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When at heart you should be sad, Pondering the joys we had, Listen and keep very still. If the lowing from the hill Or the toiling of a bell Do not serve to break the spell, Listen: you may be allowed To hear my laughter from a cloud. When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. When I must leave you for a while Please do not grieve and shed wild tears And hug your sorrow to you through the years But start out bravely with a gallant smile And for my sake and in my name Live on and do all the things the same Feed not your lonliness on empty days But fill each working hour in useful ways Reach out your hand in comfort and in cheer And I in turn will comfort you and hold you near And never, never be afraid to die For I am waiting for you in the sky.
When I come to the end of my journey And I travel my last weary mile Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned And remember only the smile. Then forget to grieve for my going I would not have you sad for a day But in summer just gather some flowers And remember the place where I lay. And come in the shade of evening When the sun paints the sky in the west Stand for a few moments beside me And remember only my best. When I Survery the Wondrous Cross.
When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of glory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride. All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to His blood. See from His head, His hands, His feet, Sorrow and love flow mingled down! Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were a present far too small; Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
When You Are Old. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;. How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;.
And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. Where I have gone I am not so small My soul is as wide as the world is tall I have gone to answer the call, the call Of the One who takes care of us all. Wherever you look, you will find me there- In the heart of a rose In the heart of a prayer.
At the end of the storm Is a golden sky And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind, Walk on through the rain, Though your dreams be tossed and blown. The beam shines down, The rays so bright, The stars come forward, At the dead of night. An angel gained, A distance apart, Our friendship lives on, A place in my heart. Great collection! However, two problems: 1 Are you aware that poems 43 and 50 are the exact same poem, except with different titles and different credits?
Which one is correct? Which version is correct? Great catch! Farewell; Farewell my wife and children all. In this poem I think the details are all things that anyone would notice individually, once they look, they have to be for the poem to make sense. With this poem it was very much about noticing details. So there is definitely an element of noticing things in a different way. How important are they to writing? Many great poems are rooted in and successfully portray profound ideas about life, but, for me anyway, what brings a poem home is its connection to the physical world.
I think poetry is about making the personal universally accessible, and this accessibility depends on the reader being able to feel their way around a poem, to know what it is to be in the world of the poem. If the reader can visualise what the poet is describing, they can be brought on a much more evocative journey. How we experience things through our bodies is very important to our minds. I think surprising the reader can be important, it certainly makes a poem more memorable, but, when writing the poem I never thought of the ending as all that shocking.
It just seemed like a natural ending.
The blackness of death is tied up in the spirit and mourning. When I think black and death I think funerals, black horses, hearses, and the great abyss after death. The death that comes into this poem is largely physical. I would argue that the pink in this poem is associated with femininity as much as death. Femininity, or girliness, has different meaning for different people, and when you say girliness I get the feeling you mean lipstick and lovehearts. I am not trying to take pink away from femininity, I more see pink as a common image between femininity and death.
The colour in this poem makes a connection between things that are already linked, it ties the female experience to death. Birth, death, creation.
101 Poetry Prompts & Ideas for Writing Poems
The money mainly. Just kidding. Goodness, so many reasons. My friend and I were talking about this recently. You know that old idea, if a tree falls and no one is around to hear it does it make a sound? We may have been a little drunk when we came up with that comparison. Anyway, I was arguing that the main purpose of writing, the reason I myself write, is communication.
We learn so much about life, about each other, through reading. I was raised to question everything, and I do that through writing now. When I decided to become a writer, and by that I mean try to follow the path professionally, this was a large part of my reasoning.
To be able to ask questions and communicate my thoughts on them. And that, or something to that effect, something about empathy, understanding, and communication, was going to be my answer.
Maya Angelou - Wikipedia
Anyway, when I started writing, I never did so with the hope of anyone understanding or anyone seeing or anyone even knowing I was doing it. It was for the joy of it. When I started writing poetry I was older, nineteen maybe, and it was almost like therapy.
I wanted to find my own answers. I use poetry to take little freeze frames of life. Writing can be such a physical joy. Hmmm, I never feel qualified to give advice in case it leads someone in the wrong direction. Read everything, read in the medium you write, read in other mediums, read things you love, read things you hate, read poetry, read fiction, read philosophy, read the bloody dictionary.
Then put the book down and pick up the pen. Be honest, I suppose. To your readers and yourself.
Introduction If the Monty Python team were to attempt a love poem, it might turn out something like this. Though this poem might be more of a portrait than an actual love poem. It provides a quirky snapshot into a relationship, twisting the tropes of love poetry to comic effect. The tone is clearly playful.
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It functions as an in-joke that the average reader can feel privy to, using extreme exaggeration to keep the reader hooked. Portrait poems are often slow, contemplative things. This poem, however, is full of colour. Though no dramatic event occurs, it feels like a dynamic piece of writing.
What this comic hero will do to entertain us. How the poet will end the poem. That basic element of surprise is perhaps the foundation of almost all good writing.
Before doing an MA in Writing at NUI Galway in , I worked in local government and the community sector for thirty years, supporting local groups to engage in local projects and initiatives. Interview What was your aim with this poem? Was it simply to create a surreal, unusual portrait of a person? For some reason, it reminds me of a Cubist portrait. Can I ask how the title relates to the poem?