Had I the Choice

Had I the choice to tally greatest bards,
To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will,
Homer with all his wars and warriors--Hector, Achilles, Ajax,
Or Shakespeare's woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello--Tennyson's fair ladies,
Meter or wit the best, or choice conceit to weild in perfect rhyme, delight of singers;
These, these, O sea, all these I'd gladly barter,
Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer,
Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse,
And leave its odor there.

poem by Walt Whitman
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Concerning Emperors

I. GOD SEND THE REGICIDE

Would that the lying rulers of the world
Were brought to block for tyrannies abhorred.
Would that the sword of Cromwell and the Lord,
The sword of Joshua and Gideon,
Hewed hip and thigh the hosts of Midian.
God send that ironside ere tomorrow's sun;
Let Gabriel and Michael with him ride.
God send the Regicide.

II. A COLLOQUIAL REPLY: TO ANY NEWSBOY

If you lay for Iago at the stage door with a brick
You have missed the moral of the play.
He will have a midnight supper with Othello and his wife.
They will chirp together and be gay.
But the things Iago stands for must go down into the dust:
Lying and suspicion and conspiracy and lust.

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
Exact in capitals your golden name;
Or sue the fair Apollo and he will
Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill
Great love in me for thee and Poesy.
Imagine not that greatest mastery
And kingdom over all the Realms of verse,
Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse
And surety give to love and Brotherhood.

Anthropophagi in Othello's mood;
Ulysses storm'd and his enchanted belt
Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt
Unbosom'd so and so eternal made,
Such tender incense in their laurel shade
To all the regent sisters of the Nine
As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;

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poem by John Keats
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I had a crunch

When I was in standard nine
(now grade eleven)
I had a crunch
on my English teacher.

She was very young
maybe twenty-one,
(must have matriculated at seventeen)
and had a cute
or rather beautiful face,
was slender
with soft dark hair
hanging to her shoulders
and even softer
dark brown eyes.

She never raised her voice
(not even when I and Daan
would cause a small fight
to be sent out to the winter sun)

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Ballade of Dead Actors

Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go one and all.
Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?
The plumes, the armours -- friend and foe?
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,
The mantles glittering to and fro?
The pomp, the pride, the royal show?
The cries of war and festival?
The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?
Into the night go one and all.
The curtain falls, the play is played:
The Beggar packs beside the Beau;
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;
The Thunder huddles with the Snow.

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poem by William Ernest Henley
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For The One Who Would Take Man's Life In His Hands

Tiger Christ unsheathed his sword,
Threw it down, became a lamb.
Swift spat upon the species, but
Took two women to his heart.
Samson who was strong as death
Paid his strength to kiss a slut.
Othello that stiff warrior
Was broken by a woman's heart.
Troy burned for a sea-tax, also for
Possession of a charming whore.
What do all examples show?
What must the finished murderer know?

You cannot sit on bayonets,
Nor can you eat among the dead.
When all are killed, you are alone,
A vacuum comes where hate has fed.
Murder's fruit is silent stone,
The gun increases poverty.
With what do these examples shine?

[...] Read more

poem by Delmore Schwartz
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I'm William Shakespeare

I’m born in April,1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon
I’m 100 miles northwest of London
I’m According to the records of Stratford's Holy Trinity Church
I’m baptized on April 26
I’m traditional birth date April 23rd, St. George's day
I’m married Anne Hathaway on November 27,1582
I’m 18; Anne was 26, eight years older than me.
I’m Susanna was born around May 26,1583; twins, Hamnet and Judith, were born around February 2,1585.
I’m likely educated at the grammar school in Stratford from the age of six or seven.
I’m published my first poem, 'Venus and Adonis, ' in 1593. I then wrote 154 poems and 37 plays, and my fame has only increased with time.
I’m recognized as one of the greatest writers of all time, known for works like 'Hamlet, ' 'Much Ado About Nothing, ' 'Romeo and Juliet, ' 'Othello, ' 'The Tempest, ' and many other works.
I’m With the 154 poems and 37 plays of my literary career, my body of works are among the most quoted in literature. I created comedies, histories, tragedies, and poetry. Despite the authorship controversies that have surrounded my works, the name of my continues to be revered by scholars and writers from around the world
I’m William Shakespeare

poem by Valya Madden
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Homage to the Common Man

Step aside,
Kings and princes-
Hamlet, Lear and Othello,
Fictional tragic heroes,
For long
You have kept us
Mesmerised.

Here comes the common man,
Who watches in stupor
As his family is burnt alive.
The last time
He heard his
Dear wife’s voice
Was on the mobile,
Cinema hall is on fire,
There is no way
we can survive.

So this is goodbye.

[...] Read more

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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0312 Even the Best may stumble

Let’s suppose
you’ve bought or blagged
an invite to a buzzy West End party
after the football game, where
you’ll ‘mingle with the stars’

and when you get there, all glammed up
and wearing your Saturday best,
you glimpse, beyond a velvet, guarded rope,
the ‘stars’ you just won’t mingle with –

those ‘celebs’ with not too much to do
except to party and be photographed,
‘stars’ who’re hoping thus to burn the brighter
in the starry glitter of their combined glow…

while the hungry media, mingling in symbiosis,
poised to photograph,
smooze and click to elevate
these passing comets into myth

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Po Boy

Words and music by bob dylan
Man came to the door, I say for whom were you lookin?
Says your wife, I say shes busy in the kitchen cookin
Po boy, where you been?
Already told you, wont tell you again
I say how much you want for that, Ill go into the store
Man says three dollars all right, I say, will you take four?
Po boy, never say die
Things will be all right, by and by
Workin like in a main line, workin like the devil
The game is the same its just upon another level
Po boy, dressed in black
Police at your back
Po boy in a red hot town
Out beyond the twinklin stars
Ridin first class train
Makin the rounds
Try to keep from fallin between the cars
Othello told desdemona Im cold, cover me with a blanket
By the way, what happened to that poisoned wine?

[...] Read more

song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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To Mary

I.
How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten
(For vipers kill, though dead) by some review,
That you condemn these verses I have written,
Because they tell no story, false or true?
What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten,
May it not leap and play as grown cats do,
Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time,
Content thee with a visionary rhyme.

II.
What hand would crush the silken-wingèd fly,
The youngest of inconstant April's minions,
Because it cannot climb the purest sky,
Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions?
Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die,
When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions
The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile,
Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile.

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Lines in Defence of the Stage

Good people of high and low degree,
I pray ye all be advised by me,
And don't believe what the clergy doth say,
That by going to the theatre you will be led astray.

No, in the theatre we see vice punished and virtue rewarded,
The villain either hanged or shot, and his career retarded;
Therefore the theatre is useful in every way,
And has no inducement to lead the people astray.

Because therein we see the end of the bad men,
Which must appall the audience - deny it who can
Which will help to retard them from going astray,
While witnessing in a theatre a moral play.

The theatre ought to be encouraged in every respect,
Because example is better than precept,
And is bound to have a greater effect
On the minds of theatre-goers in every respect.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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February

Begin, my muse, the imitative lay,
Aonian doxies sound the thrumming string;
Attempt no number of the plaintive Gay,
Let me like midnight cats, or Collins sing.
If in the trammels of the doleful line
The bounding hail, or drilling rain descend;
Come, brooding Melancholy, pow'r divine,
And ev'ry unform'd mass of words amend.

Now the rough goat withdraws his curling horns,
And the cold wat'rer twirls his circling mop:
Swift sudden anguish darts thro' alt'ring corns,
And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop.

Now infant authors, madd'ning for renown,
Extend the plume, and him about the stage,
Procure a benefit, amuse the town,
And proudly glitter in a title page.

Now, wrapt in ninefold fur, his squeamish grace

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Chatterton
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A Bush Study, A La Watteau

HE.
See the smoke-wreaths how they curl so lightly skyward
From the ivied cottage nestled in the trees:
Such a lovely spot—I really feel that I would
Be happy there with children on my knees.

SHE.
No, you wouldn’t. These are merely idle fancies
Of a gentleman much given to day-dreams.
These chimneys always smoke, and, then the chance is
You would have a scolding wife and babe that screams.

HE.
Ah! but look! just there, above that lowly cottage,
Birds are flitting in the sunlight clear and pure;
And the three-score years and ten—man’s poor allottage—
Might be passed away with pleasure there, I’m sure.

SHE.
Now, pray listen, oh, vain wanderer from the city,

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Patchett Martin
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An African Elegy

In the groves of Africa from their natural wonder
the wildebeest, zebra, the okapi, the elephant,
have enterd the marvelous. No greater marvelous
know I than the mind’s
natural jungle. The wives of the Congo
distil there their red and the husbands
hunt lion with spear and paint Death-spore
on their shields, wear his teeth, claws and hair
on ordinary occasions. There the Swahili
open his doors, let loose thru the trees
the tides of Death’s sound and distil
from their leaves the terrible red. He
is the consort of dreams I have seen, heard
in the orchestral dark
like the barking of dogs.

Death is the dog-headed man zebra striped
and surrounded by silence who walks like a lion,
who is black. It was his voice crying come back,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Duncan
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Caprice [Bad Poetry]

Caprice
or Capricious,
I'm ferocious
not delicious
taste me
I bet you want to spit me
kiss me
I'm salty
not funky
that's miss duckie.
I hate sundays
hypocrites all over the places
I prefer mondays,
my workdays.
Who's Becky
just too freaky for my liking.
Merlin;
apprientice magic
could have killed Mogana
but that would end the drama

[...] Read more

poem by Efe Benjamin
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How We Beat The Favourite

A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup

'Aye, squire,' said Stevens, 'they back him at evens ;
The race is all over, bar shouting, they say ;
The Clown ought to beat her ; Dick Neville is sweeter
Than ever—he swears he can win all the way.

'A gentleman rider—well, I'm an outsider,
But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock ?
You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder,
He rides, too, like thunder—he sits like a rock.

'He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely
Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds,
A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick,
And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.

'They say we have no test to warrant a protest ;
Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward ;
The light of their faces they show him—his case is

[...] Read more

poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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The Rape of the Lock: Canto 5

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears,
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,
While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan;
Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began.
"Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most,
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why angels call'd, and angel-like ador'd?
Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux,
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:
That men may say, when we the front-box grace:
'Behold the first in virtue, as in face!'
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charm'd the smallpox, or chas'd old age away;

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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Address For The Opening Of The Fifth Avenue Theatre

NEW YORK, DECEMBER 3, 1873

HANG out our banners on the stately tower
It dawns at last--the long-expected hour!
The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit won,
The builder's task, the artist's labor done;
Before the finished work the herald stands,
And asks the verdict of your lips and hands!

Shall rosy daybreak make us all forget
The golden sun that yester-evening set?
Fair was the fabric doomed to pass away
Ere the last headaches born of New Year's Day;
With blasting breath the fierce destroyer came
And wrapped the victim in his robes of flame;
The pictured sky with redder morning blushed,
With scorching streams the naiad's fountain gushed,
With kindling mountains glowed the funeral pyre,
Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire,--
The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling curtain fell,--

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Forsaking All Others Part 1

'NOT that you'll like him,' Nell said,
'No mystery - no romance,
A fine, stern, eagle-like head,
But he simply reeks of finance, -­
Started from nothing - self-made -­
And rather likes you to know it,
And now collects porcelain and jade,
Or some Seventeenth Century poet.

'Married in simpler days,
A poor little wren of a being,
Who exists to pray and praise,
And spends her life agreeing,
Thin and dowdy and pale,
And getting paler and thinner­
Well, the point of this dreary tale
Is I've asked them both to dinner.

'I'd leave her out like a shot,
For I'm not so keen about her,

[...] Read more

poem by Alice Duer Miller
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