bosom sits

That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.

For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any,

Who for thy self art so unprovident.

Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,

But that thou none lov'st is most evident:

For thou art so possessed with murderous hate,

That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,

Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate

Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:

Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?

Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,

Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:

Make thee another self for love of me,

That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

XI

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st

In one of thine, from that which thou departest;

And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,

Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.

Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;

Without this folly, age, and cold decay:

If all were minded so, the times should cease

And threescore year would make the world away.

Let those whom nature hath not made for store,

Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:

Look whom she best endow'd, she gave the more;

Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:

She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,

Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

XII

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

XIII

O! that you were your self; but, love, you are

No longer yours, than you your self here live:

Against this coming end you should prepare,

And your sweet semblance to some other give:

So should that beauty which you hold in lease

Find no determination; then you were

Yourself again, after yourself's decease,

When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honour might uphold,

Against the stormy gusts of winter's day

And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,

You had a father: let your son say so.

XIV

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;

And yet methinks I have Astronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,

Or say with princes if it shall go well

By oft predict that I in heaven find:

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

And, constant stars, in them I read such art

As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert;

Or else of thee this I prognosticate:

Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

XV

When I consider every thing that grows

Holds in perfection but a little moment,

That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;

When I perceive that men as plants increase,

Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,

Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

And wear their brave state out of memory;

Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,

Where wasteful Time debateth with decay

To change your day of youth to sullied night,

And all in war with Time for love of you,

As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?

And fortify your self in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?

Now stand you on the top of happy hours,

And many maiden gardens, yet unset,

With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,

Much liker than your painted counterfeit:

So should the lines of life that life repair,

Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,

Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,

Can make you live your self in eyes of men.

To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,

And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say 'This poet lies;

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,

Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:

But were some child of yours alive that time,

You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.

The Dark Lady Sonnets (127 - 154)

CXXVII

In the old age black was not counted fair,

Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;

But now is black beauty's successive heir,

And beauty slandered with a bastard shame:

For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,

Fairing the foul with Art's false borrowed face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,

Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem

At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Sland'ring creation with a false esteem:

Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXVIII

How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action: and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;

Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;

Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,

Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,

On purpose laid to make the taker mad.

Mad in pursuit and in possession so;

Had, having, and in quest to have extreme;

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream.

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red, than her lips red:

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,

As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;

For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart

Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,

Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;

To say they err I dare not be so bold,

Although I swear it to myself alone.

And to be sure that is not false I swear,

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

One on another's neck, do witness bear

Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

Have put on black and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

And truly not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

Nor that full star that ushers in the even,

Doth half that glory to the sober west,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face:

O! let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,

And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

Is't not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

And my next self thou harder hast engrossed:

Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;

A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.

Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,

But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;

Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:

And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV

So now I have confessed that he is thine,

And I my self am mortgaged to thy will,

Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine

Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,

For thou art covetous, and he is kind;

He learned but surety-like to write for me,

Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,

And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;

So him I lose through my unkind abuse.

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:

He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;

More than enough am I that vexed thee still,

To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,

Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

Shall will in others seem right gracious,

And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,

And in abundance addeth to his store;

So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will

One will of mine, to make thy large will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;

Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

CXXXVI

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,

Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,

And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;

Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.

Will, will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

In things of great receipt with ease we prove

Among a number one is reckoned none:

Then in the number let me pass untold,

Though in thy store's account I one must be;

For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:

Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

And then thou lovest me for my name is 'Will.'

CXXXVII

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,

That they behold, and see not what they see?

They know what beauty is, see where it lies,

Yet what the best is take the worst to be.

If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,

Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,

Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,

Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?

Why should my heart think that a several plot,

Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?

Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,

To put fair truth upon so foul a face?

In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,

And to this false plague are they now transferred.

CXXXVIII

When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutored youth,

Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although she knows my days are past the best,

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:

On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:

But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O! love's best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love, loves not to have years told:

Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,

And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

CXXXIX

O! call not me to justify the wrong

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:

Use power with power, and slay me not by art,

Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight,

Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:

What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might

Is more than my o'erpressed defence can bide?

Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows

Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;

And therefore from my face she turns my foes,

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

CXL

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express

The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so;

As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,

No news but health from their physicians know;

For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,

And in my madness might speak ill of thee;

Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.

That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone:

But my five wits nor my five senses can

Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,

Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:

Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLII

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,

And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

That have profaned their scarlet ornaments

And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,

Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

By self-example mayst thou be denied!

CXLIII

Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

One of her feather'd creatures broke away,

Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;

Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

To follow that which flies before her face,

Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;

So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,

Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind;

So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'

If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

CXLIV

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still:

The better angel is a man right fair,

The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.

To win me soon to hell, my female evil,

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

And whether that my angel be turned fiend,

Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another's hell:

Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV

Those lips that Love's own hand did make,

Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate',

To me that languished for her sake:

But when she saw my woeful state,

Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was used in giving gentle doom;

And taught it thus anew to greet;

'I hate' she altered with an end,

That followed it as gentle day,

Doth follow night, who like a fiend

From heaven to hell is flown away.

'I hate', from hate away she threw,

And saved my life, saying 'not you'.

CXLVI

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

( ??? ) these rebel powers that thee array,

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?

Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

CXLVII

My love is as a fever longing still,

For that which longer nurseth the disease;

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed;

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII

O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,

Which have no correspondence with true sight;

Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,

That censures falsely what they see aright?

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

What means the world to say it is not so?

If it be not, then love doth well denote

Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,

How can it? O! how can Love's eye be true,

That is so vexed with watching and with tears?

No marvel then, though I mistake my view;

The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.

O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,

Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,

When I against myself with thee partake?

Do I not think on thee, when I forgot

Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?

Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,

On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,

Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend

Revenge upon myself with present moan?

What merit do I in my self respect,

That is so proud thy service to despise,

When all my best doth worship thy defect,

Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind,

Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.

CL

O! from what power hast thou this powerful might,

With insufficiency my heart to sway?

To make me give the lie to my true sight,

And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?

Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

That in the very refuse of thy deeds

There is such strength and warrantise of skill,

That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?

Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,

The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

O! though I love what others do abhor,

With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:

If thy unworthiness raised love in me,

More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

CLI

Love is too young to know what conscience is,

Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,

Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:

For, thou betraying me, I do betray

My nobler part to my gross body's treason;

My soul doth tell my body that he may

Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,

But rising at thy name doth point out thee,

As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,

He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

No want of conscience hold it that I call

Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.

CLII

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,

But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;

In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,

In vowing new hate after new love bearing:

But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,

When I break twenty? I am perjured most;

For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,

And all my honest faith in thee is lost:

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,

Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;

And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,

Or made them swear against the thing they see;

For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured eye,

To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

CLIII

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:

A maid of Dian's this advantage found,

And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep

In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;

Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,

A dateless lively heat, still to endure,

And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove

Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.

But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,

The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;

I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,

And thither hied, a sad distempered guest,

But found no cure, the bath for my help lies

Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.

CLIV

The little Love-god lying once asleep,

Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,

Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep

Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand

The fairest votary took up that fire

Which many legions of true hearts had warmed;

And so the General of hot desire

Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed.

This brand she quenched in a cool well by,

Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,

Growing a bath and healthful remedy,

For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,

Came there for cure and this by that I prove,

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

Maya Angelou

Savior

Petulant priests, greedy

centurions, and one million

incensed gestures stand

between your love and me.

Your agape sacrifice

is reduced to colored glass,

vapid penance, and the

tedium of ritual.

Your footprints yet

mark the crest of

billowing seas but

your joy

fades upon the tablets

of ordained prophets.

Visit us again, Savior.

Your children, burdened with

disbelief, blinded by a patina

of wisdom,

carom down this vale of

fear. We cry for you

although we have lost

your name.

Maya Angelou

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

Maya Angelou

Alone

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.

Charles Bukowski

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than

flesh.

there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

Charles Bukowski

Poetry Readings

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest

damned things ever,

the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,

week after week, month after month, year

after year,

getting old together,

reading on to tiny gatherings,

still hoping their genius will be

discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,

sweating for applause

they read basically to and for

each other,

they can't find a New York publisher

or one

within miles,

but they read on and on

in the poetry holes of America,

never daunted,

never considering the possibility that

their talent might be

thin, almost invisible,

they read on and on

before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,

their wives, their friends, the other poets

and the handful of idiots who have wandered

in

from nowhere.

I am ashamed for them,

I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,

I am ashamed for their lisping egos,

their lack of guts.

if these are our creators,

please, please give me something else:

a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,

a prelim boy in a four rounder,

a jock guiding his horse through along the

rail,

a bartender on last call,

a waitress pouring me a coffee,

a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,

a dog munching a dry bone,

an elephant's fart in a circus tent,

a 6 p.m. freeway crush,

the mailman telling a dirty joke

anything

anything

but

these.

William Wordsworth

Follow     

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

 A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Blake

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine.

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Wilfred Owen

Anthem For Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

 Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, —

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

William Wordsworth

The Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

 No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

Henry David Thoreau

I Knew A Man By Sight

I knew a man by sight,

A blameless wight,

Who, for a year or more,

Had daily passed my door,

Yet converse none had had with him.

I met him in a lane,

Him and his cane,

About three miles from home,

Where I had chanced to roam,

And volumes stared at him, and he at me.

In a more distant place

I glimpsed his face,

And bowed instinctively;

Starting he bowed to me,

Bowed simultaneously, and passed along.

Next, in a foreign land

I grasped his hand,

And had a social chat,

About this thing and that,

As I had known him well a thousand years.

Late in a wilderness

I shared his mess,

For he had hardships seen,

And I a wanderer been;

He was my bosom friend, and I was his.

And as, methinks, shall all,

Both great and small,

That ever lived on earth,

Early or late their birth,

Stranger and foe, one day each other know.

Maya Angelou

Caged Bird

The free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wings

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with fearful trill

of the things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill for the caged bird

sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

Garvit

Can Earth Be Earth?

Can earth be Earth when all its trees are gone,

And sudsy waters have become unfit,

And poisoned life no longer greets the dawn

With raucous sounds that death has caused to quit?

Will trees no longer wave, with limbs unfurled,

On hapless earth, that ever in orbit roams?

Will human ego sacrifice the world

To satiate its lust for pompous homes?

Will distant space look down on orb that's bald.

I now can hear the mother say,

"I was once called Earth.

But now, bereft of mirth, I weep.

That treeless orb's no longer Earth."