A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
Acquainted with the Night I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.
INTO MY OWN One of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom. I should not be withheld but that some day Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand. I do not see why I should e’er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew— Only more sure of all I thought was true.
Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?
GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?
Fireflies in the Garden By Robert Frost 1874–1963 Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never really stars at heart) Achieve at times a very star-like start. Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.
I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.
A poem is never a put-up job, so to speak. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with.
Keats mourned that the rainbow, which as a boy had been for him a magic thing, had lost its glory because the physicists had found it resulted merely from the refraction of the sunlight by the raindrops. Yet knowledge of its causation could not spoil the rainbow for me. I am sure that it is not given to man to be omniscient. There will always be something left to know, something to excite the imagination of the poet and those attuned to the great world in which they live (p. 64)
I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.
Two such as you with such a master speed Cannot be parted nor be swept away From one another once you are agreed That life is only life forevermore Together wing to wing and oar to oar
আমি তো হয়েই গেছি একজন নিশিরাত সাথী। হেঁটেছি বৃষ্টিতে ভিজে– বৃষ্টিতেই ফিরেও এসেছি। পার হয়ে গেছি আমি শহরের দূরতম বাতি। সর্বাধিক দুঃখক্লিষ্ট গলি আমি স্বচক্ষে দেখেছি দায়িত্বপালনকারী দারোয়ানে কাটিয়েছি পাশে। চোখের দু’পাতা ফেলে, ব্যাখ্যা সব গোপন রেখেছি। থমকে দাঁড়িয়ে গেছি পদশব্দ যদি কিছু নাশে কান্নার শব্দের তুল্য– কোনো কান্না দূর থেকে হয়, পাশের সড়ক থেকে বাড়ির উপর দিয়ে আসে, কিন্তু কেউ ডাকেনি তো, বিদায় বচনটিও নয়; আরো দূরে, বহু দূরে অপার্থিব কোনো উচ্চতায়, আলোকিত ঘড়ি এক আকাশের উল্টো থেকে কয় না-শুভ বা না-অশুভ এই কাল আজিকার বাতি। আমি তো রয়েই গেছি একজন নিশিরাত সাথী।
The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader. I know people who read without hearing the sentence sounds and they were the fastest readers. Eye readers we call them. They get the meaning by glances. But they are bad readers because they miss the best part of what a good writer puts into his work.
But yield who will to their separation, My object in living is to unite My avocation and my vocation As my two eyes make one in sight.
Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.
What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.
I could give all to Time except -- except What I myself have held. But why declare The things forbidden that while the Customs slept I have crossed to Safety with? For I am There, And what I would not part with I have kept.
La strada non presa Due strade divergevano in un bosco d'autunno e dispiaciuto di non poterle percorrere entrambe, essendo un solo viaggiatore, a lungo indugiai fissandone una, più lontano che potevo fin dove si perdeva tra i cespugli. Poi presi l'altra, che era buona ugualmente e aveva forse l'aspetto migliore perché era erbosa e meno calpestata sebbene il passaggio le avesse rese quasi uguali. Ed entrambe quella mattina erano ricoperte di foglie che nessun passo aveva annerito oh, mi riservai la prima per un altro giorno anche se, sapendo che una strada conduce verso un'altra, dubitavo che sarei mai tornato indietro. Lo racconterò con un sospiro da qualche parte tra molti anni: due strade divergevano in un bosco ed io - io presi la meno battuta, e questo ha fatto tutta la differenza.
All thought is a feat of association.