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by Hicks, Jeanne
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The Best Poems Poems
My poems are conceived, not within the womb,
which long time now has been devoid of seed.
My poems are born from a need to be heard:
my thoughts, passions, sentiments and beliefs.
They start as fragments,
flecks of ash from my mind's abyss,
a restless volcano that never long sleeps.
The particles of ash collect and form together.
Feverishly I rush to absorb them all
as captured words on scribbled scraps of papers,
employing metaphor, play on word,
or sounds deliberately paced, and grace of rhythm.
I mold my poems meticulously to my image,
and then they emerge, fatherless but freed.
Each, my voice, shares her sisters' ways,
but unique, is cradled in the pages of my book,
where, satisfied with my labor, I can turn to them
and often look as a mother does on her infant babe.
Unlike, however, mortal children can do,
when I am through with them, they do not change,
and fully formed, they rarely disappoint.
As some have loved the fruit of my own flesh,
I hope they'll love my poem children too.
For the Any Poem Meaningful To You Poetry Contest of Broken Wings
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010
Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...
POETRY FOR POETS
(I own this- edition)
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the **** of life
Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
managing to blossom.
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
poems require to be forged
beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
ensuring they will be nailed
to their purpose
dead words and metaphors
selectively snipped away
There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2015
Why I am here in Poetrysoup?
I like a seed carelessly thrown
upon dirty solid black, brown rocks,
I strive, thrived to grow
despite big rough blocks..
words... phrases... sentences...
They are screaming to be released
or climbing to burst in climax seize
or if not drifting upon crinkled seas
but how can I?
When will I?
minute by minute
salty prints roll down my cheeks
caused by bitter-lava of emotions.
Heart is in state of stroke:
my mouth now mute
my lips lethargic to speak
yet my fingers found the head of a captain:
'til a shoreline glistens
in the name of hope
I puddle anew the currents,
nothing but my desire to share;
to live, to be happy, to be healed,
to pour safely fears, frustrations;
trials, dreams that I always pray.
Stabbed from behind,
bang and troubled by shark sharp words,
the powerhouse I built
slowly, slowly fell to short.
Curiosity ignited my interest,
I attempt to pass a five stanza rhyme verse
eyes shut, ears closed to comments.
sleeping poems from my head popped,
teasing and tickling,
unafraid, I bite every challenge
swimming, soaking, diving deep.
Seven months until I taste glory
excitement crawl and peak
nervous yet I...
I clamor to learn,
I clamor to move on,
I clamor to sing,
I clamor to run,
I clamor to fly,
I clamor to soar
from the bluest ocean to darkest clouds,
from lair of lilacs to fruitless air,
from reality to ecstatic speech of fantasy
with pinching memories of past rejections, lost love
I hide behind the mask of metaphors
I tease torrid with personification,
I sassy seduce using alliteration
I heighten arousal with my pose, my muse
I recite in my own right the rhymes of my soul
Ring! Ring! Ring
allow my poetry be the bells
clanging blues echoing hues containing feelings.
Permit the tinkles permeate,
impregnate your thoughts.
Freedom of expression,
this you and I yearn.
Here in Poetrysoup liberty, I did earn!
Supporters, friends, challengers, lover I gained
yet these I never ask. I never expect.
They landed softly to my open palms,
I accepted. I treasure them.
Finally, my congested suffering heart
today, beats systematically:
gratitude, I can only inhale
smile, I can only show
prayers, I can only blow...
respect, peace and order we all want.
Your verses and so is mine will be of powder rust, dust
but am humbled to be connected.
Pages I will leave here are my immortalized sentiments,
I do believe not all may agree because...
Each one is unique
Each one has a style
8:21 pm, December 26, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015
if i don't write i'm doomed to die
and lie beneath a wordless sky
a silent corpse, unseen, unheard
alive yet dead- is that absurd?
if rhymes don't paint a rainbow hue
and lines don't tempt with taste of dew
if words can't clothe just what I feel
this thing called life must not be real
without a dose of poetry
what will become of you and me?
just members of the walking dead
we march each one with empty head
a lifeless, joyless, hopeless mass
who try to make the hours pass
without the ecstasy of rhyme
to be alive is just a crime
for life without the words I write
is dull and drear, like starless night
like endless, tortured misery
is life without my poetry
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2018
We push the pen to make you feel
the gentle tapping of the falling rain,
the stinging burn of the summer sun
the heavy heart of despair and pain.
We push the pen to make you see
the vibrant orange of a monarch wing,
the secretive soul hidden in our eyes,
the golden sunrise in early morning.
We push the pen to make you taste
the sweetness of love's first kiss,
the bitterness of heartbreaking defeat
the richness of pure chocolate bliss.
We push the pen to make you hear
the clear waters babbling in the brook,
the forgotten laughter of our inner child
the cracking spine of a brand new book.
We push the pen to make you savor
the pungent petals of the red rose,
the crisp aroma of a tart green apple
the autumn air that excites the nose.
We each push the pen in different ways
with our own tone of voice and mystique,
an art form that no other can duplicate,
no right or wrong, just wonderfully unique.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015
Dear Quintain, how beautiful you are,
allowing us to paint the spacious sea or sky,
landscapes, or nights’ celestial bodies beckoning from afar.
Even when my quill is running dry,
with you along, my thoughts are sure to fly!
For all I need to do
is let you slip inside, then nestle in my brain.
The pattern of rhyme required by you
is not too difficult; here I will remain
content to write with you, dear Quintain.
Your English form, so lovely, does not ask
that we adhere to meter even though
I want to dance your lines as I bask
in your sweet simple charms, and lo!
My quill has filled; my lines now start to flow!
I’ll keep on going for two stanzas more
because I wish to sing
your praises! My mind is like a shore
upon which you are tumbling, glistening!
A sea of inspiration you bring.
Continue on - through poets - bringing words
that paint our world, entreating all to see
God’s gifts or to enjoy the singing birds,
taste clear mountain springs, and smell the salty sea.
Continue, dear Quintain, enrapturing me.
Written 8/17/2015 , this is English Quintain, which has rhyme scheme of ababb and the lines do not have to be consistent in syllable count
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
A first day on Soup is filled with much awe
The wonderful poems will make you smile
Easy is it to fall for all
Some enabled my mind, lingering a while
Just the few Soupers I mention here
Will blow you away with works of this year!
Janet Cervenka almost made us lust
When she penned a piece on Heavenly's bust
Marvelous is the diversity of Jan Allison
Such a dressed gem, and she's only blooming
Nandita then tells us that she's no Jan
Indeed her craft is paralleled by none
Man! the lyrics never cease to flow for Dave
So highly endowed with a skill many crave
You see, my first day on Soup I was greeted by SKAT
Who so humbly laid down the welcome mat
And if there exist a bond no man can put asunder
I have to say it's between SKAT and Linda
O! How can I forget 'Half of A Heart'
A Sara Kendrick special, such design and art!
Who better to mend our Broken Wings
Than the namesake with a quill in full swing
Yes Soupers always brighten my days
Place me in velds full of beautiful haze
And there I spot a Mystic Rose
Defined so uniquely like a Kim Nunez prose
From a consummation a lover was denied
To the hautiness of a lonely man's pride
Whatever we plan to glimpse or scoop
We tend to leave with more from Soup
Copyright © Wilfred Aniagyei | Year Posted 2015
You ask, “Why DOES the world need poetry?”
And I say...
Its writing is my sanity,
my armour versus apathy,
my dealing-with-it strategy,
my joy, my strange proclivity,
my vital creativity.
Its reading dulls cacophony
and mindless mediocrity
then floods me with philosophy
and tenderness and jollity
that elevate life’s quality.
Each poem is a legacy
itself, but then collectively
they weave a vibrant tapestry
of glorious humanity...
For though we face mortality,
our madness, our hilarity,
our weakness, our capacity
for sadness or sagacity
can all be captured perfectly
by verses, for eternity.
And that’s why, whether knowingly
or not, the world needs poetry.
18 September 2018
For “Why Would Your Self-Expression Matter To Others?” Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Copyright © Nina Parmenter | Year Posted 2018
A strange claim
Of a man of passion
Let the children come to me
For what man would refuse the smile
The innocence of a child
He parted his kindness
His love of all tribes
Animal and man, felt the kindness of his eyes
His tears grew this world
His voice made all of us listen
He made fisherman, philosophers
He made masons run free
He sang to ladies of the night
With the wine from wells of passion
Caliphs and Abu Nuwas soon followed
Love belongs to no one tribe
No sect or religion
It’s the flower that seed's travels the globe
Like feathers floating in the wind
When you see a child with no food
A woman with no smile
A man with no home
You make a balloon or funny face
You grow a rose
You build a hut
Trust in the kindness underneath
It will kiss you on your death bed
You shall rise to the heavens
You loved the universe
Notes: This is one poem that for sure can be peeled like an onion. First of all, I am working on a poem based on historical fact, and documents from the Vatican, that will serve no other purpose than to tell an age old story. Yes part of it takes place in current day Turkey.
Second, I have a friend who resides in Turkey, and we met over the internet, and over the years, have become friends. I know him to be kind, to all people and animals. We are simply friends that have shared stories, laughter, and hardships at times. Whether someone lives next door or half way around the world, true friendship and honor is hard to find. You can not give it or receive it. You can only both earn it over time.
No man is perfect, we are what we are, but when you see a world in turmoil, as we do these days, maybe this small event or moment carries weight. I myself am not so nice. So then I must say this, My friend Volkan is, not to me, but to countless people. A smile and kindness costs nothing, and the world needs more of this richness.
Everyone these days talks of how technology is ripping apart society and this may well be true, but this is a choice we all make, technology is merely a tool. One can also use it to build bridges and friendships.
Normally I would be shy to give such praise, however events have taught me that, its better to speak good words than be silent.
Thank you, for helping building a better world!
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
I write a poem that will entertain the world.
A poem that will fade someone's fear.
The one that will inspire you to smile.
Something that can make you out of mind.
I write a poem for lovers and friends,
To describe the feelings, how is love moves the earth.
A poem that encourages deads to live.
To keep the sun shines over the fields.
I write a poem that makes the whole world read.
A sentimental of a heart from lover who left.
The adventure of a man who travelled the lands and seas.
The agony of a woman who lost her baby.
I write a poem....
Until my ink gets dried.
Until the sun meets the horizon.
'til there's no tears fall in my eyes.
I write a poem...
To fall in love once more.
To hold the hand of a new lover,
To see the stars, the moon in full bloom.
I write a poem....
Until the last leaf falls in tree.
Then my life fades in the shadow of eve.
And every memories be left in dreams.
I write a poem....
Please care to comment and sealed with a kiss.
Choose one or two to be your favourites.
And dont forget, fave the author of masterpiece. =D
** 2nd Place Winner in Poet Destroyer aka Linda's Contest: Any Poem #28 **
Copyright © Aiyah Torres | Year Posted 2014
silence of a bee in the forest
silence of the leaves
leaves on majestic trees
leaves my soul quivering
quivering happiness and joy
joy of freedom and journeying on
joy in my soul beyond time
time entangled in vines
time to pause in the emerald
emerald windswept meadows trembling
emerald velvet foliage creeping
creeping and creeping the embroidery of green
creeping sunlight fills the shadows
shadows are where the violets sleep
shadows hide a hundred chirping wings
wings of the poets dreamy muse
wings of a little butterfly kissing the decay
decay in the tangled branches
decay beautiful and divine
divine tufts of yellow
divine bliss in silence
silence in the garlands of green
silence in hushed echoes
echoes of unseen songsters
echoes of wild streams bubbling and flowing
flowing words and verses
verse amongst the scattered dandelions
verses in the whispering calm
calm the clusters of vines twining
calm the bliss
bliss in a deep canopy of towering giants
bliss under an azure above
above the cowslip and foxglove
above blue birds fly
fly downy wings
fly with the sweet wind
wind that whispers in my ears
wind that lifts the tufts of pretty flowers
flowers wilted and dying
flowers with petals forlorn
forlorn my poetic words
forlorn and weeping
weeping on tattered paper in solitude
weeping poems and rhymes and verses
created in the silence
solitude . . .
May 23, 2015
Submitted to the contest, shhhhh , sponsor, Silent One
Copyright © Dear Heart | Year Posted 2015
Tell me a tale of humanity
Paint me the love of your life
Show me a path to humility
How a man should honour his wife.
Help children believe in magicness
Describe the warmth of a smile
Feelings invoked by happiness
A tree that’s been watching a while.
Explain the pain of solitude
Gift me the smell of a flower
Tease me with dreams of magnitude
Sights that are seen from a tower.
Convey the sound that a river makes
Define your fear of the dark
Textures and tastes of a freshly cut steak
A walk with your child in the park.
Interpret the touch that a lover leaves
Recount the flaws of your youth
Depict a man with his heart on his sleeve
Confront and search out the truth.
Weave me a yarn with your poetry
Spin me with poetic release
Take me away with ingenuity
Fill my mind and my soul with your peace.
Copyright © Mark Woods | Year Posted 2015
Explain to me why I stand alone.
Women are quick to uplift their father, sons, and brothers
Quick to maintain the home,
But when she needs support,
A woman stands alone
Explain to me why a woman has to stay in her “place”
Is there no room for a woman who is more than a pretty face?
Is there no room for a woman who can stimulate you intellectually
Or is it a woman’s only duty to please you sexually?
Explain to me why beating a woman gives you power
It gives you strength
Is masculinity so fragile
That you can’t maintain?
Without getting pleasure from pain
Explain to me why your brother goes scott free
When he takes advantage of a woman
While she is left to be ridiculed, blamed
As society throws dirt on her name
And she falls victim to her own demise.
The men who are so oblivious to their own privilege
That they think patriarchy is normal
Excuse my language
As I speak a bit informal
For you to understand
That you cannot catcall me as I walk down the street
It’s disgusting and demeaning
No I am not obligated to give you my number
Just because you ask and think you are getting a pass at me
No I don’t need you to hold the door open or carry my groceries
I am a strong, independent woman and your belief that I am weak
No I do not have to give you my body just because you bought me a drink
My body belongs to me
No matter what you tell yourself or think
You can no longer say that you are ignorant to my issues or my demands
Because I have clearly listed it for you to see.
Now only a real man
Will know, that women deserve equity
Copyright © Kapree Tripp | Year Posted 2017
You’re all in charge of authoring a story
Of love and humor, suspense and glory
You’re writing starts with your very first thought
And doesn’t end til your life is naught.
Know, My Dears, these books; your own
There are no cowriters; authors unknown
Flip those pages and make your quills dance
Miss no opportunities, take a chance
If somewhere in those thick tomes of yours
You have questions “whys and what fors?”
Do not ponder and then overthink
For there’s no such thing as permanent ink
There will be some tearstained pages
Most likely in your middle ages
There will be words you’d like to forget
Or phrases in which you may regret
But when it reaches the golden stage
The best of the story in a later page
Grab a pencil and throw some sparks
And don’t be afraid of eraser marks
Then once it’s written and you do find
There was a time of hurt when life’s unkind
Go ahead and toss out awful chapters
Because Momma loves Happily Ever Afters
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018
We are the Children
Bombs fall from the sky
The little children wonder why?
The night is mixed with blood and tears
Screams that deafen the little ones ears
In the name of what God or religion?
Is this killing seen to serve a mission?
In the name of what Tribe or Country?
We the children ask you humbly
We used to play and run all day
Now we hide fearing bombs come our way
The days we wander in search of foods
Hiding from soldiers intent on blood feuds
Bombs still falling from the sky
The pain and terror, when shall we die?
There is a gun on top a dead soldier there
I myself ended this pain that I could not bear
The bullet saved me from more despair
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
His poems live deep down in the wood
down in an olde hunting lodge
They are brown as the bears head that
hangs on the wall
brown as the dark leaves that fall
silently hiding the salt lick
from fawns who come in
the twilight to call
His poetry growls and grumbles and purrs
like a cougar alone on the rim
of the canyon above the olde
where he writes all his lines
like a hymn
His poems stretch out on the furs
by the fire
and tell of the storms and the waves
that tested the strength of the words
and sent many songs to their graves
for brave are the sagas
the odes that survive
the trek through the woods to the town
and as we go home we gather them up
scattered like leaves on the ground.
Brown,yellow,red ,a few of them green
His poems are places and things we have seen
but not from the view that the truth hunter gives
deep down in the woods ,where poetry lives
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006
*Dedicated to Andrea Dietrich, Caleb Smith, Isaiah Zerbst, Anne Currin, and Eileen Ghali
I'll start with illustrious Andrea,
our talented sonneteer.
She peppers our poems with kindness,
with comments so bright and sincere.
Next, we have Mr. McCaleb,
our sweet gent from Arkansas
From KOs to boogers to nature,
he writes without limit or flaw.
Now, I must turn to Isaiah,
the master of meter and rhyme.
His poems are most reminiscent
of forgotten ages in time.
I cannot forget our Queen Anne,
who graces us all with her songs.
Her lyrics tug at our heartstrings,
yet she's upbeat, lovely, and strong.
Last but not least is Eileen,
the most spirited poetess.
She translates feeling to verse
and writes with such skill and finesse.
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013
She is He's
a woman a fine man
with a pretty within his big
face and an head, he has a
attitude of simple plan.
purity To woo her
and and to
She has strong shoulders, her as much as
where you can rest your head he can. He gives
between two succulent boulders. from his heart as he
She has wit and charm. With such has from the very
grace she is surely armed. start. It's all in his
Your heart she will take. nature to reach out
But she'll be your best mis- his hand and take her.
take. Her hips sway as you feel But somehow as you
your heart carried away. have seen, there's much
In no time at all you will standing in between. He knows
feel her heat from your he must alter his approach, gets
head to your feet. her a golden broach.
When you're amid His legs start to
fleshy thighs, quiver as her
you'll emit thighs
sexy sighs make him
but you shiver.
will see Yes she
what they yearns
all do see, him so,
a girl that but he
is so very might
womanly. A woman in never
three letter high stilletto. know.
t t because
o o she has to go.
abcdefghijklm e nopqrstuv e wxyzabcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzabcdefghijkl
Contest: Something Concrete
Hosted by: Maureen McGreavy
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2017
Staying near to light my way
now that there is no more day
You're needed to so brightly burn
before to black ashes you return
Flames dance high upon your wick
and fall across the well-worn brick
Like those flames once in the hearth
when you go out there is no rebirth
My mind alight with persistent thought
beaming from an inspiration caught
In ink my quill takes another dip
my eyes watch your melting wax drip
Furiously now my script does flow
to finish the lines before out you go
I can do no more, there is no time
my slowing pen can no longer rhyme
The ink still wet, not even dry
as your glow continues to die
Words on the page begin to fade
while creeping darkness starts to shade
Wax and ink overtaken by night
and devours all your candle's light.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2016
I wish I could write
like those others before me,
Byron and Shelley and old Edgar Poe
Thy love unforgetting,
chasing a raven as ink tends to flow
Follow a sidewalk
in Silverstein footsteps,
sit neath a tree as the apples appear
Doth O’ my feelings
O’er Midsummer stanzas
Dream thee melodic as words of Shakespeare
Maybe some thoughts
in a past tense creation,
deeper in meaning like Sylvia Plath
Or Robert Frost
and the nature he touches,
meandering off through the trees down a path
aprons and daisies,
words overflowing the tea kettle rim
And let’s not forget
“The man”, Leonard Cohen,
what I would give if I could write like him
Kipling and cummings
so many thoughts in their own point of view
Taking our minds
to assorted locations
every piece speaks of something quite new
So many poets
who weave inspiration,
any or all I can just hope to be
But here I am
just writing my verses,
I guess I am stuck being little ol’ me
And here’s a few more,
some you might know
Who inspire all
when their ink it does flow
Heidi and Dee
Victor and Daniel
Mystic and Rick
Maurice, The Seeker
Eve and Tim Smith
Arthur and Freddie
James, Jo and Jan
Nette, Laura Loo
Broken Wings, San
And so many others
I’ve met on this site
Who each day inspire
this poet to write
If I have forgotten anyone, I apologize. I am still quite new here.
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016
A poem in honour of a lovely lady named Jan,
She writes poetry but was never sure about her talent.
She didn't think that she could do it
but now she knows she can.
I wanted her to embrace poetry
and learn to have faith in herself,
to write and show her work,
not just to leave it on the shelf.
She's in her element now she shares,
in her words it shows she cares.
Her feet barely touching the ground,
The bonus too, is undoubtably,
the great friendships that she's found.
It's truly wonderful to see my friend
stretching out her wings
and enjoying all the benefits
sharing her poetry brings.
Copyright © Jenny brewer | Year Posted 2014
Words can be as deadly as a knife
It can penetrate straight through your heart
Bleed all the spirit right out of your life
Twists your mind and tear you apart
Words can bring you pain and sorrow
Weaken the spirits of today and tomorrow
Breaks your heart and squeeze your head
Leave you living yet leave you dead
But words of love from the very start
Can instill much happiness to your heart
Eased your pain and comfort your mind
Have you seeing yet have you blind
Copyright © tu tran | Year Posted 2015
I'm a grit teeth beginner breaking out the cage,
growing stronger and fitter with wit coming of age,
squeezing letters out of lemons got me in a rage,
but this bitter will get better and steal the stage.
I'm out to lay a new way suitable to a renegade,
angrily squashing this yellow fruit into lemonade,
using the skin to pave a golden route in the trade,
writes rooted in the age of this transitional upgrade.
No scourge can submerge the courage I preserve
under the surface, that purrs with an urge
to hand carve words with power and purpose,
this marvellous occurrence repeatedly emerges
and surges undoubtedly delivering superb verses.
Attempts to pull curtains on my spirit,
only teach knowledge that I inherit,
I react and catch before impact to my merit
and you can't collapse the soul of this poet.
Everyone falls but my core's impenetrable,
and my mental resilience is unbreakable,
they can't remove something unshakeable,
trying is a mistake that'll make you miserable.
I've learnt to benefit from attempted attacks
aimed to prevent the way that I vent and act,
catching the weaponry and adding to my stack,
I've a determination that I'll never let crack.
I'll elevate as I stimulate with flow,
and levitate the audience to show,
I'm able to continuously demonstrate
that my work is something to celebrate,
even though my opinion will make them hate.
Coming back is what I do,
don't make me come back for you!
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
Yesterday I dreamed a dream,
that had no end.
You in your white gown, and long, black hair flowing.
You were calling my name.
I heard you, but I couldn't reach you!
And when I say your soul was tainted.
You went out in the night life.
You dressed in your black, evening ball gown.
You danced till the Red Sun came out, over the horizon.
You smiled at me.
A flame in my heart burned red hot!
My knees and hands shook with nerves;
Nerves of love and joy.
I blew you a kiss,
but you turned away!
Oh, please don't turn away from me,
for I would die, if it happened again!
Your beautiful and golden heart showed me the truth.
The truth that every gentleman wants to hear.
I've seen you walk the streets,
in the blue dawn of August.
As I followed you, you stopped and looked at me.
You smiled so beautifully, and my heart fluttered into oblivion!
You walked with your friends and I went my way.
I couldn't find a single trace of you that day.
I cried out "Why did I leave her like this?!"
I looked for you, all over the courtyards and town squares!
Yet no sight of your beauty.
... No sight of your golden heart, that I hold so dear to mine.
Where did you go?
Why did you leave?
Why did I leave... that is the question!
I should have stayed by your side,
till the ends of time.
Yet I had left.
One gloomy and parish midnight.
I came along a road,
and soon found myself in front of a wayward cafe.
Smiling faces all around me.
I spotted a beautiful face that outstood all the other faces around me.
It was yours.
Your face brought me to sanity and I went over too you!
You spotted me and tried to run!
I caught you in the dirty hallway and pulled you in.
Our eyes met and I fell in love once again.
Sanity re-entered my mind, body and soul.
I kissed you and you kissed back.
You held my hand, and we left the cafe and walked down the street.
The street was gloomy, yet we together brightened the dark street.
We went back to the lit up city streets, of the lands filled with smiling faces,
and we fell in love and slept together.
You lay there in my restless arms and I gave you a sweet kiss,
upon your sweet and soft head.
Your dark hair was sweet smelling and felt of silk.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep with you,
there in my arms and we dreamed together
till the morning came and woke me up,
and took you away from my weak and weary arms.
I dreamed a dream of you.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.
Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few.
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!
Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.
It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!
It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!
And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)
*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.”
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)
*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses:
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)
*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover,
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014