As The Poems Go
As the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
A Poet's Voice Xv
Part One
The power of charity sows deep in my heart, and I reap and gather the wheat in bundles and give them to the hungry.
My soul gives life to the grapevine and I press its bunches and give the juice to the thirsty.
Heaven fills my lamp with oil and I place it at my window to direct the stranger through the dark.
I do all these things because I live in them; and if destiny should tie my hands and prevent me from so doing, then death would be my only desire. For I am a poet, and if I cannot give, I shall refuse to receive.
Forest Of Europe
The last leaves fell like notes from a piano
and left their ovals echoing in the ear;
with gawky music stands, the winter forest
looks like an empty orchestra, its lines
ruled on these scattered manuscripts of snow.
The inlaid copper laurel of an oak
shines though the brown-bricked glass above your head
as bright as whisky, while the wintry breath
of lines from Mandelstam, which you recite,
A Man Young And Old
I
First Love
Though nurtured like the sailing moon
In beauty's murderous brood,
She walked awhile and blushed awhile
And on my pathway stood
Until I thought her body bore
A heart of flesh and blood.
But since I laid a hand thereon
Behind Ghost And Its Story
In the evening, the passerby while lonely passing
Heard some noises of an unseen cart on other way
Which he mistook bone breaking, tearing, chopping,
Murmuring, rumbling, trembling sounds all around,
He was confused, fixed, feared and crying uttering
'Is there a ghost? Oh, ghost! Ghost! ! A ghost! ! ! '
'Where? ' Some curious people were rushing to
'Oh! Here is, trying to kill me, can't you see, men? '
'Oh! Where, how looking? ' They were roaming about
'Skeleton like, just skeleton like, oh! Horror! ! Horror! ! '
Knowledge Confined In Paper (Prose Poem)
Sharpening the cells in cerebrum and cerebellum
Through meditation, arts, knowledge and strategy
With emotion, motion of sad and happy persons
From the history up to date and the moving pages
Writers write, artists art in front of the open universe,
The mysterious nature focuses the light of unknown
In the power of truth beauty in place and time both
Creation, destruction, origin of things and beings
With lots of evidence, imageries similes, legends,
An Essay On Criticism
Part I
INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.
Literatures And Arts In Activities (Verse)
The nice Arts
Invite nice literature
It is arts
Lie by literature,
If you are well artist
You will express well through it
If you are well literary
You will express well through it
An artist is a literary and wright
A literary is an artist and wright for the causes of rights;
What He Thought
We were supposed to do a job in Italy
and, full of our feeling for
ourselves (our sense of being
Poets from America) we went
from Rome to Fano, met
the Mayor, mulled a couple
matters over. The Italian literati seemed
bewildered by the language of America: they asked us
what does "flat drink" mean? and the mysterious
"cheap date" (no explanation lessened
Maya Angelou: A Phenomenal Woman?
Me thinks much ink
has been spilt
over the poem;
‘Phenomenal Woman’
by Maya Angelou.
Me thinks it is time
I stuck my oar in
had my say;
hopefully in a far
Battle Of Brunanburgh
Athelstan King,
Lord among Earls,
Bracelet-bestower and
Baron of Barons,
He with his brother,
Edmund Atheling,
Gaining a lifelong
Glory in battle,
Slew with the sword-edge
There by Brunanburh,
An Expostulation
Against too many writers of science fiction
Why did you lure us on like this,
Light-year on light-year, through the abyss,
Building (as though we cared for size!)
Empires that cover galaxies
If at the journey's end we find
The same old stuff we left behind,
Well-worn Tellurian stories of
Crooks, spies, conspirators, or love,
So You Want To Be A Writer
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
Motivation
Neither the motivation should be confined to word nor to book. Many things might have been written in book but so long as it is not put into practice or use, it can’t deliver the result. You might have experienced number of times that actual result can be had only after putting self before everything. The sales men may increase the sales by many folds but that may just not be the reality. It is performed under forced situation. It is doesn’t speak of any motivation, but only a consideration,
A Triolet
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.
It makes bad writers somewhat worse:
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
That fall beneath a reader's curse,
It is the feeblest jingle yet.
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.
Farewell To Secretary Shu-Yun At The Hsieh Tiao Villa In Hsuan-Chou
Since yesterday had throw me and bolt,
Today has hurt my heart even more.
The autumn wildgeese have a long wing for escort
As I face them from this villa, drinking my wine.
The bones of great writers are your brushes, in the school of heaven,
And I am Lesser Hsieh growing up by your side.
We both are exalted to distant thought,
Aspiring to the sky and the bright moon.
But since water still flows, though we cut it with our swords,
And sorrow return,though we drown them with wine,
The Paper Nautilus
For authorities whose hopes
are shaped by mercenaries?
Writers entrapped by
teatime fame and by
commuters' comforts? Not for these
the paper nautilus
constructs her thin glass shell.
Giving her perishable
souvenir of hope, a dull
A Man Young And Old: Xi. From Oedipus At Colonus
Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span;
Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man;
Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
Even from that delight memory treasures so,
Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,
As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know.
In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng,
The bride is carried to the bridegroom's chamber through torchlight and tumultuous song;
Rubbish
The world is full of rubbish
I see it all around
Strewn along the pavements
And scattered ‘cross the ground
It hangs on outstretched branches
Like washing on a line
Dumped into the river
Oh, aint it such a crime
Imitations Of Horace: The First Epistle Of The Second Book
Ne Rubeam, Pingui donatus Munere
(Horace, Epistles II.i.267)
While you, great patron of mankind, sustain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main;
Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How shall the Muse, from such a monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?
Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,