Best Longfellow Poems
My aunt was a weirdo: she talked to trees, walked around the house naked and used to read me “The Metamorphoses” by Ovid and “The Song of Hiawatha” by Longfellow as a bedtime story. “Oom-ta-ta, oom-ta-ta”, - dactyl waltzed, pages rustled and I came down dactylic stairs into my personal Hades of dreams.
Beavers are in the Styx! Bison hide in reeds from mosquitos. Herds of wild mustangs graze on the Elysium fields. Red-skinned young ladies with asphodels in plaits listen to the story of Orpheus and Eurydice that the magic Willow tells them. Everybody's happy but Charon: Hiawatha* takes Minnehaha** out in his boat. But where is the son of Rhea and Cronus and his wife Persephone? “Lookee, lookee, - Olympus laughs, - who rules the netherworld now. Henry Longfellow!”
Time passed. I grew up. Other rhymes obsessed me. But every night, having slipped past three-headed Mishe-nama***, I go down into Longfellow’s Hades in search of my late aunt.
* The main character of “The Song of Hiawatha”.
** Hiawatha’s ladylove.
*** The character of “The Song of Hiawatha”, the king of fishes.
Categories:
longfellow, books, dream,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Was it the Longfellow Bridge? Massachusetts?
One night we crossed a bridge on foot,
Dominique, my travel friend this summer 1989,
And seated we contemplated Boston at night,
Summer was hot, the city friendly and joyful,
We talked two hours about this new country,
The lights of Boston were full of Promises,
There was something soothing about America.
Était-ce le pont de Longfellow ? Massachussetts ?
Une nuit nous avons franchi un pont à pied,
Dominique, mon amie de voyage cet été 1989,
Et assis nous avons contemplé Boston la nuit,
L’été était chaud, la ville amicale et joyeuse,
Nous avons parlé deux heures de ce nouveau pays,
Les lumières de Boston étaient pleines de Promesses,
Il y avait quelque chose d’apaisant en Amérique.
PS, un souvenir qui est resté dans mon coeur,
bisous
Categories:
longfellow, adventure, confidence,
Form:
Free verse
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Death is but an empty grave,
And the soul dies in that slumber,
Which will rot its bones away.
Death is merely but a passage,
No, the grave is not its goal;
Beyond the boundaries of age
Hearst you true words of the soul.
'Tis enjoyment and 'tis sorrow
That destined is to fill our days
And 'tis true as we grow older
We find us farther from today;
Yet art is long and time is fleeting
And we must wisely choose to change
How we spend our current meeting
While onward march we to the grave
In the world’s broad field of battle,
And torment of impending death
Be not scared, nor be frightened
Rather lift up high your head
Believe in the coming future
Learn from the passing past
Make your living in the present
Leave handprints on many a heart
Lives of great men are all studied
But truly remembered are only those
Who’ve departing left behind them
A bright smile, of love a dose
Memories, that perhaps another
Pushing through the feats of life
A forlorn and shipwrecked lover
Seeing, once more shall fall in love
Let us then be up and doing, persevering
With a goal deep in our hearts and minds
Still achieving, still pursuing, knowing
With love nothing is far behind
And even though one day we surely
Meet our passage through death and grave
We boldly move on forward trusting
We’ve made the best of every day
And behind us that we loved ones leave
To spread the knowledge we’ve acquired
“Of death afraid you shall not be,
And can become all you aspire”
Categories:
longfellow, life, love, mystery, nature,
Form:
Verse
Faithfully, THE TIDE RISES THE TIDE FALLS
Water sustains life; pulsing evermore.
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE forever enthralls.
Golden lights brighten beyond the shore.
A PSALM OF LIFE repeats its vibrant calls.
Come; follow me along love’s corridor.
THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD upon dreams befalls.
Hope dances upon the darkening shore.
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS leave prints all can see.
Young lovers sing songs that ring in the heart.
FLOWERS watch love’s reflections in the sea.
So it is now, like Adam and Eve’s start.
AUTUMN; then CHRISTMAS BELLS zing Cupid’s spell.
Love ignites her passions throughout the night.
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR, as we know quite well,
Arrives months later, oh, beautiful sight.
RAIN IN SUMMER quenches the lust for life.
Man and beast seek cool satisfying streams.
THE POET’S CALENDAR waits for his wife.
The family grows as love births new dreams.
2/14/2017
Inspired by the Contest: The Poet’s Pluck
Categories:
longfellow, autumn, dance, feelings, life,
Form:
Quatrain
In his chest, his heart to bare.
All the pain and sorrow there.
Fire! Fire! Everywhere!
Screaming! Crying! In despair.
Vailiantly dashing the flames he chased.
The fire melting his loves life, cotton and lace.
Scars to hide, upon his face.
Still Henrys quill went on to trace
.
"The Cross of Snow", a sweet sweet lay.
Of the wife he lost on that sad day.
His thoughts of Fanny would harken him.
And is now at rest, with his mighty pen.......
Categories:
longfellow, death, education, life, lost
Form:
Free verse
Doth it not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?
By Richard Le Gallienne
(The Passionate Reader to His Poet)
Mama had a purple leather book
Of Henry Longfellow’s poetry.
She let me read it if I was careful,
And thus honed the love of poetry for me.
I memorized “The Village Blacksmith”
As well as “The Children’s Hour”.
Read “The Song of Hiawatha”
When chased in by a summer’s shower.
I never saw my mama reading it,
For she had to work no end,
But perhaps as with her daughter now,
It had once been her childhood friend.
Literary snobs sniped at Longfellow
As a writer for the masses,
As opposed I guess to the elite
Who penned for higher classes.
He was the most popular American poet
Of any poets of his time.
He could write in many different forms,
In lyric and in rhyme.
He was born in Maine in eighteen ought seven
He died in eighteen eighty two.
For all of his seventy five long years
He knew what he wanted to do.
He was a student of languages
And a highly educated man.
As Harvard professor, earned eight hundred a year.
Just picture that now if you can.
He quit his prestigious position
To devote himself to his art.
An established poet by then
He was successful from the start.
He was receiving three thousand dollars a poem
By the year of Eighteen Hundred Seventy Four.
He’d accumulated a sizable fortune
When he died in just seven years more.
Joyce Johnson 10/30/11 Won a no. 1
For Constance--My Dear Heart's contest The Passionate Reader!
Categories:
longfellow, people,
Form:
Verse
Just 'fore words formed inside my head
as my mother put me to bed
her sweet voice would rhyme to lull me
tales of children wild and misled.
Who ran and played and sang and danced
deep in teepees as in a trance.
Or climbing atop the walls of castles
dueled with broom stick used as lance.
The children’s hour was our time
to kiss and snuggle laugh and sigh.
And she taught me of Paul Revere
of his rushed ride with red coats nigh.
So many Longfellow tales told
of bold, real or imagined feats
that never did I want her voice
to stop or pause or to repeat.
Tennyson could tell a tale of
charging brigands in full retreat.
But, none could met the glory of
Longfellow’s stories so replete!
*Longfellow wrote Hiawatha, The Chidren's Hour, and Paul Revere's Ride
among dozens of other poem stories. In the 1920's children were taught
history through the use of poetry.
Categories:
longfellow, adventure, caregiving, childhood, love,
Form:
Quatrain
LONGFELLOW -Angler's Song
¶
¶ ¶
. ,,
O. / \
|--/ \
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\ --^--/~~•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Categories:
longfellow, fishing,
Form:
Shape
LONGFELLOW POETS CALENDAR
[jan TO] [feb BE] [mar OR] [apr NOT][may TO] [jun BE]
[jul THAT][aug IS][sep MY][oct REQUEST][nov OF][dec THEE]
Categories:
longfellow, poems, poetry,
Form:
Shape
Prune word and line to fix fine verse,
Opt for good feel where reason rhymes;
Express thought fine as you observe,
Tint form and will all in good time.
Loiter with proof where practice lifts,
Outline the good where passion hurls;
Nurture the truth that frees bold gifts,
Grace cites fine moods where words can curl;
Feel follows fling as echoes come,
Extract pure voice in words that tell;
Live lofty spring where wit can sum,
Listen with poise as wise worth dwells;
Open to flow in feel sublime,
Works script a show in simple chimes.
Leon Enriquez
01 May 2015
Singapore
Categories:
longfellow, blessing,
Form:
Sonnet
Gangly Longfellow walled in Thoreau and thru...
Well stocked with
wordsworth lxiii numbered yesteryear
born as predicted by
bubba's zayda longtime seer
while in utero premier
ultrasound detected
smudged embryonic fetus
whoosh auditory proto language unclear
surprisingly enough sounded analogous
to murmuring... huh yepper sonneteer
vaguely resembling, yes
William Shakespeare
though burbling, gurgling,
requiring absolute zero noise to hear
kickstarting, reverently warbling
difficult, diligent, distinct yawping,
nonetheless reckoned as dérailleur,
viz swiftly tailored
inchoate anatomical gear
hurriedly and harriedly styled
pièce de résistance
yours truly born with silver dictionary
in his mouth, I f***'* swear
unusual biological phenomena
drew pediatricians far and near,
which (no surprise) determined
English major as academic career
matriculating upon immediately
exiting birth canal whip smart derriere
i.e. (ŧ§), spread like wildfire, where
media hounds blitzkrieg stunned to stare
not at me but bare
naked lady in no mood...ready to tear
away sophisticated audiovisual equipment
understandably on verge going nuclear
furious, (this told me later in life as here
say), she quickly (albeit groggily)
curtly demanded fair
remuneration, and milked
infant me as cash cow profiteer,
her eyes aglitter signaling,
shining, seeing... gold
let whoever sneer
earning money with initial gasp of air
freeing parents to live
within lap of luxury
world wide web sightseer,
yours truly received
royal carpet treatment everywhere
crisscrossing the globe
accoutered with most
expensive designer babywear
obliviously prattling, jabbering, gabbling...
invariably drawing throngs
across entire northern hemisphere
broadcast as podcast across atmosphere
all across the universe hoodwinking
convincing many of "FAKE" poetic story
concoction courtesy adept fictioneer.
Categories:
longfellow, adventure, appreciation, confusion, creation,
Form:
Rhyme
I'm at work in the village market, sky of lapis, lawn of jade,
Near the stump of the ancient chestnut where my grandpa learned his trade.
I could close my eyes and still enjoy the view
With a friend like you.
Gotta say I'm uncertain whether there should be an empty space.
If the pieces won't fit together, should I force them into place?
I've been burning for the puzzle's missing clue
And a friend like you.
With a friend like you I can plainly see
All this heat and smoke only adds to the mystery.
Sit and stay awhile. Take your blessed time.
I'll be here all day. To be a working man ain't a crime.
Think I need a strong cup of coffee and a chance to just sit down.
Take this old leather apron off me. Drop my hammer to the ground.
Still, I swear there ain't a horse I wouldn't shoe
For a friend like you.
Muscles ache; that's to be expected. It's the unseen threat I fear.
Seems the minute I've got my back turned, some mule kicks me in the rear.
But I'll never hear a word that makes me blue
From a friend like you.
From a friend like you I get truth instead.
It's an honest job and I'm just earning my daily bread
As the bellows blows till the forge gives light
And the iron glows so I can't tell if it's day or night.
For a friend like you I could bend the bar,
Set the record straight and rest content with a cheap cigar.
I could mend these chains; make them fit like new.
What a man won't do for a friend like you.
Categories:
longfellow, desire,
Form:
Lyric
Gangly longfellow thoreau and thru...
Well stocked with
wordsworth lx numbered yesteryear
born as predicted by
bubba's zayda longtime seer.
While in utero premier
ultrasound detected
smudged embryonic fetus
whoosh auditory proto language unclear
surprisingly enough sounded analogous
to murmuring... huh yepper sonneteer
vaguely resembling, yes
William Shakespeare
though burbling, gurgling,
requiring absolute zero noise to hear
kickstarting, reverently warbling
difficult, diligent, distinct yawping
nonetheless reckoned as dérailleur,
viz swiftly tailored
inchoate anatomical gear
hurriedly styled pièce de résistance
yours truly born with silver dictionary
in his mouth, I f¨ç°ˆ˜© swear
unusual biological phenomena
drew pediatricians far and near,
which (no surprise) determined
English major as academic career
matriculating upon immediately
exiting birth canal whip smart derriere
i.e. (ŧ§), spread like wildfire, where
media hounds blitzkrieg stunned to stare
not at me but bare
naked lady in no mood...ready to tear
away sophisticated audiovisual equipment
understandably on verge going nuclear
furious, (this told me later in life as here
say), she quickly (albeit groggy)
curtly demanded fair
remuneration, and milked
infant me as cash cow profiteer,
her eyes aglitter signaling,
shining, seeing... gold
let whoever sneer
earning money with initial gasp of air
freeing parents to live
within lap of luxury
world wide web sightseer,
yours truly received
royal carpet treatment everywhere
crisscrossing the globe
accoutered with most
expensive designer babywear
obliviously prattling, jabbering, gabbling...
invariably drawing throngs
across entire northern hemisphere
broadcast as podcast across atmosphere
all across the universe hoodwinking
convincing many of "FAKE" poetic story
concoction courtesy adept fictioneer.
Categories:
longfellow, 11th grade, 12th grade,
Form:
Free verse
Longfellow Deeds
From
Winchestertonfieldville
Iowa
Wrote throw away poems for Hallmark Cards
In search of laughs
But H.W. Longfellow
Spoke in linguistic Espagna
Of his body craving Sergovia
And of a soul forged in Madrid
Set to a soundtrack of Castanet
An inquisition of state
Lapping at the beating shores of the Mediterranean
Searching for a New World to Tame
Crossing the Shipping Lanes of Atlantis
The Heroin is met
In Studious perplex
As for neither had she met
But yet
She is at what is to explore
A Character
A Muse
A Classic piece of Art
In Words and Ink
Inspied by Julia Ward
Light Verse
H.W Longfellow Poetry Contest
Spanish Student
Categories:
longfellow, angel, funny,
Form:
Light Verse
Doth if not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?
Published first at age thirteen,
Historical stanzas
Expressions of the patriot thou art
Lyrics singing.
Your candles nightly glowing,
Great writings to impart,
Signaled from the Old north Church
Paul Revere’s Ride.
Do you revel from above,
“Poems of Slavery” roused,
Oh, abolitionist, thou famed
Compassion heard.
The Villiage Blacksmith sweating
Working his way through life,
Remembers your ancestral past.
Honored through time.
My favorite childhood poet
Sharing my same birthdate*,
You crossed the decades to my youth
And made me see.
Where lies, now, thy influence?
Embedded in my soul –
Patriotic heart and poet,
Grown from thy art.
Ó November 19, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: The Passionate Reader
Sponsored by: Constance ~ My Dear Heart ~
See Notes:
Categories:
longfellow, history, on writing and
Form:
Lyric