Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!

Old Poets

 (For Robert Cortez Holliday)

If I should live in a forest
And sleep underneath a tree,
No grove of impudent saplings
Would make a home for me.
I'd go where the old oaks gather, Serene and good and strong, And they would not sigh and tremble And vex me with a song.
The pleasantest sort of poet Is the poet who's old and wise, With an old white beard and wrinkles About his kind old eyes.
For these young flippertigibbets A-rhyming their hours away They won't be still like honest men And listen to what you say.
The young poet screams forever About his sex and his soul; But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, And polishes its bowl.
There should be a club for poets Who have come to seventy year.
They should sit in a great hall drinking Red wine and golden beer.
They would shuffle in of an evening, Each one to his cushioned seat, And there would be mellow talking And silence rich and sweet.
There is no peace to be taken With poets who are young, For they worry about the wars to be fought And the songs that must be sung.
But the old man knows that he's in his chair And that God's on His throne in the sky.
So he sits by the fire in comfort And he lets the world spin by.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - Old PoetsEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

Top Joyce Kilmer Poems

Analysis and Comments on Old Poets

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Old Poets here.