Bards Poems - Poems about Bards

We're poetic wraiths, Poets' souls in motion, bards, Brainiacs, our muse, Singing around our planet, Nature, Love's dreams, far beyond........

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Forever extinct seems the age of classical poetry, With all its cheers from caves, cottages, marble domes and temples, When now a country honors not classical bards: O Hugh MacDiarmid, Petrarch, Ono No Komachi, Thomas Chatterton, Robert Browning, James Macpherson, Christina Rossetti, Theophile Gautier, Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin, Beside their essence and dignity, little gifts grow dim, While their Fame...

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My sleep evaded by the rabble running through my head, I pull about my wrinkled sheets and scuttle out of bed. I sign upon the secret line to enter Poetry Soup, and once again, now wide awake, I’m back amongst the group. I find a bunch of early birds or night owls if you please that paint with words electric,...

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life it seems is not without its irony for the screaming bards of Mu Mu Land .. on lounging chairs .. on deep-piled rugs .. just laying round .. reciting verse .. my bards were still .. and known to all .. in whispered words .. as mild as mauve and when they showed me to the door I could sense within creativeness the un-ravelling of...

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Bards and society Poets are gentle people who like to form a group for writers with an eccentric title, “a thousand poets against war.” Poetry is only useful for dictators and those who like to demonstrate how literal they are. Dictators find them valuable if they extoll the regime If not, you are exiled or jailed. Poets are subjected to...

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Poems about Poems (I) What the Poet Sees by Michael R. Burch What the poet sees, he sees as a swimmer ~~~underwater~~~ watching the shoreline blur sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles... Both worlds grow obscure. Muse/Goddess by Michael R. Burch “What will you conceive in me?” I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled... naked, and gladly.” “What...

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Thanks bards fallen For the inspiration given For the eyes are now opened For in lines on paper inked, Lessons were learned,insight was earned. Thanks bards fallen For in lines down written Truth was spoken Dreams were born. Thanks bards fallen For the many hearts mused. In your lines and rhymes, Emotions and feelings lucidly expressed, Vividly felt. Many a bard Fly sky high For because you flew. And gates to...

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When two bards do meet... Their closed minds they discreetly disclose Tho their versions differ- in a good rapport treat; But see to that, no ones vanity loose. As verses from both sides do flow ...

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Albert Gannon Farquar-Lock, he sowed his peppered praise; his Shakespeare wandering love of words, and hey!... distant, country, with me the pupil fifteen and a day, he my teacher: keen to learn my pen, his way; and through the nightly, writing of his sprite, I learned to conjure light, by write; his furrowed brow, or tense fleshy...

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TRIBUTE TO AFRICAN WRITERS FOR THEIR STRUGGLE AGAINST OPPRESSION CELEBRATE AFRICAN BARDS A mirror in ink Placed before my future To save me from the sink Of this chameleon picture Anthills of the Savannah: With pen, they told me the past; Without their trail I wonder How to narrow a confusion this vast Through their crystal pages, My antiquity—inept— illumines; For their battles, no wages But mansions in...

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Homer,Chaucer, Shakespeare, Keats, Eliot Soyinka, Okigbo, Osundare Now me, recycling human ideas...

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Slept and slumbered under the quinine stains we wept, On a poignant bard’s weary nib we slept. Yearned we to spill on to paper, Him caged sore thoughts for later. Weeping words we lay folded, On table, heart moulded. Sorrowed dirge lament,We repent,..................dissent ...

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Outside the storm is raging, heaping piles of drifting snow. Inside I'm snuggled in my easy chair, the fireplace all aglow! I've retrieved an old tome of poetry from my library shelf, To spend an afternoon with noted bards to entertain myself. I'll never tire of the lovely lyrics leaping from its pages, Composed by inspirational poets down through the...

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Poetry turns from the common man, Turns on its arrogant heel, Stalking away toward the cloistered academe. Nothing is duller or deader than Poets unable to feel Love—or compassion, or dream the lofty dream. Thus poetry turns from you, from me, And talks to itself, indulgently, And nobody hears. Quite understandably....

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