Weekly/Fortnightly Poetry Suggestions

Short Poetry Collections, Short Story Collections, and our Weekly Poetry Project
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Newgatenovelist
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Post by Newgatenovelist » December 16th, 2019, 4:35 pm

I'd like to suggest Love by Elizabeth Barrett Browning for a weekly poem:

We cannot live, except thus mutually
We alternate, aware or unaware,
The reflex act of life: and when we bear
Our virtue outward most impulsively,
Most full of invocation, and to be
Most instantly compellant, certes there
We live most life, whoever breathes most air
And counts his dying years by sun and sea.
But when a soul, by choice and conscience, doth
Throw out her full force on another soul,
The conscience and the concentration both
Make mere life, Love. For Life in perfect whole
And aim consummated, is Love in sooth,
As Nature's magnet-heat rounds pole with pole.

Taken from: https://archive.org/details/lovesongsbyrober00brow/page/74

Erin

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Post by LikeManyWaters » January 1st, 2020, 2:26 pm

This poem encouraged me today, and I'm not sure if it's been done:

"Rest" by John Sullivan Dwight

SWEET is the pleasure
Itself cannot spoil!
Is not true leisure
One with true toil?

Thou that wouldst taste it,
Still do thy best;
Use it, not waste it,
Else ’t is no rest.

Wouldst behold beauty
Near thee? all round?
Only hath duty
Such a sight found.

Rest is not quitting
The busy career;
Rest is the fitting
Of self to its sphere.

’T is the brook’s motion,
Clear without strife,
Fleeing to ocean
After its life.

Deeper devotion
Nowhere hath knelt;
Fuller emotion
Heart never felt.

’T is loving and serving
The Highest and Best!
’T is onwards, unswerving,
And that is true rest.

PD copy here: https://archive.org/details/poetsoftranscend00cookiala/page/116
April

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he who is running in the opposite direction appears to have lost his mind.” 
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KevinS
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Post by KevinS » January 14th, 2020, 9:36 am

David, would a prose poem from Stein be of interest? There is no lyric to it, perhaps, but I would be interested in seeing how others read her work.

"There is coagulation in cold and there is none in prudence. Something is preserved and the evening is long and the colder spring has sudden shadows in a sun. All the stain is tender and lilacs really lilacs are disturbed. Why is the perfect reëstablishment practiced and prized, why is it composed. The result the pure result is juice and size and baking and exhibition and nonchalance and sacrifice and volume and a section in division and the surrounding recognition and horticulture and no murmur. This is a result. There is no superposition and circumstance, there is hardness and a reason and the rest and remainder. There is no delight and no mathematics."

Perhaps there are better suggestions to be made, but I offer this for the Modernists in us.

https://www.bartleby.com/140/2.html
In a gadda da vida, honey

bluechien
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Post by bluechien » January 14th, 2020, 11:45 am

KevinS wrote:
January 14th, 2020, 9:36 am
"There is coagulation in cold and there is none in prudence. Something is preserved and the evening is long and the colder spring has sudden shadows in a sun. All the stain is tender and lilacs really lilacs are disturbed. Why is the perfect reëstablishment practiced and prized, why is it composed. The result the pure result is juice and size and baking and exhibition and nonchalance and sacrifice and volume and a section in division and the surrounding recognition and horticulture and no murmur. This is a result. There is no superposition and circumstance, there is hardness and a reason and the rest and remainder. There is no delight and no mathematics."
Ahh, how fun :9:
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Post by TriciaG » January 23rd, 2020, 1:10 pm

Here is a lovely poem that might be good for around Mother's Day:

I HAVE not yet known Mother's grief
For I can comfort thee.
Child, I can smile above the tears
So swiftly eased by me.

I know in time my son shall grow
Beyond his Mother's ken.
And half a stranger he will go
Among the world of men.

Then shall I know a Mother's grief—
His separate bitterness.
My heart will break if his must ache
With wounds I cannot guess.

'T is little pain to bear a child
Beside this other woe.
To feel the helplessness to soothe
The want that grieves him so.

(I hear a man cry in the dark,
He journeys on alone.)

Lie close, lie close, my little son,
While yet thou art my own.

(His heart is broken by stranger hands,
I may not give him rest.)

My darling one, my child, my Son!
I hold thee on my breast.

(The heart in him is sick with need,
For help I may not give.)

Perchance the smiles I spend on thee
May help that stranger live.

(Unhoused, along a barren road,
I bear a pilgrim weep.)

But in his heart is the little song
That sings thee now to sleep.

(The bitter brand of this world's shame
Is sealed upon his brow.)

But in his hand is a New Name—
The kiss I give thee now!

For when my child is grown — is grown —
He 'll get this help from me,
That now, while he is all my own,
I rock him on my knee.

https://archive.org/details/theshoesthatdanc00branrich/page/n187
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Post by aradlaw » January 24th, 2020, 5:58 am

TriciaG wrote:
January 23rd, 2020, 1:10 pm
Here is a lovely poem that might be good for around Mother's Day:

https://archive.org/details/theshoesthatdanc00branrich/page/n187
Thank you Tricia. :D
David Lawrence

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soupy
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Post by soupy » February 1st, 2020, 4:19 pm

Hi David

I would like to suggest The Negro's Complaint
By William Cowper 1731-1800 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cowper

https://archive.org/details/poemsofwilliamco00cowprich/page/365/mode/1up

Cowper wrote a poem called "The Negro's Complaint" (1788) which rapidly became very famous, and was often quoted by Martin Luther King Jr. during the 20th century civil rights movement. per wikipedia


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Post by fshort » February 2nd, 2020, 8:44 pm

I suggest:

The Dawn’s Awake! by Otto Leland Bohanan

First published in James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922.
Bartleby.com

Otto Leland Bohanan was BORN AROUND 1895 IN Washington, D.C. He graduated from Howard University and taught English at the Catholic University. He also worked as a music instructor at DeWitt Clinton High School, and died in 1932.



THE DAWN’S awake!
A flash of smoldering flame and fire
Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher,
O’er all the sky so gray, forlorn,
The torch of gold is borne. 5

The Dawn’s awake!
The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills.
And music singing in the hills
A pæan of eternal spring
Voices the new awakening. 10

The Dawn’s awake!
Whispers of pent-up harmonies,
With the mingled fragrance of the trees;
Faint snatches of half-forgotten song—
Fathers! torn and numb,— 15
The boon of light we craved, awaited long,
Has come, has come!
Florence Short
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chymocles
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Post by chymocles » February 9th, 2020, 5:47 am

I would like to read Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey's "Prisoned in Windsor, He Recounteth His Pleasure There Passed," which begins, "So Cruel Prison." The source is p. 17 of https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=hvd.hwle6v&view=1up&seq=101.

chymocles

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Post by KevinS » March 6th, 2020, 11:06 am

I thought it would be nice to have some Damon Runyan in the catalog.

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=loc.ark:/13960/t53f5b755&view=1up&seq=144

THE LAST OF THE HACKDRIVERS

A STORY OF THE CITY

YOU all recall ''Seattle," and his team of balky grays
Who stood at Kelcey's corner for a score of years or more;
His hack a welcome haven in your salad, ballad days
When you steered, a trifle tempest tossed, against his friendly shore.
You must recall "Seattle," and the creak and squeak and rattle
Of his deep sea-going carriage as it churned along the street ;
In rain or shine he waited for the patrons he had slated —
And now, they say, "Seattle's "dead ; time surely passes fleet!

You must recall " Seattle," and his horses, Tom and Joe;
His beaming, liquored countenance, and somewhat husky bass —
For twenty years of night he stood and watched us come and go
And lent a helping hand to us with all his courtly grace.
He drove you to your courting, to your wedding and disporting,
He stood, a beacon of relief, from nightfall until dawn.
When anyone was buried, in his good old hack he ferried
The mourners to the graveyard where he himself has gone.

Aye, we all recall "Seattle," and his team of sulky grays,
A taxicab is at his stand, and he has passed along.
But we seem to hear — an echo of the ballad, salad days —
His husky voice uplifted in an oldtime dance hall song.
So we'll weep for old "Seattle," and we'll miss the creak and rattle
Of the iron-heeled wheels that sang to us in creeping down the road;
And in that place hereafter, we will greet that kindly grafter
With a pleasant, "How, Seattle," and a "Have you got a load? "
In a gadda da vida, honey

chymocles
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Post by chymocles » March 10th, 2020, 5:53 pm

I recommend two dramatic devotional poems by George Herbert, found at https://archive.org/details/georgeherbert00herb/page/n5

The reason I want to read them together is that the second one follows much the same emotional pattern as the first and serves to help interpret it—or perhaps only to justify my own interpretation of it. The first poem has, in my opinion, been misread by many professional readers and critics who seem deaf to the kind of swift changes of mood that Herbert's poetry often exhibits.

If you approve of this suggestion, will you answer in this thread? I would appreciate a personal message explaining the procedure for these miscellanies.

AFFLICTION

WHEN first Thou didst entice to Thee my heart,
I thought the service bravo :
So many joyes I writ down for my part,
Besides what I might have
Out of my stock of naturall delights,
Augmented with Thy gracious benefits.
I looked on Thy furniture so fine,
And made it fine to me;
Thy glorious houshold-stuffe did me entwine,
And 'tice me unto Thee;
Such starres I counted mine: both heav'n and earth
Payd me my wages in a world of mirth.
What pleasures could I want, whose King I served,
Where joyes my fellows were?
Thus argu'd into hopes, my thoughts reserved
No place for grief or fear;
Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,
And made her youth and fiercenesse seek Thy face.
At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses,
I had my wish and way;
My days were straw' d with flow'rs and happinesses;
There was no moneth but May.
But with my yeares sorrow did twist and grow,
And made a partie unawares for wo.
My flesh began unto my soul in pain,
Sicknesses cleave my bones,
Consuming agues dwell in ev'ry vein,
And tune my breath to grones:
Sorrow was all my soul ; I scarce beleeved,
Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.
When I got health, Thou took'st away my life,
And more, for my friends die:
My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife
Was of more use then I:
Thus thinne and lean, without a fence or friend,
I was blown through with ev'ry storm and winde.
Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
The way that takes the town,
Thou didst betray me to a lingring book,
And wrap me in a gown;
I was entangled in the world of strife
Before I had the power to change my life.
Yet, for I threatned oft the siege to raise,
Not simpring all mine age,
Thou often didst with academick praise
Melt and dissolve my rage:
I took Thy sweetened pill till I came neare;
I could not go away, nor persevere.
Yet lest perchance I should too happie be
In my unhappinesse,
Turning my purge to food, Thou throwest me
Into more sicknesses:
Thus doth Thy power cross-bias me, not making
Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.
Now I am here, what Thou wilt do with me
None of my books will show:
I reade, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
For sure then I should grow
To fruit or shade ; at least some bird would trust
Her houshold to me, and I should be just.
Yet, though Thou troublest me, I must be meek;
In weaknesse must be stout.
Well, I will change the service, and go seek
Some other master out.
Ah, my deare God, though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee not.

THE COLLAR

I STRUCK the board, and cry'd, 'No more;
I will abroad.'
What, shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the winde, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me bloud, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did drie it; there was corn
Before my tears did drown it;
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it,
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted,
All wasted?
Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands
Which pettie thoughts have made; and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away ! take heed;
I will abroad.
Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears;
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need
Deserves his load.
But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wilde
At every word,
Methought I heard one calling, 'Childe';
And I reply'd, 'My Lord.'

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Post by TriciaG » March 14th, 2020, 1:23 pm

I wrote to someone that in these current times, "Trust in God, and keep your powder dry". That made me look up the saying. It's from a poem!

It's not as good a poem as I was hoping, but thought I'd throw it out there.
https://books.google.ca/books?id=NEczAQAAMAAJ&pg=PA700&redir_esc=y&hl=en#v=onepage&q&f=false
(2 pages)
"Trust in God and keep your powder dry" is a maxim attributed to Oliver Cromwell, but which first appeared in 1834 in the poem "Oliver's Advice" by William Blacker with the words "Put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry!" The poem is a dramatic representation of Cromwell addressing his army during the invasion of Ireland. Edward Hayes, who edited the anthology in which the work first appeared, calls it a "well-authenticated anecdote of Cromwell."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trust_in_God_and_keep_your_powder_dry

A copyable (but not sourceable) text of it is here: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Oliver%27s_Advice
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Post by pschempf » March 14th, 2020, 2:12 pm

TriciaG wrote:
March 14th, 2020, 1:23 pm
I wrote to someone that in these current times, "Trust in God, and keep your powder dry". That made me look up the saying. It's from a poem!

It's not as good a poem as I was hoping, but thought I'd throw it out there.
https://books.google.ca/books?id=NEczAQAAMAAJ&pg=PA700&redir_esc=y&hl=en#v=onepage&q&f=false
(2 pages)
"Trust in God and keep your powder dry" is a maxim attributed to Oliver Cromwell, but which first appeared in 1834 in the poem "Oliver's Advice" by William Blacker with the words "Put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry!" The poem is a dramatic representation of Cromwell addressing his army during the invasion of Ireland. Edward Hayes, who edited the anthology in which the work first appeared, calls it a "well-authenticated anecdote of Cromwell."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trust_in_God_and_keep_your_powder_dry

A copyable (but not sourceable) text of it is here: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Oliver%27s_Advice
It appears in this collection -

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=coo.31924013512706&view=1up&seq=215
Fritz

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Post by aradlaw » March 14th, 2020, 6:45 pm

chymocles wrote:
March 10th, 2020, 5:53 pm
I recommend two dramatic devotional poems by George Herbert, found at https://archive.org/details/georgeherbert00herb/page/n5

The reason I want to read them together is that the second one follows much the same emotional pattern as the first and serves to help interpret it—or perhaps only to justify my own interpretation of it. The first poem has, in my opinion, been misread by many professional readers and critics who seem deaf to the kind of swift changes of mood that Herbert's poetry often exhibits.

If you approve of this suggestion, will you answer in this thread? I would appreciate a personal message explaining the procedure for these miscellanies.
Hi Tom, I've replied to your PM this evening.
David Lawrence

* Weekly & Fortnightly Poetry - Check out the Short Works forum for the latest projects!

annise
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Post by annise » March 14th, 2020, 8:03 pm

I don't know if David realised - but that text was published 1994 so another source would be needed ?

Anne

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