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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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Poems about Poets VI beMused Michael R Burch Perhaps at three you'll come to tea, to have a cuppa here? You'll just stop in to sip dry gin? I only have a beer. To name the greats: Pope, Dryden, mates? The whole world knows their names. Discuss the songs of Emerson? But these are children's games. Give me rhythms wild as Dylan’s! Give me Bobbie Burns! Give me Psalms or Hopkins’ poems, Hart Crane’s, if he returns! Or Langston railing! Blake assailing! Few others I desire. Or go away, yes, leave today: your tepid poets tire. Too Late Michael R Burch I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are s**t. Discrimination Michael R Burch The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose. I found it in sheet music, in long rows of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed half-centuries by archivists, unscanned. I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed— why should such tattered artistry be banned? I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads, the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ... A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks are all I’ve found this late to sell to those who’d classify free verse “expensive prose.” Brother Iran Michael R Burch Brother Iran, I feel your pain. I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain. As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span, I feel your pain, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I know you are noble! I too fear Hiroshima and Chernobyl. But though my heart shudders, I have a plan, and I know you are noble, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I salute your Poets! your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits! O, come join the earth's great Caravan. We'll include your Poets, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I love your Verse! Come take my hand now, let's rehearse the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For I love your Verse, Brother Iran. Bother Iran, civilization's Flower! How high flew your spires in man's early hours! Let us build them yet higher, for that's my plan, civilization's first flower, Brother Iran.

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Poems About Poets Vi

Poems about Poets VI beMused Michael R Burch Perhaps at three you'll come to tea, to have a cuppa here? You'll just stop in to sip dry gin? I only have a beer. To name the greats: Pope, Dryden, mates? The whole world knows their names. Discuss the songs of Emerson? But these are children's games. Give me rhythms wild as Dylan’s! Give me Bobbie Burns! Give me Psalms or Hopkins’ poems, Hart Crane’s, if he returns! Or Langston railing! Blake assailing! Few others I desire. Or go away, yes, leave today: your tepid poets tire. Too Late Michael R Burch I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are s**t. Discrimination Michael R Burch The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose. I found it in sheet music, in long rows of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed half-centuries by archivists, unscanned. I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed— why should such tattered artistry be banned? I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads, the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ... A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks are all I’ve found this late to sell to those who’d classify free verse “expensive prose.” Brother Iran Michael R Burch Brother Iran, I feel your pain. I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain. As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span, I feel your pain, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I know you are noble! I too fear Hiroshima and Chernobyl. But though my heart shudders, I have a plan, and I know you are noble, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I salute your Poets! your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits! O, come join the earth's great Caravan. We'll include your Poets, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I love your Verse! Come take my hand now, let's rehearse the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For I love your Verse, Brother Iran. Bother Iran, civilization's Flower! How high flew your spires in man's early hours! Let us build them yet higher, for that's my plan, civilization's first flower, Brother Iran.