Best Famous Quarreling Poems

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Written by Kahlil Gibran | A Poets 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. Humanity rages like a tempest, but I sigh in silence for I know the storm must pass away while a sigh goes to God. Human kinds cling to earthly things, but I seek ever to embrace the torch of love so it will purify me by its fire and sear inhumanity from my heart. Substantial things deaden a man without suffering; love awakens him with enlivening pains. Humans are divided into different clans and tribes, and belong to countries and towns. But I find myself a stranger to all communities and belong to no settlement. The universe is my country and the human family is my tribe. Men are weak, and it is sad that they divide amongst themselves. The world is narrow and it is unwise to cleave it into kingdoms, empires, and provinces. Human kinds unite themselves one to destroy the temples of the soul, and they join hands to build edifices for earthly bodies. I stand alone listening to the voice of hope in my deep self saying, "As love enlivens a man's heart with pain, so ignorance teaches him the way of knowledge." Pain and ignorance lead to great joy and knowledge because the Supreme Being has created nothing vain under the sun. Part Two I have a yearning for my beautiful country, and I love its people because of their misery. But if my people rose, stimulated by plunder and motivated by what they call "patriotic spirit" to murder, and invaded my neighbor's country, then upon the committing of any human atrocity I would hate my people and my country. I sing the praise of my birthplace and long to see the home of my children; but if the people in that home refused to shelter and feed the needy wayfarer, I would convert my praise into anger and my longing to forgetfulness. My inner voice would say, "The house that does not comfort the need is worthy of naught by destruction." I love my native village with some of my love for my country; and I love my country with part of my love for the earth, all of which is my country; and I love the earth will all of myself because it is the haven of humanity, the manifest spirit of God. Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that humanity is standing amidst ruins, hiding its nakedness behind tattered rags, shedding tears upon hollow cheeks, and calling for its children with pitiful voice. But the children are busy singing their clan's anthem; they are busy sharpening the swords and cannot hear the cry of their mothers. Humanity appeals to its people but they listen not. Were one to listen, and console a mother by wiping her tears, other would say, "He is weak, affected by sentiment." Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that Supreme Being preaches love and good-will. But the people ridicule such teachings. The Nazarene Jesus listened, and crucifixion was his lot; Socrates heard the voice and followed it, and he too fell victim in body. The followers of The Nazarene and Socrates are the followers of Deity, and since people will not kill them, they deride them, saying, "Ridicule is more bitter than killing." Jerusalem could not kill The Nazarene, nor Athens Socrates; they are living yet and shall live eternally. Ridicule cannot triumph over the followers of Deity. They live and grow forever. Part Three Thou art my brother because you are a human, and we both are sons of one Holy Spirit; we are equal and made of the same earth. You are here as my companion along the path of life, and my aid in understanding the meaning of hidden Truth. You are a human, and, that fact sufficing, I love you as a brother. You may speak of me as you choose, for Tomorrow shall take you away and will use your talk as evidence for his judgment, and you shall receive justice. You may deprive me of whatever I possess, for my greed instigated the amassing of wealth and you are entitled to my lot if it will satisfy you. You may do unto me whatever you wish, but you shall not be able to touch my Truth. You may shed my blood and burn my body, but you cannot kill or hurt my spirit. You may tie my hands with chains and my feet with shackles, and put me in the dark prison, but who shall not enslave my thinking, for it is free, like the breeze in the spacious sky. You are my brother and I love you. I love you worshipping in your church, kneeling in your temple, and praying in your mosque. You and I and all are children of one religion, for the varied paths of religion are but the fingers of the loving hand of the Supreme Being, extended to all, offering completeness of spirit to all, anxious to receive all. I love you for your Truth, derived from your knowledge; that Truth which I cannot see because of my ignorance. But I respect it as a divine thing, for it is the deed of the spirit. Your Truth shall meet my Truth in the coming world and blend together like the fragrance of flowers and becoming one whole and eternal Truth, perpetuating and living in the eternity of Love and Beauty. I love you because you are weak before the strong oppressor, and poor before the greedy rich. For these reasons I shed tears and comfort you; and from behind my tears I see you embraced in the arms of Justice, smiling and forgiving your persecutors. You are my brother and I love you. Part Four You are my brother, but why are you quarreling with me? Why do you invade my country and try to subjugate me for the sake of pleasing those who are seeking glory and authority? Why do you leave your wife and children and follow Death to the distant land for the sake of those who buy glory with your blood, and high honor with your mother's tears? Is it an honor for a man to kill his brother man? If you deem it an honor, let it be an act of worship, and erect a temple to Cain who slew his brother Abel. Is self-preservation the first law of Nature? Why, then, does Greed urge you to self-sacrifice in order only to achieve his aim in hurting your brothers? Beware, my brother, of the leader who says, "Love of existence obliges us to deprive the people of their rights!" I say unto you but this: protecting others' rights is the noblest and most beautiful human act; if my existence requires that I kill others, then death is more honorable to me, and if I cannot find someone to kill me for the protection of my honor, I will not hesitate to take my life by my own hands for the sake of Eternity before Eternity comes. Selfishness, my brother, is the cause of blind superiority, and superiority creates clanship, and clanship creates authority which leads to discord and subjugation. The soul believes in the power of knowledge and justice over dark ignorance; it denies the authority that supplies the swords to defend and strengthen ignorance and oppression - that authority which destroyed Babylon and shook the foundation of Jerusalem and left Rome in ruins. It is that which made people call criminals great mean; made writers respect their names; made historians relate the stories of their inhumanity in manner of praise. The only authority I obey is the knowledge of guarding and acquiescing in the Natural Law of Justice. What justice does authority display when it kills the killer? When it imprisons the robber? When it descends on a neighborhood country and slays its people? What does justice think of the authority under which a killer punishes the one who kills, and a thief sentences the one who steals? You are my brother, and I love you; and Love is justice with its full intensity and dignity. If justice did not support my love for you, regardless of your tribe and community, I would be a deceiver concealing the ugliness of selfishness behind the outer garment of pure love. Conclusion My soul is my friend who consoles me in misery and distress of life. He who does not befriend his soul is an enemy of humanity, and he who does not find human guidance within himself will perish desperately. Life emerges from within, and derives not from environs. I came to say a word and I shall say it now. But if death prevents its uttering, it will be said tomorrow, for tomorrow never leaves a secret in the book of eternity. I came to live in the glory of love and the light of beauty, which are the reflections of God. I am here living, and the people are unable to exile me from the domain of life for they know I will live in death. If they pluck my eyes I will hearken to the murmers of love and the songs of beauty. If they close my ears I will enjoy the touch of the breeze mixed with the incebse of love and the fragrance of beauty. If they place me in a vacuum, I will live together with my soul, the child of love and beauty. I came here to be for all and with all, and what I do today in my solitude will be echoed by tomorrow to the people. What I say now with one heart will be said tomorrow by many hearts

Written by Carl Sandburg | Put Off the Wedding Five Times and Nobody Comes to It (Handbook for Quarreling Lovers)I THOUGHT of offering you apothegms. I might have said, “Dogs bark and the wind carries it away.” I might have said, “He who would make a door of gold must knock a nail in every day.” So easy, so easy it would have been to inaugurate a high impetuous moment for you to look on before the final farewells were spoken. You who assumed the farewells in the manner of people buying newspapers and reading the headlines—and all peddlers of gossip who buttonhole each other and wag their heads saying, “Yes, I heard all about it last Wednesday.” I considered several apothegms. “There is no love but service,” of course, would only initiate a quarrel over who has served and how and when. “Love stands against fire and flood and much bitterness,” would only initiate a second misunderstanding, and bickerings with lapses of silence. What is there in the Bible to cover our case, or Shakespere? What poetry can help? Is there any left but Epictetus? Since you have already chosen to interpret silence for language and silence for despair and silence for contempt and silence for all things but love, Since you have already chosen to read ashes where God knows there was something else than ashes, Since silence and ashes are two identical findings for your eyes and there are no apothegms worth handing out like a hung jury’s verdict for a record in our own hearts as well as the community at large, I can only remember a Russian peasant who told me his grandfather warned him: If you ride too good a horse you will not take the straight road to town. It will always come back to me in the blur of that hokku: The heart of a woman of thirty is like the red ball of the sun seen through a mist. Or I will remember the witchery in the eyes of a girl at a barn dance one winter night in Illinois saying: Put off the wedding five times and nobody comes to it.

Written by R S Thomas | The Woman So beautiful--God himself quailed at her approach: the long body curved like the horizon. Why had he made her so? How would it be, she said, leaning towards him, if instead of quarreling over it, we divided it between us? You can have all the credit for its invention, if you will leave the ordering of it to me. He looked into her eyes and saw far down the bones of the generations that would navigate by those great stars, but the pull of it was too much. Yes, he thought, give me their minds' tribute, and what they do with their bodies is not my concern. He put his hand in his side and drew out the thorn for the letting of the ordained blood and touched her with it. Go, he said. They shall come to you for ever with their desire, and you shall bleed for them in return.

Written by Isaac Watts | Against Quarreling and Fighting Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so: Let bears and lions growl and fight, For 'tis their nature, too. But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise: Your little hands were never made To tear each other's eyes. Let love through all your actions run, And all your words be mild: Live like the blessed Virgin's Son, That sweet and lovely child. His soul was gentle as a lamb; And as his stature grew, He grew in favor both with man, And God his Father too. Now, Lord of all, he reigns above; And from his heavenly throne He sees what children dwell in love, And marks them for his own.

Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | Pastoral The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices over those things that interest them. But we who are wiser shut ourselves in on either hand and no one knows whether we think good or evil. Meanwhile, the old man who goes about gathering dog-lime walks in the gutter without looking up and his tread is more majestic than that of the Episcopal minister approaching the pulpit of a Sunday. These things astonish me beyond words.

Written by Vasko Popa | Give Me Back My Rags #11 I've wiped your face off my face Ripped your shadow off my shadow Leveled the hills in you Turned your plains into hills Set your seasons quarreling Turned all the ends of the world from you Wrapped the path of my life around you My impenetrable my impossible path Just try to meet me now

Written by Lew Welch | Not yet 40 my beard is already white Not yet 40, my beard is already white. Not yet awake, my eyes are puffy and red, like a child who has cried too much. What is more disagreeable than last night's wine? I'll shave. I'll stick my head in the cold spring and look around at the pebbles. Maybe I can eat a can of peaches. Then I can finish the rest of the wine, write poems 'til I'm drunk again, and when the afternoon breeze comes up I'll sleep until I see the moon and the dark trees and the nibbling deer and hear the quarreling coons

Written by Carl Sandburg | Crucible Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl. Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishers, spreads a chorus of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into one stream, forgets the past and rolls on. The sea mist green of the bowl’s bottom is a dark throat of SKY crossed by quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing FACES.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Clinton South of Polk I WANDER down on Clinton street south of Polk And listen to the voices of Italian children quarreling. It is a cataract of coloratura And I could sleep to their musical threats and accusations.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Wars IN the old wars drum of hoofs and the beat of shod feet. In the new wars hum of motors and the tread of rubber tires. In the wars to come silent wheels and whirr of rods not yet dreamed out in the heads of men. In the old wars clutches of short swords and jabs into faces with spears. In the new wars long range guns and smashed walls, guns running a spit of metal and men falling in tens and twenties. In the wars to come new silent deaths, new silent hurlers not yet dreamed out in the heads of men. In the old wars kings quarreling and thousands of men following. In the new wars kings quarreling and millions of men following. In the wars to come kings kicked under the dust and millions of men following great causes not yet dreamed out in the heads of men.