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Under The Greenwood Tree by William Shakespeare – Famous poets

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Under the greenwood tree
     Who loves to lie with me,
     And turn his merry note
     Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
   Come hither, come hither, come hither:
     Here shall he see
     No enemy
   But winter and rough weather.      Who doth ambition shun,
    And loves to live i’ the sun,
    Seeking the food he eats,
    And pleas’d with what he gets,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither:
    Here shall he see
    No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

  by William Shakespeare 
YOUR  FAVOURITE  POEM SENT IN BY YOU
WHATS YOURS ?
SEND TO  : poetreecreations@yahoo.com

On May Morning by John Milton – Famous poet

 

Life of John Milton (1608-1674)

 

John Milton was born on December 9, 1608, in London, as the second child of John and Sara (neé Jeffrey). The family lived on Bread Street in Cheapside, near St. Paul’s Cathedral. John Milton Sr. worked as a scrivener, a legal secretary whose duties included preparation and notarization of documents , as well as real estate transactions and moneylending. Milton’s father was also a composer of church music, and Milton himself experienced a lifelong delight in music. The family’s financial prosperity afforded Milton to be taught classical languages, first by private tutors at home, followed by entrance to St. Paul’s School at age twelve, in 1620. 

In 1625, Milton was admitted to Christ’s College, Cambridge. While Milton was a hardworking student, he was also argumentative to the extent that only a year later, in 1626, he got suspended after a dispute with his tutor, William Chappell.

flower-1

On May Morning

Now the bright morning Star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

On May Morning


by John Milton

Hands – villanelle – Promote Yourself

woman-walking-hand-in-hand-in-studio-silhouette-isolat

 

Holding hands with someone special
Such electricity flowing between both
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

We hold hands with many as we grow
There comes a time when we have more
Holding hands with someone special.

 

Thoughts return to bring us even closer
Remember a touch or a smell that excites
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

Feelings grow and we just seem to know
When fingers lace together without thought
Holding hands with someone special.

 

For some it is might last only a day

Occasionally we find someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

A lifetime can seem to be summed up
Looking back at all those moments shared
Holding hands with someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

by Gray Poet

Charles Townsend

“Free” – Promote Yourself

 

free-logo

Waters run still in mind,
rays to cut mirrored glass.
But rage the tempest,
swell to ravage surface.

Breathe deep, slow, strong,
fill up in deathly ease.
Slip below storms,
gracious, graceful, peace.

Fall now into me,
lines that lead to darkest blue.
Welcome in warm surrender,
coast down to ocean’s call.

Thoughts in silence,
drums play deep.
Cradled heart,
slow to calm’s embrace.

In this space,
nothing enters.

No whispers,
tell me I’m alone.

One in one.

In this place,

I am.

© D. A. Yew

Cedars – Promote Yourself

 cedarsxxxxxxxxxx

All Images Copyright © John Bullock 2013
All Rights Reserved
 

A Park. Bathed in Sunshine,
Symphonic Sakamoto caressing my ears
To the rhythm and tempo of the SLR.

Photographs for a calendar, friends of the park.
My lens stealing the beauty only nature,
Untouched, can provide.

The Bee on thistle imprisoned in pixels.
Oak leaf will now not wither.
Eternally mounted, my frames.

Saddened. Curious looks, parents worried what I capture.
Careful not to focus on their concerned.
Press Card at hand. Disclaimer to their fears.

Sun now shrouded in cloud ends Ryuichi in crescendo.
Last chords dissipate on leaf stirring breeze.
Time to rest.

In cool shade, Fountain Pen likewise records my day
As cigarette reduces to ash.

I sit

I think

I write

Days worked as thus are contentment
An Unquiet Mind muted
Brief Respite. 

Copyright © John Bullock, 2013

All Rights Reserved

John Bullock

Journalist, Editor & Writer

john.bullock@live.co.uk

http://about.me/john_bullock17
http://johnbullock.wordpress.com
http://unquietmindpoetry.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/john.bullock17
https://twitter.com/John_Bullock17

St David’s Day Poem

david

St David’s Day Poem

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus!

As has become traditional on this blog, I’ve decided to mark St David’s Day (Dydd Gŵyl Dewi) by posting a poem by R.S. Thomas. This one is called To a Young Poet, but  if you change “poet” to “physicist” it’s not far off the mark either. Perhaps there is more than one young physicist that this speaks to!

For the first twenty years you are still growing
Bodily that is: as a poet, of course,
You are not born yet. It’s the next ten
You cut your teeth on to emerge smirking
For your brash courtship of the muse.
You will take seriously those first affairs
With young poems, but no attachments
Formed then but come to shame you,
When love has changed to a grave service
Of a cold queen.

From forty on
You learn from the sharp cuts and jags
Of poems that have come to pieces
In your crude hands how to assemble
With more skill the arbitrary parts
Of ode or sonnet, while time fosters
A new impulse to conceal your wounds
From her and from a bold public,
Given to pry.

You are old now
As years reckon, but in that slower
World of the poet you are just coming
To sad manhood, knowing the smile
On her proud face is not for you.

The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams – Famous poet

carlos

Born: September 17, 1883
Birthplace: Rutherford, New Jersey
Died: March 4, 1963
William Carlos Williams was a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and medical doctor.

 “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams, was untitled when it first appeared as number xxi in his 1923 collection, Spring and All. Titled or untitled, it’s surely one of the most memorable poems ever written. But do we remember it in the way we usually remember poems? If you’re familiar with “The Red Wheelbarrow”, shut your eyes now and see what happens when you try to recall it. The poem probably appears in front of you, more or less intact. It’s the visual memory that it appeals to: once seen, its overall shape and inner patterns, as well as its key images, seem printed on the brain.

The visual arts had a profound effect on Williams’s poetic development, beginning with the new work he encountered in the epochal 1913 Armory Show. The moving spirit behind this exhibition was the photographer Alfred Stieglitz. His avant-garde Gallery 291 became another hub of creative activity for the new American artists, and Williams was a regular visitor.

As his Autobiography reveals, Williams was interested in Cubism, Futurism, photographic art, and the “readymades” of Marcel Duchamp. He talks particularly about the significance of Paul Cézanne and his successors, approving their concept of “sheer paint: a picture a matter of pigments upon a piece of cloth stretched on a frame.”

The four stanzas here are rather like that “piece of cloth, stretched on a frame”. The structural tension gives every word its space and focus. The dominant nouns are like objects painted vividly onto a neutral ground. Williams emphasises the colours rather than the shapes – the shape, after all, appears in our minds as soon as we see a word like “wheelbarrow” or “chickens”.

“The key, the master-key to the age,” Williams said of the modern movement in literature, “was that jump from the feeling to the word itself: that which had been got down, the thing to be judged and valued accordingly.” But we shouldn’t forget that poems are made of line-breaks as well as words, and “so much depends”, in this poem, on the splitting of the two compound words, “wheelbarrow” and “rainwater”. These dissections slow us down, and help the mind’s eye to register more: the individual wheels as well as the body of the barrow, the water that is more than raindrops.

Important for their spatial emphases are the prepositions. “Upon” and “beside” are two little words that the poem magnifies hugely. Their implications float beyond the phrases that contain them. The abstract “so much” depends upon the objects, but the rainwater also depends physically upon the barrow, and the glazing effect depends upon the rainwater. The idea of the barrow being “beside” the chickens is complex: the barrow is stationary (there is no sign of anyone pushing it) while the chickens are likely to be moving about. If they are not specially posed, their aesthetic effect is sheer lucky chance. The effect is snatched after all from the flux of existence.

Had Williams simply set down his imagery as a description, the poem would still have its visual impact, but we would be in an entirely contained pictorial world. But the poem’s opening assertion, “so much depends/upon…”, shows that, perhaps paradoxically, the speaker is not simply content with the thing itself.

A naive reading could take it as a comment about the great usefulness ofwheelbarrows on small-holdings where chickens are kept. Unharmed by the rain which has simply left a sheen on the painted surface, the barrow will shortly be filled with more useful matter. It would be amusing to think that the doctor-poet, so pragmatic and modest in his daily life, meant nothing more than that. But no: the poem has an obviously aesthetic agenda. Its author is a radical innovator, and he is setting out his poetry-barrow, not describing his wheelbarrow. This is his manifesto, surely – a poem quietly declaring how modern poetry works.

“No ideas but in things,” as he famously said. And yet, in this poem, so much depends on how we interpret the statement “so much depends”.

“The Red Wheelbarrow” evades what it seems to invite: a simple, visual interpretation. It seems to be absolutely clear, but, at the same time, it’s a riddle. Whatever you may decide the poem means intellectually, as an art-object it holds on to its own indelible shape and colour. Its images are irrefutable, and no amount of verbal rain will ever wash them from the memory they have entered – nor dull the shiny, spring-like, fresh-paint patina of happiness that this particular wheelbarrow seems to carry.

The Red Wheelbarrow 

so much depends
upon 

a red wheel
barrow 

glazed with rain
water 

beside the white
chickens.

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOURS

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou ( 1978) – Your Favourite Poem

PhoenixRising

Impossible to pick a “favorite” poet or poem, but this is one:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Sent in by Wendy Shreve

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOUR’S ?

Christmas morn

new-year-christmas-scene3

The old clock chimes,
Expectations to meet.
Traditions set, like the TV repeat.
Smothered in tinsel
Stands the twinkling mass
Whilst we drown in our sherry,
Hide in our glass.
Burdens too heavy, snow too deep.
A lifetimes emotion. Broken sleep.
And yet, He delivers and hope is born
Faith renewed on Christmas morn.
Gifts given and eyes to see.
Peace and freedom just to be.
Releasing the pressure and disbelief.
Forgotten heartache; intense relief
Finding trinkets full of pleasure.
Jewels that sparkle, precious treasure.
A sacred devotion to soothe the soul
Love to sustain us.
Bethlehem’s goal.

PAM MELLOR

LISTEN TO THE RAINBOW – Promote Yourself

 

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    Red         

Hear the blood shed,

(Orange) Clementine

Unspoken words, blurred lines,

 

Yellow

Refusal to shout, to bellow,

Green

No words shared; between,

 

Blue

Inaction, injustice we rue,

Indigo

From despair, rises a human archipelago;

Violet

We must no longer be quiet.

Wendy Shreve

A Western Australian Piano Graveyard

sheeppppppppppppp

The famer’s pressing oil, olives spread
on mashing mats. We talk of chooks
and foxes, irrigation and bush fires.

I’m here to see ruins in meadows,
on outcrops, brought from sheds
and yards, lashed to utes and trucks.

“All good things return to earth.”
She tells how a choral hum is raised
by strong wind, how possums nest in felt

and termites engineer collapse; how once
after rain, a derelict played like a pianola
as green tree frogs leapt in its heart.

I take her hand-drawn map, find
a Gold Rush era upright, laminate
blistered, keys jammed and gapped.

Despite its barroom look
a brass plaque by the keyboard
names an outback orphanage.

A Foley artist’s dream, felt-less hammers
conjure horror from bass notes, or tap
a level crossing where the hero speeds

to make the gate. Each instrument
decays uniquely; a baby grand is legless,
veneer turned peeled like cherry bark.

Under cracked coffin-gloss
a clutch of white eggs.

by Roy Marshall

A PLACE WHERE LOVE BEGINS – Promote Yourself

reachingxxxxxx

Not in the past where your tempests raged;
Or in the future, when unknown forces could shatter dreams;
Not in your soul, skewered by hatred and resentment;
Only in the present, as an open heart awaits.

Not by running from what is given;
Or hiding in bitterness and acrid thoughts;
Not in your head, where too many goals are left unfulfilled;
Only in hope, not beyond your reach.

Not in innocence lost or violence found;
Or misguided battles, conflicts unresolved;
Not in your body, ravaged with time and pain;
Only in forgiveness of yourself.

Not in others’ perceptions of who you are;
Or finding reasons to run from promise;
Not in your losses, though hard to bear;
Only in taking her hand; reaching for the sun.

Wendy Shreve

I still miss you – promote Yourself

 

trexxx

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are days,
When I miss you
With a sudden intensity
Which surprises me.

It aches, in a way I didn’t deem possible,
In a heart, I didn’t know I possessed.
And I lie in this room feigning sleep.
Pining away, struggling with my existence.
While I choke from these strange arms enveloping me.

Should I strive, in vain, for you, most divine?
Or should I instead, be miserably content with what’s mine?

– Sreshtha Sen
sreshthasen.wordpress.com

Wrong – Promote Yourself

 

paintxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everything in this world is not color correspondent.
Like people.
Pink does not always mean female,
Blue does not always mean male.
Rainbows are not enslaved to queer folk.
This trinary only applies to things that are not complex enough for spectrums or intersectionalities.
Contrary to popular belief, gender is not pink or blue or vice versa.
Gender is a spectrum, mixed with complimentary colors.
Not a grey scale from light femininity to darkened masculinity.
New colors are made everyday by mixing, and extracting personal characteristics.
THE ARTIST IS THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN NAME THEIR COLOR.
Although too many people think they’ve discovered all of the colors, just because they’ve looked in their medicine cabinets.
Just because they’ve seen the outside world, they think they know the colors.

If I ever decided to have off-spring, their nursery will be painted in all custom colors:
To my queer child
Darling, do not allow your mind to dictate you.
Inside influences will tell you that you aren’t allow to exist.
Do not listen to them like I almost did.
Ignore the colors around you.
Instead of a gun, take a pen to your hand, and let your heart pour bullets to the page.
Write the synopia red-morbid things, write about the black olive world around you, write what goes through your minds.
Never conform to the point of dysphoria.
It only results in displaced self-loathing.
I feel that it’s only a matter of time before your Carolina-blue tears waterfall over your pillow.
Your rapids will sweep you away into a world of shades you’ve never seen before.
Don’t stop here, you will find your self stuck cycling somewhere that makes you feel like a stranger.
But just remember to find the colors that make you feel good.

______
Also, I have more poems at bucketsaurusrex.wordpress.com

ALL FACETS – Promote Yourself

hugsxxxxxxxxxxxx

I’m trying to attach
Meaning to you like a door with no latch
Or me without you on my mind, how can I explain that

                                                                           I’ll

always love you no
matter your issues
I’ll hug & kiss you
comfort with soft tissues

What

Other words can I say or you to me
When you’re the epidemy
of where love should be
Cause there’s never any riddle to be solved
I know where my heart truly belongs

I

Smile out loud
How can that be…well you’ve shown me how
With all facets of your beauty that I want now
I write,you read as it all comes out
My pen turns us singular into a noun

One

picture & thought with no sound
With many years of internal feelings written down
just thinking about you on my sofa
typing away wishing that you were closer
written from my feelings for you in my mental folder
as i cater to your emotions till the night is over

Lino Robles

ART OF HUMAN NATURE – Promote Yourself

shadowglowxxxxxxx

Smooth surface;
Water-chiseled
Stone with curves of
Henry Moore,
In a stream.
 
Girl stricken,
Taking her legs
But not her heart;
Andrew Wyeth,
In the field.
 
Black & white figures;
Modern day
Rockwell;
Banksy.
On concrete canvases.

Chiseled names
In blackness;
Sunlight &shade
Reveal lives past;
Maya Lin,
On the grass.

Women of texture;
Ordinary scenes,
Superlative color;
Romare Bearden,
By a tree.
 
Mother, child; boat;
Strokes of light & shadow;
Mary Cassatt,
On the water.

Murals of
Bracing colors;
Struggles for dignity;
Diego Rivera
Beyond the breadth.

Palette stream
In cataclysmic ash;
Framing“Scream;”
Edvard Munch,
In the sky.

 Wendy Shreve

The Craft – Promote Yourself

 

inkxxxxxxxx

the poet’s craft-
to capture essence of a thing,
and cram it into sparing words.
even truer so, is the poet’s fate…
to burn with such intense, inescapable feeling,
that to put pen to paper is his only option.

baring this to all the world is the art.

-Nuella Onyilofor
nuellaswords.wordpress.com

 

~WAVES~ – Promote Yourself

 

baton
Waves to say hello to constant friends,
Waves to bid goodbye to seasons’ ends;
Waves to rollick, dance and spin,
Waves to conduct an orchestra to begin.
~
 Permanent waves to create new dos;
Bird waves which sweep above you;
Flag waves with mercurial breezes;
Thought waves that rush like sneezes;
Making waves to be constructive;
Electrical waves which are productive.
~
Rippling lakes from waves of wind;
Ocean currents bring waves that bend;
Hot days during waves of heat;
Sports events where waves repeat.
~
Doppler waves, sound waves, and gamma waves, aren’t science fiction;
Microwaves, gravitational waves, and ultraviolet waves could be in your kitchen.
Seismic waves, tidal waves, and rogue waves portend destruction.
Sonic waves, light waves, and mechanical waves which need instruction.
~
Modulating, undulating, standing and plane,
Versus Alpha, Beta Delta; Theta which comprise the brain;
Beach, Reef and Point breaks for surfing the ocean blue;
Other waves too numerous to mention to you.
~
So, I’ve decided to go outside and play
On this temperate, inviting day.
And as the sea beckons a view,
I wave to ask: “Come join me, too.”
 
 
Wendy Shreve
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