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Best Famous Mentor Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Mentor poems. This is a select list of the best famous Mentor poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Mentor poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of mentor poems.

Search and read the best famous Mentor poems, articles about Mentor poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Mentor poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Emotional Idiot

 Liner Notes - (From Love Is A Dog From Hell)

Emotional Idiocy is obviously
a theme close to my heart since I seem to use the phrase in novels and
CDs alike.
My friend and mentor of sorts, Andrew Vachss, upon hearing me read a rendition of this poem, stated that it ought to be the theme song for borderline personality disorder.
He's right.
I'm an Emotional Idiot so get away from me.
I mean, COME HERE.
Wait, no, that's too close, give me some space it's a big country, there's plenty of room, don't sit so close to me.
Hey, where are you? I haven't seen you in days.
Whadya, having an affair? Who is she? Come on, aren't I enough for you? God, You're so cold.
I never know what you're thinking.
You're not very affectionate.
I mean, you're clinging to me, DON'T TOUCH ME, what am I, your fucking cat? Don't rub me like that.
Don't you have anything better to do than sit there fawning over me? Don't you have any interests? Hobbies? Sailing Fly fishing Archeology? There's an archeology expedition leaving tomorrow why don't you go? I'll loan you the money, my money is your money.
my life is your life my soul is yours without you I'm nothing.
Move in with me we'll get a studio apartment together, save on rent, well, wait, I mean, a one bedroom, so we don't get in each other's hair or anything or, well, maybe a two bedroom I'll have my own bedroom, it's nothing personal I just need to be alone sometimes, you do understand, don't you? Hey, why are you acting distant? Where you goin', was it something I said? What What did I do? I'm an emotional idiot so get away from me I mean, MARRY ME.


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Rapunzel

 A woman 
who loves a woman 
is forever young.
The mentor and the student feed off each other.
Many a girl had an old aunt who locked her in the study to keep the boys away.
They would play rummy or lie on the couch and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast.
.
.
Let your dress fall down your shoulder, come touch a copy of you for I am at the mercy of rain, for I have left the three Christs of Ypsilanti for I have left the long naps of Ann Arbor and the church spires have turned to stumps.
The sea bangs into my cloister for the politicians are dying, and dying so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
.
.
The yellow rose will turn to cinder and New York City will fall in before we are done so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
Put your pale arms around my neck.
Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Give me your nether lips all puffy with their art and I will give you angel fire in return.
We are two clouds glistening in the bottle galss.
We are two birds washing in the same mirror.
We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool.
We are strong.
We are the good ones.
Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds.
Hold me, my young dear, hold me.
They touch their delicate watches one at a time.
They dance to the lute two at a time.
They are as tender as bog moss.
They play mother-me-do all day.
A woman who loves a woman is forever young.
Once there was a witch's garden more beautiful than Eve's with carrots growing like little fish, with many tomatoes rich as frogs, onions as ingrown as hearts, the squash singing like a dolphin and one patch given over wholly to magic -- rampion, a kind of salad root a kind of harebell more potent than penicillin, growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin.
as rapt and as fluid as Isadoran Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked and each day a woman who was with child looked upon the rampion wildly, fancying that she would die if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare and thus climbed into the garden to fetch the life-giving tubers.
Ah ha, cried the witch, whose proper name was Mother Gothel, you are a thief and now you will die.
However they made a trade, typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel so of course when it was born she took the child away with her.
She gave the child the name Rapunzel, another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought: None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tow without a door or a staircase.
It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried" Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as strong as a dandelion and as strong as a dog leash.
Hand over hand she shinnied up the hair like a sailor and there in the stone-cold room, as cold as a museum, Mother Gothel cried: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and thus they played mother-me-do.
Years later a prince came by and heard Rapunzel singing her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, and thus they met and he declared his love.
What is this beast, she thought, with muscles on his arms like a bag of snakes? What is this moss on his legs? What prickly plant grows on his cheeks? What is this voice as deep as a dog? Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads, swimming through them like minnows through kelp and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.
Each day he brought her a skein of silk to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot and cut off Rapunzel's hair to her ears and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw Rapunzel had been banished he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that prickled him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years until he heard a song that pierced his heart like that long-ago valentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes and in the manner of such cure-alls his sight was suddenly restored.
They lived happily as you might expect proving that mother-me-do can be outgrown, just as the fish on Friday, just as a tricycle.
The world, some say, is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.
As for Mother Gothel, her heart shrank to the size of a pin, never again to say: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and only as she dreamed of the yellow hair did moonlight sift into her mouth.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

HUGHES' VOICE IN MY HEAD

 As soon as we crossed into Yorkshire

Hughes’ voice assailed me, unmistakable

Gravel and honey, a raw celebration of rain

Like a tattered lacework window;

Black glisten on roof slates,

Tarmac turned to shining ice,

Blusters of naked wind whipping

The wavelets of shifting water

To imaginary floating islets

On the turbulent river

Glumly he asked, "Where are the mills?"

Knowing their goneness in his lonely heart.
"Where are the mines with their turning spokes, Lurking slag heaps, bolts of coal split with Shimmering fools’ gold tumbling into waiting wagons? Mostly what I came for was a last glimpse Of the rock hanging over my cot, that towering Sheerness fifty fathoms high screed with ferns And failing tree roots, crumbling footholds And dour smile.
A monument needs to be known For what it is, not a tourist slot or geological stratum But the dark mentor loosing wolf’s bane At my sleeping head.
" When the coach lurches over the county boundary, If not Hughes’ voice then Heaney’s or Hill’s Ringing like miners’ boots flinging sparks From the flagstones, piercing the lens of winter, Jutting like tongues of crooked rock Lapping a mossed slab, an altar outgrown, Dumped when the trumpeting hosannas Had finally riven the air of the valley.
And I, myself, what did I make of it? The voices coming into my head Welcoming kin, alive or dead, my eyes Jerking to the roadside magpie, Its white tail-bar doing a hop, skip and jump.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Rapunzel

 A woman 
who loves a woman 
is forever young.
The mentor and the student feed off each other.
Many a girl had an old aunt who locked her in the study to keep the boys away.
They would play rummy or lie on the couch and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast.
.
.
Let your dress fall down your shoulder, come touch a copy of you for I am at the mercy of rain, for I have left the three Christs of Ypsilanti for I have left the long naps of Ann Arbor and the church spires have turned to stumps.
The sea bangs into my cloister for the politicians are dying, and dying so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
.
.
The yellow rose will turn to cinder and New York City will fall in before we are done so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
Put your pale arms around my neck.
Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Give me your nether lips all puffy with their art and I will give you angel fire in return.
We are two clouds glistening in the bottle galss.
We are two birds washing in the same mirror.
We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool.
We are strong.
We are the good ones.
Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds.
Hold me, my young dear, hold me.
They touch their delicate watches one at a time.
They dance to the lute two at a time.
They are as tender as bog moss.
They play mother-me-do all day.
A woman who loves a woman is forever young.
Once there was a witch's garden more beautiful than Eve's with carrots growing like little fish, with many tomatoes rich as frogs, onions as ingrown as hearts, the squash singing like a dolphin and one patch given over wholly to magic -- rampion, a kind of salad root a kind of harebell more potent than penicillin, growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin.
as rapt and as fluid as Isadoran Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked and each day a woman who was with child looked upon the rampion wildly, fancying that she would die if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare and thus climbed into the garden to fetch the life-giving tubers.
Ah ha, cried the witch, whose proper name was Mother Gothel, you are a thief and now you will die.
However they made a trade, typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel so of course when it was born she took the child away with her.
She gave the child the name Rapunzel, another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought: None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tow without a door or a staircase.
It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried" Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as strong as a dandelion and as strong as a dog leash.
Hand over hand she shinnied up the hair like a sailor and there in the stone-cold room, as cold as a museum, Mother Gothel cried: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and thus they played mother-me-do.
Years later a prince came by and heard Rapunzel singing her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, and thus they met and he declared his love.
What is this beast, she thought, with muscles on his arms like a bag of snakes? What is this moss on his legs? What prickly plant grows on his cheeks? What is this voice as deep as a dog? Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads, swimming through them like minnows through kelp and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.
Each day he brought her a skein of silk to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot and cut off Rapunzel's hair to her ears and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw Rapunzel had been banished he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that prickled him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years until he heard a song that pierced his heart like that long-ago valentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes and in the manner of such cure-alls his sight was suddenly restored.
They lived happily as you might expect proving that mother-me-do can be outgrown, just as the fish on Friday, just as a tricycle.
The world, some say, is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.
As for Mother Gothel, her heart shrank to the size of a pin, never again to say: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and only as she dreamed of the yellow hair did moonlight sift into her mouth.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

THE SINGING SCHOOL

 The Poetry School, The Poetry Book Society, The Poetry Business:

So much poetry about you’d think I’d want to shout, “Hurray, hurray,

Every day’s Poetry Day!” but I don’t and you don’t either-

You know its flim-flam on the ether, grants for Jack-the-lads

Of both sexes, poets who’ve never been seen in a little magazine

Then gone on to win the Oopla Prize and made baroque architecture

The subject of an O.
U.
lecture.
Seventy five pounds for a seminar on sensitivity in verse; A hundred and fifty for an infinitely worse whole weekend of ‘Steps towards a personal fiction in post-modern diction’; And the inevitable course anthology, eight pounds for eleven Nameless poets Pascale Petit and Mimi Kahlvati carefully selected From, well honestly! Who cares? God only knows how banal they’re Bound to be.
Budding Roddy Lumsdens, (Has anyone read a Roddy Lumsden Poem?) “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” his first collection short-listed here and there - The sheer hype’s enough to put me off for life.
I still write at bus-stops and avoid competitions like the plague.
I’m not lucky that way, I’ve still to win a single literary prize.
Is there one for every day of the year? And as for James Kirkup, My mentor of forty-odd years, his name evokes blank stares; but Look him up in ‘Who’s Who’, countless OUP collections, the best- ever Version of Val?ry’s ‘Cimeti?re Marin’, translations from eleven tongues Including Vietnamese.
Is there nothing Jamie can do to please? I help one poet to write and one to stay alive; Please God help poor poets thrive.
Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Create an image from this poem

Unusual Love

Our desires flew like birds in the mornings 
When we were waked by the bells of dreams 
Hypnotized and ready for another round of living 

We would walk down the street of a foreign city mesmerized 
By our own history seen on the streets and in the gardens 
Filled with exotic flowers and the grass; you loved the grass 

You said you would teach me everything 
I never found out really what but I accepted you as mentor 
To learn whatever might be 

I accepted the usual, but unusual, ways of life 
And lived a life I never thought I would.
It became a typhoon passing through paradise.
You accepted my gifts but perhaps not my ideas I thought I knew you Although I hardly knew if I knew myself; I learned to accept your unusual, but usual, ways Your strange thoughts about living and dreaming and mixing living with dreams I learned to like your usual ways of presenting unusual desires What about psychology? There is no way to analyze the working of the brain machine, Working billions of cells, transmitters, and neutrons Flying, fighting, competing How do ideas come to life? That was another hard question.
I was not able to find out anything about anything, Except that I was alive and felt alive and yet felt dead as well; I watched rain, fog, horses, birds, and trees, and I watched the blue; I really loved watching the blue every day; You loved the same, although maybe for different reasons; Maybe we loved each other for different reasons too.
Did we hate each other? I felt I hated you not a few times.
Did you hate me? Maybe you did as well sometimes And maybe you still hate me When you think of that July when the blue was everywhere With the white dot in the middle, shining like the first time When everything was green And you were glistening in the middle of the blue, the green, the summer, But I was not there.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

A drinking song

 Come, brothers, share the fellowship
We celebrate to-night;
There's grace of song on every lip
And every heart is light!
But first, before our mentor chimes
The hour of jubilee,
Let's drink a health to good old times,
And good times yet to be!
Clink, clink, clink!
Merrily let us drink!
There's store of wealth
And more of health
In every glass, we think.
Clink, clink, clink! To fellowship we drink! And from the bowl No genial soul In such an hour can shrink.
And you, oh, friends from west and east And other foreign parts, Come share the rapture of our feast, The love of loyal hearts; And in the wassail that suspends All matters burthensome, We 'll drink a health to good old friends And good friends yet to come.
Clink, clink, clink! To fellowship we drink! And from the bowl No genial soul In such an hour will shrink.
Clink, clink, clink! Merrily let us drink! There's fellowship In every sip Of friendship's brew, we think.


Written by Thomas Campbell | Create an image from this poem

Benlomond

 Hadst thou a genius on thy peak, 
What tales, white-headed Ben, 
Could'st thou of ancient ages speak, 
That mock th' historian's pen! 

Thy long duration makes our livea 
Seem but so many hours; 
And likens, to the bees' frail hives, 
Our most stupendous towers.
Temples and towers thou seest begun, New creeds, new conquerers sway; And, like their shadows in the sun, Hast seen them swept away.
Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied (Unlike life's little span), Looks down a mentor on the pride Of perishable man.

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