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Daily Archives: February 3, 2014



Farm boys wild to couple
With anything      with soft-wooded trees   
With mounds of earth      mounds   
Of pinestraw      will keep themselves off   
Animals by legends of their own:   
In the hay-tunnel dark
And dung of barns, they will   
Say    I have heard tell
That in a museum in Atlanta   
Way back in a corner somewhere   
There’s this thing that’s only half   
Sheep      like a woolly baby
Pickled in alcohol      because   
Those things can’t live.      his eyes
Are open      but you can’t stand to look   
I heard from somebody who …
But this is now almost all   
Gone. The boys have taken   
Their own true wives in the city,
The sheep are safe in the west hill
Pasture      but we who were born there
Still are not sure. Are we,
Because we remember, remembered
In the terrible dust of museums?
Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may   
Be saying      saying
         I am here, in my father’s house.
         I who am half of your world, came deeply
         To my mother in the long grass
         Of the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight
         Listening for foxes. It was something like love
         From another world that seized her
         From behind, and she gave, not lifting her head   
         Out of dew, without ever looking, her best
         Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face   
         Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound   
         Of sobbing      of something stumbling
         Away, began, as she must do,
         To carry me. I woke, dying,

         In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes
         Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment   
         The great grassy world from both sides,
         Man and beast in the round of their need,
         And the hill wind stirred in my wool,
         My hoof and my hand clasped each other,
         I ate my one meal
         Of milk, and died
         Staring. From dark grass I came straight
         To my father’s house, whose dust
         Whirls up in the halls for no reason
         When no one comes      piling deep in a hellish mild corner,   
         And, through my immortal waters,
         I meet the sun’s grains eye
         To eye, and they fail at my closet of glass.
         Dead, I am most surely living
         In the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives
         Them like wolves from the hound bitch and calf
         And from the chaste ewe in the wind.
         They go into woods      into bean fields      they go
         Deep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me,   
         They groan      they wait      they suffer
         Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind.

Do not go gentle into that good night, -YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~ Dylan Thomas


La Belle Dame Sans Merci – Your Favourite Poem











O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge has wither’d from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 


O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 
So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel’s granary is full, 
And the harvest’s done. 


I see a lily on thy brow 
With anguish moist and fever dew, 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 


I met a lady in the meads, 
Full beautiful – a faery’s child, 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 


I made a garland for her head, 
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
She look’d at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 


I set her on my pacing steed, 
And nothing else saw all day long, 
For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A faery’s song. 


She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild, and manna dew, 
And sure in language strange she said – 
«I love thee true.» 


She took me to her elfin grot, 
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore, 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
With kisses four. 


And there she lulled me asleep, 
And there I dream’d – Ah! woe betide! 
The latest dream I ever dream’d 
On the cold hill’s side. 


I saw pale kings and princes too, 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 
They cried – «La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall!» 


I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 
And I awoke and found me here, 
On the cold hill’s side. 


And this is why I sojourn here, 
Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 

John Keats

Your Favourite poem sent in by you – What’s Yours?

Spring – Promote Yourself

I stayed the Fall
to welcome the Spring
The skyscrapers
scraped the sky,
tore it wide open.
And the eye of the heaven
glanced down,
at the pandemonium below
through a laceration,
amid the clouds
that smothered the sun.
With wounds-
crawling under his skin
wounds- that’ll heal.

The October rust faded
and awakened
a new beauty
in nature’s secret womb.

The flowers lit up,
in the orgasm
of their fiery rebirth.

-The Manoj Arora.

Check out more of my works at my blog-

man of war

Not for me the rolling hills

Of a green and pleasant land

But trudging through a muddy field

Or sprayed by wind-blown sand

I do not rest in crisp clean sheets

Laid on a feather bed

Just the harshness of the earth

On which to lay my head

I do not have the luxury

Of breakfast on a tray

Waiting for my mind to clear

Before I start my day

My sleep might last for just one hour

Then shattered by the sounds

Of screaming men and constant noise

Of guns and mortar rounds

No gentle drive to work for me

Or bus ride to the door

No coffee breaks or flexi-time

For I’m a man of war

Don Holmes

If I Lived In A World With Less Pain…Promote Yourself



If I Lived In A World With Less Pain….


I Would if I Could

I am Joy and I want the world to know,

What I would do if this were so.


If I lived in a world with less pain, this is what you would see.

A world filled with less struggles and strain, aching to be free.


I would be a voice that does not go unheard.

But instead be one of distinction to serve,

A community of people with better places to go

In their provision of care that exceeds “the pain world” we’ve come to know.


Pain as it is, with treatment that works.

Not pushed or stereotyped merely because we “irk”,

The professional that thinks we all are the same,

Prescribing a drug that has the same name,

Even if our conditions are in different range


If I were this person this is how it would be,

You could hear my voice but you can’t see me.

Because if I was in less pain I would be free.


Free to live with less struggles and despair,

but with a greater hope to overcome obstacles I can bear.


Free to speak without feeling ashamed

of the world I now exist in with the devastation of pain.


Free to choose a doctor that will openly listen to me

and not place me in the same category.


Free to live out the goals I so desire,

without constantly feeling

 sick, weak, or tired.


Free to be the person I was created to be,

to live out the purpose that was predestined for me.


With more strength than I now have that would carry me through, a life filled with courage and hope anew.


If I lived in a world with less pain “I” would be,

the person behind the door you cannot see.

The person longing, waiting to be free.


Free to be Joy. Free to be me!


I do hope my poem is selected and appears on your site. It would be an honor because my greatest desire is to share my voice and these words with the world. Please note: the door represents the person you can hear but cannot see longing to be free!
Thank you poetreecreetions
  by Joy D


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