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

LikeManyWaters
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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

...Many waters cannot quench love... - Song of Solomon 8:7

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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

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:
Eva D
siamo contenti? ... ho fatto questa caricatura ... - Nietzsche

TriciaG
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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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aradlaw
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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


Craig

fshort
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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
… Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose...
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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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