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Enchanted, – Promote Yourself

Beautiful-Girl-Wanting-Love-200x300

Remarking on a word so full

Of wonder

I stare at this and insist

It’s case comes with power

Fulfilling dreams

And describing a magic

Of beauty

It seems it dares to be different

Even cogent it relies on thine eye

Of perfection

New and old both are

In the queue

Parting the waters with a hue

Of purple commenting

On it’s regal abilities

Sewing and mending

Something that’s heading

Into the depths of infinity

So projects my case

As not hiding

But binding to what owns me

Is my love.

Aimee Antozak

THE JETTY

Jettyxxxxxxxxx
Love once swelled in a rising sea,
Only to erode with an ocean breeze.
Feelings would drift as windswept sand,
Till a shield was built to stand.
Where once water breached my porous heart,
Rocks have sealed the weakest parts.
Slippery steps on “thrown out”* rubble,
Could bring me closer to “toil and trouble.”
Yet, the sea once left to gorge and scour,
Has been becalmed by stony bowers.
And as I watch from projections,
My mind is stilled with reflections.

Sent in by Wendy Shreve

*Jetty comes from the French word jetée or “thrown out.”
And an acknowledgement to William Shakespeare for “. . . toil and trouble.”

India is her name – Promote Yourself

Hi guys.
Love the site. Not sure of protocol here, but below is a poem I have written about my love for India, recently featured on my travel blog: http://twentyfirstcenturynomad.com
I’d love to have my work featured on your cool site, with a cheeky request to link back to my blog…if that’s okay?
Thanks a lot.

Indiaxxxxxxxx

India is her name

‘Evocative, repulsive, exotic, compulsive,

such a place I’ve traveled, to return much I’d give,

measures equal, serene beauty versus arduous pain,

against odds uneven, timeless dignity remains,

 

Amidst filth and squalor, death and anguish,

lies a peace and serenity, more respect I could not wish,

amazing grace in abundance, holy rivers and manners run deep,

a people so gracious, in shame did I weep,

 

In a land of plenty, yet a billion empty hands,

my own right to entitlement, I could no longer stand,

what one wants and one needs, in a moment becomes clear,

only sustenance to live, and warm hearts to hold dear,

 

Both her mountains and people, spectacular by birth,

I wager could not be found, a more honest place on earth,

despite her palaces and paupers, sacred cows, holy in vain,

cherished memories she gave me, and India is her name.’

By Steven Moore


Twenty First Century Nomad, Novelist & Freelance Writer.
http://www.twentyfirstcenturynomad.com

Hamnavoe By George Mackay Brown – Your Favourite Poem

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My father passed with his penny letters
Through closes opening and shutting like legends
When barbarous with gulls
Hamnavoe’s morning broke

On the salt and tar steps. Herring boats,
Puffing red sails, the tillers
Of cold horizons, leaned
Down the gull-gaunt tide

And threw dark nets on sudden silver harvests.
A stallion at the sweet fountain
Dredged water, and touched
Fire from steel-kissed cobbles.

Hard on noon four bearded merchants
Past the pipe-spitting pier-head strolled,
Holy with greed, chanting
Their slow grave jargon.

A tinker keen like a tartan gull
At cuithe-hung doors. A crofter lass
Trudged through the lavish dung
In a dream of corn-stalks and milk.

In the Arctic Whaler three blue elbows fell,
Regular as waves, from beards spumy with porter,
Till the amber day ebbed out
To its black dregs.

The boats drove furrows homeward, like ploughmen
In blizzards of gulls. Gaelic fisher-girls
Flashed knife and dirge
Over drifts of herring.

And boys with penny wands lured gleams
From tangled veins of the flood. Houses went blind
Up one steep close, for a
Grief by the shrouded nets.

The kirk, in a gale of psalms, went heaving through
A tumult of roofs, freighted for heaven. And lovers
Unblessed by steeples lay under
The buttered bannock of the moon.

He quenched his lantern, leaving the last door.
Because of his gay poverty that kept
my seapink innocence
From the worm and black wind;

And because, under equality’s sun,
All things wear now to a common soiling,
In the fire of images
Gladly I put my hand
To save that day for him.

Your favourite poem sent in by you.What’s yours?

FLOATING IN SLOWNESS

manateesxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Floating in slowness, drifting in stillness,
Foraging hours for seagrass and algae,
Heavy as giants your litheness ignored,
As mechanical monsters near you are mindlessly scored.

Eyes lost in a gray expanse,
Your prehensile lip brushes; your fluke steers ahead;
And still your dolphin-like intelligence is misunderstood,
By enemies, humans, with their heads in the woods.

Along with your peers dwelling in the canals,
Sleeping silently underwater you awaken to breathe,
As your nose pushes upwards to replenish your air,
You suddenly plunge downwards, mystified and scared.

After two years seacow mother you birth your calf,
And you search the mangrove shallows for warmth at last;
Oh gentle behemoth you cling to existence,
Only to be harmed without resistance!

Dedicated to the manatees: endangered and forgotten.

Wendy Shreve

How to Write Well

writeing1234

1…. Don’t ever present your ideas in the form of a numbered list

2. Never repeat yourself or say things more than once
3. Avoid (whenever possible) the use of parenthetical phrases (unless absolutely necessary)
4. The use of foreign words and expressions is considered a faux pas
5. Avoid cliches like the plague
6. Never adopt a condescending tone with your readers – that means to talk down to them
7. To be avoided at all times is the reverse construction of sentences
8. Eschew obfuscation

5 Famous Poems By Robert Frost

 

                                             robert-frost_eGqCA

Even nearly a century later, poems by Robert Frost continue to interest us. Robert Frost remains a quintessential American poet because of his depiction of the natural state of America, particularly New England. But while we encounter New England and its beauty, when we read poems by Robert Frost, we are also exposed to an American mind exploring intellectual and philosophical questions on human nature that remain relevant in society today. It is because of this that we seek out poems by Robert Frost, both for the comfort found in his lines, but also for the challenge of his words.

“The Road Not Taken”

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference
Perhaps the most famous Robert Frost poem, “The Road Not Taken” is taught widely in schools and its last three lines, the envy of poets everywhere, have been quoted, placed on walls, and written in graduation cards for almost a century.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

“Mending Wall”

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing: 5 
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made, 
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.  
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.  
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across 25 
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it  
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, 
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top 
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.  
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”  

Summary

A stone wall separates the speaker’s property from his neighbor’s. In spring, the two meet to walk the wall and jointly make repairs. The speaker sees no reason for the wall to be kept—there are no cows to be contained, just apple and pine trees. He does not believe in walls for the sake of walls. The neighbor resorts to an old adage: “Good fences make good neighbors.” The speaker remains unconvinced and mischievously presses the neighbor to look beyond the old-fashioned folly of such reasoning. His neighbor will not be swayed. The speaker envisions his neighbor as a holdover from a justifiably outmoded era, a living example of a dark-age mentality. But the neighbor simply repeats the adage.

Frost’s sharp wit is evident in his poem, “Mending Wall,” which is known most for the line “Good fences make good neighbors.” Many poems by Robert Frost discuss the topic of stranger versus familiars, and more specifically, how people interact with each other. In “Mending Wall,” the narrator and his neighbor have a conversation over an old, New England stonewall, in which the neighbor extols the merits of building walls to keep others out, and through their symbolic extension, all sorts of boundaries. Through his use of irony, Frost challenges his neighbor’s stubborn belief and asks his readers to also consider whether building walls has the effect of “walling in or walling out.” 

“Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening”

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer 5 
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake. 10 
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep, 15 
And miles to go before I sleep.

Summary

On the surface, this poem is simplicity itself. The speaker is stopping by some woods on a snowy evening. He or she takes in the lovely scene in near-silence, is tempted to stay longer, but acknowledges the pull of obligations and the considerable distance yet to be traveled before he or she can rest for the night.

ost are wonderful for their simplicity. And this one is no exception: the depiction of solitary travel on a sleepy, winter’s night, a lovely recognition of stealing quiet, personal moments. Frost’s rhyme scheme renders the poem almost like a childhood fairytale, and its beautiful last stanza with its simultaneously regretful and hopeful middle line “But I have promises to keep” proceeding the repeated “And miles to go before I sleep” speak to travelers in every sense.

“Christmas Trees

(A Christmas Circular Letter)

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”

“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

In “Christmas Trees”, Frost relays a conversation between two men, one looking to buy a Christmas tree and narrated by the seller. With the great opening line, “The city had withdrawn into itself And left at last the country to the country;” Frost captures the feeling right before the holidays when cities and life tends to slow into a peaceful contentment. 

“Design” (“In White”)

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth–
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth–
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?–
If design govern in a thing so small.

This famous poem by Robert Frost is unique in that as readers, we also have access to a much earlier draft, entitled “In White.” Frost uses a small spider to question and explore the idea of creation and design. By looking at the two versions side-by-side, we can see how Frost tweaked lines to improve upon rhythm, to bring out the brilliant metaphors and similes that he uses, in particular with the color white, and how he changes language to refocus the poem on this greater question of whether there is a greater—higher—power at work, molding and designing not only the creatures of the world, but also the situations that we find ourselves in.

THE SNOWMAN BY WALLACE STEENS YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

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Wallace Stevens was regarded as one of the most significant American poets of the 20th century. Stevens largely ignored the literary world and he did not receive widespread recognition until the publication of his Collected Poems (1954). In this work Stevens explored inside a profound philosophical framework the dualism between concrete reality and the human imagination. For most of his adult life, Stevens pursued contrasting careers as a insurance executive and a poet.

The Snow Man

1950S

One must have a mind of winter 
To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

WALLACE STEVENS

Poem on Floods

floods

Strongly built to protect it all

Against a force that beckons to call

Behind this wall, it’s easy to live

No more to get with less to give.

 

In one instant, the flood rages in

Attacking that wall, wearing it thin

The onslaught becomes too much to bear

Unstoppable, without warning, no time to prepare

 

Pain flashes through the heart and soul

Destroying what was once thought whole

Sooner or later, the walls crumble and break

Creating inside an unbearable ache.

 

All at once, never in small measures

Memories invade of all past treasures.

No longer mine, they belong to another

Why would I care? Why even bother?

 

Although the pain is less than before

I beg to be saved from bearing it more. 

I reach for the concrete and mortar of my mind.

In hopes to leave those memories behind.

 

Hastily rebuilding that wall of protection.

Each block in place, no room for rejection.

Built from tears and not from blood

Safe again from memories flash flood.

Water water everywhere 
there has been a flood 
heavy rainfall flooding us 
because there are monsoons

some days we get holidays 
declared by government 
some days we must go to school 
even when its muddy

we don’t get sports periods 
sometimes we miss snacks 
just because the heavy rains 
of winter, are back

people walk in knee deep water 
possibly even more 
but not all places are affected 
but some are prone for sure

watch out, stay at home 
going out your prone 
to get diseases of many types 
which are not very pleasant

water water everywhere 
there has been a flood 
heavy rainfall flooding us 
because there are monsoons

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