As The Poems Go

As the poems go into the thousands you realize that you've created very little. it comes down to the rain, the sunlight, the traffic, the nights and the days of the years, the faces. leaving this will be easier than living it, typing one more line now as a man plays a piano through the radio, the best writers have said very

A Poet's Voice Xv

Part One The power of charity sows deep in my heart, and I reap and gather the wheat in bundles and give them to the hungry. My soul gives life to the grapevine and I press its bunches and give the juice to the thirsty. Heaven fills my lamp with oil and I place it at my window to direct the stranger through the dark. I do all these things because I live in them; and if destiny should tie my hands and prevent me from so doing, then death would be my only desire. For I am a poet, and if I cannot give, I shall refuse to receive.

Forest Of Europe

The last leaves fell like notes from a piano and left their ovals echoing in the ear; with gawky music stands, the winter forest looks like an empty orchestra, its lines ruled on these scattered manuscripts of snow. The inlaid copper laurel of an oak shines though the brown-bricked glass above your head as bright as whisky, while the wintry breath of lines from Mandelstam, which you recite,

A Man Young And Old

I First Love Though nurtured like the sailing moon In beauty's murderous brood, She walked awhile and blushed awhile And on my pathway stood Until I thought her body bore A heart of flesh and blood. But since I laid a hand thereon

Behind Ghost And Its Story

In the evening, the passerby while lonely passing Heard some noises of an unseen cart on other way Which he mistook bone breaking, tearing, chopping, Murmuring, rumbling, trembling sounds all around, He was confused, fixed, feared and crying uttering 'Is there a ghost? Oh, ghost! Ghost! ! A ghost! ! ! ' 'Where? ' Some curious people were rushing to 'Oh! Here is, trying to kill me, can't you see, men? ' 'Oh! Where, how looking? ' They were roaming about 'Skeleton like, just skeleton like, oh! Horror! ! Horror! ! '

Knowledge Confined In Paper (Prose Poem)

Sharpening the cells in cerebrum and cerebellum Through meditation, arts, knowledge and strategy With emotion, motion of sad and happy persons From the history up to date and the moving pages Writers write, artists art in front of the open universe, The mysterious nature focuses the light of unknown In the power of truth beauty in place and time both Creation, destruction, origin of things and beings With lots of evidence, imageries similes, legends,

An Essay On Criticism

Part I INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

Literatures And Arts In Activities (Verse)

The nice Arts Invite nice literature It is arts Lie by literature, If you are well artist You will express well through it If you are well literary You will express well through it An artist is a literary and wright A literary is an artist and wright for the causes of rights;

What He Thought

We were supposed to do a job in Italy and, full of our feeling for ourselves (our sense of being Poets from America) we went from Rome to Fano, met the Mayor, mulled a couple matters over. The Italian literati seemed bewildered by the language of America: they asked us what does "flat drink" mean? and the mysterious "cheap date" (no explanation lessened

Maya Angelou: A Phenomenal Woman?

Me thinks much ink has been spilt over the poem; ‘Phenomenal Woman’ by Maya Angelou. Me thinks it is time I stuck my oar in had my say; hopefully in a far

Battle Of Brunanburgh

Athelstan King, Lord among Earls, Bracelet-bestower and Baron of Barons, He with his brother, Edmund Atheling, Gaining a lifelong Glory in battle, Slew with the sword-edge There by Brunanburh,

An Expostulation

Against too many writers of science fiction Why did you lure us on like this, Light-year on light-year, through the abyss, Building (as though we cared for size!) Empires that cover galaxies If at the journey's end we find The same old stuff we left behind, Well-worn Tellurian stories of Crooks, spies, conspirators, or love,

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your

Motivation

Neither the motivation should be confined to word nor to book. Many things might have been written in book but so long as it is not put into practice or use, it can’t deliver the result. You might have experienced number of times that actual result can be had only after putting self before everything. The sales men may increase the sales by many folds but that may just not be the reality. It is performed under forced situation. It is doesn’t speak of any motivation, but only a consideration,

A Triolet

Of all the sickly forms of verse, Commend me to the triolet. It makes bad writers somewhat worse: Of all the sickly forms of verse, That fall beneath a reader's curse, It is the feeblest jingle yet. Of all the sickly forms of verse, Commend me to the triolet.

Farewell To Secretary Shu-Yun At The Hsieh Tiao Villa In Hsuan-Chou

Since yesterday had throw me and bolt, Today has hurt my heart even more. The autumn wildgeese have a long wing for escort As I face them from this villa, drinking my wine. The bones of great writers are your brushes, in the school of heaven, And I am Lesser Hsieh growing up by your side. We both are exalted to distant thought, Aspiring to the sky and the bright moon. But since water still flows, though we cut it with our swords, And sorrow return,though we drown them with wine,

A Man Young And Old: Xi. From Oedipus At Colonus

Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span; Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man; Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain. Even from that delight memory treasures so, Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow, As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know. In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng, The bride is carried to the bridegroom's chamber through torchlight and tumultuous song;

Rubbish

The world is full of rubbish I see it all around Strewn along the pavements And scattered ‘cross the ground It hangs on outstretched branches Like washing on a line Dumped into the river Oh, aint it such a crime

Imitations Of Horace: The First Epistle Of The Second Book

Ne Rubeam, Pingui donatus Munere (Horace, Epistles II.i.267) While you, great patron of mankind, sustain The balanc'd world, and open all the main; Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend, At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend; How shall the Muse, from such a monarch steal An hour, and not defraud the public weal? Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame, And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,

One O'Clock In The Morning

At last! I am alone! Nothing can be heard but the rumbling of a few belated and weary cabs. For a few hours at least silence will be ours, if not sleep. At last! The tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and now there will be no one but myself to make me suffer. At last! I am allowed to relax in a bath of darkness! First a double turn of the key in the lock. This turn of the key will, it seems to me, increase my solitude and strengthen the barricades that, for the moment, separate me from the world. Horrible life! Horrible city! Let us glance back over the events of the day: saw several writers, one of them asking me if you could go to Russia by land (he thought Russia was an island, I suppose); disagreed liberally with the editor of a review who to all my objections kept saying: "Here we are on the side of respectability," implying that all the other periodicals were run by rascals; bowed to twenty or more persons of whom fifteen were unknown to me; distributed hand shakes in about the same proportion without having first taken the precaution of buying gloves; to kill time during a shower, dropped in on a dance who asked me to design her a costume of Venustre; went to pay court to a theatrical director who in dismissing me said; "Perhaps you would do well to see Z....; he is the dullest, stupidest and most celebrated of our authors; with him you might get somewhere. Consult him and then we'll see": boasted (why?) of several ugly things I never did, and cravenly denied some other misdeeds that I had accomplished with the greatest delight; offense of fanfaronnade, crime against human dignity; refused a slight favor to a friend and gave a written recommendation to a perfect rogue; Lord! let's hope that's all! Dissatisfied with everything, dissatisfied with myself, I long to redeem myself and to restore my pride in the silence and solitude of the night. Souls of those whom I have loved, souls of those whom I have sung, strengthen me, sustain me, keep me from the vanities of the world and its contaminating fumes; and You, dear God! grant me grace to produce a few beautiful verses to prove to myself that I am not the lowest of men, that I am not inferior to those whom I despise.