Virginia Woolf Poems | Examples

Virginia Woolf

Have you read the note?
It speaks of the doom of the liquid element.
An inclement weather, grey, and with the fuss of a bleached lightning,
Besieges the tick of the clock.
Must have been a bland Sunday, which retreated
From the temerity of old wine,
Haunted by the lonesome refrains of exhausted hymns.
The belfry yawned loosely....
But quiet crept in like leprosy,
Hanging loops on loam-matted hair, black and fringy,
And nursing frets we held
When the wetted guitar strings would not strum....

Have you read her note?
Not the one of Mrs. Dalloway
Nor the one of Between the Acts,
But the one she cringed for —
That banal, invidious act, non-virginal,
Which haunts the church to this day.

Poetry has died

Poetry has died replaced 
with raining madness cunning 
thoughts battered heart 
bickering minds the absence 
of simplicity a calming time 
the laughter of Amos and Andy 
reading of Langston Hughes the 
braising nesting belligerent from
Ernest Hemingway mingling with
this fondness of Robert frost 
the bold sassiness of Maya Angelo 
mastering the crafty sinking mental 
turmoil of Virginia woolf needing to 
die to be heard cradled beneath 
painful sighs of Emily Dickenson 
brillantly craving morbid hints of a 
pastel death blooming tangible 
lessonscovenant only by dramatic 
hues canvases Jane Austin's youth
bestowing the missing pieces to 
caressing thought of the creative 
mind separating emotions embracing 
thee enchantment of the  galloping 
Greek muses within a moment of 
silence poetry is simply no more

Who Am I

“If you don’t tell the truth about yourself, you can’t tell it about other people”~ Virginia Woolf


              'Say who am I'
        is a great challenge hurled on me,
      necessitating great introspection
        and clarity of thoughts.
  I am learning to find who I really am.
  Though never perfect, am without serious flaws. 
    I wish to improve with each step,
  as I know, if I’m not growing, I am dying.

              I'm a poet,
        and a true aspiring artist.
      I try to be a beautiful person,
        kind and compassionate. 
  More than anything, I am a sweet child of God.
  A teacher from hilt to heel and proud to be so.
    An erudite soul with vision, 
  A sculptor who sees an angel within a rock!

It's a Langston Hughes kind of day

It's a Langston Hughes kind of day 
filled with dutiful hints of Robert frost 
within the sudden humor and vague 
eccentricity of Ernest hemmingway 
the quiet freedom of Nikki Giovanni 
with a cunning soul shaking enlightment 
of Maya Angelo tinged with the noble
excitement of John keats as the clouds 
move into this rapture an intriguing sheer 
fondness of William butler Yeats while 
the soft dem lights over the lake hits 
my minds eye just so as I'm quite 
taken by the sinking thoughts of 
Virginia woolf beckoning my innermost 
calm peeking through wooden slats 
exposing the granduer of Gwendolyn Brooks 
smile mastering greatness beneath broken 
planks on the sunscreen porches even so 
i dare change a thing about this glorious 
day this Langston Hughes kind of day

Dry As A Bone

Imagine an oil stroke on a virgin canvass 
an image coaxed out by a velvet hand
pas de deux artist and brush
here comes the wind 
and suddenly, I appear out of nowhere 
Imagine my memories invisible as air 
a non violate kiss somewhere out there 
here comes the image,  
of a two step process, the artist and I
wonderfully etched, I pop up;  
Imagine my visage, aging flower of old 
existing in a turbulent rotation    
eyes of a cougar, soul of a lion 
I am Virginia Woolf the writer 
like a binding book I appear pressed

Continued survival on a canvass of dry,  
parched as a stone in a pocket, alone...

Virginia Woolf And Suicide

In Virginia's mind, a tempest swirled,
A brilliant mind, yet shadows curled.
Words flowed like a river deep and wide,
Yet within her soul a tumultuous tide.

She danced with joy, a fleeting waltz,
Yet battled demons, unseen assaults.
To the lighthouse of her soul, she'd strive,
But darkness whispered, she couldn't survive.

A room of her own, a refuge sought,
Yet the waves of despair relentlessly fought.
In depths profound, she sought reprieve,
A final rest, a chance to leave.

In the pages she wrote, her essence lives,
A testament to the pain she gives.
A fragile soul, now at peace,
Virginia's tale, a tragic masterpiece.

As I Began To Understand Virginia Woolf

as i began to understand Virginia Woolf
her voice from a room of her own
i realized i was upon a mountain
she had exposed the molehill it was
the dirt soon revealed a tunnel
entering it opened a new horizon
where i finally fully grasped the world
surrounding Jane Austen
in that moment the mist upon the horizon
disappeared and i could finally grasp
her words between the lines
denied a seat upon the Parthenon
forbidden attending The School of Athens
she displays the truth about her gender
that soft restraint we find in mother
its wisdom resplendent
in that hardened fist of reality
covered in a glove of soft lamb
we forgive ignorance
or become yet another in the mirror
who denies the freedom the world
breathes in every breath
the child's first cry
should echo, i am born free
deserving a room of my own
all warrant the miracle life is
nascent in the gratitude within

   OKC   6/22

Disabled Poets Society

Being driven by others 
who just don't see your illness
since it's not a broken arm or leg
keep saying I'm special I can win
the being disqualified because 

you never attended college.
nor because you suffered injury 
or illness being told you just.
cannot compete struggling. 
because someone said you 
 
and your mind cannot write. 
its own thoughts searching. 
finding real hope within 
The Special Olympics 
where you are among 

your own peers why one 
must believe writing poetry 
is no different that being able
to express yourself through 
poetry and song is a gift no one 

has the right to take it away 
from you the feeling being free  
in your mind to be challenged to soar 
in spite being quote unquote broken
silencing yourself words unspoken

Maya Angelou wrote of great suffrage 
depression and abuse as did Virginia Woolf  
during her madness mental disease her best 
poetry was created including Emily Dickinson 
Edgar Alan Poe William Shakespeare 

many great writers mentally disabled persons 
think write read and sing teaching us about 
mental illness why they have a lot to say 
well in my book I think that it's okay

Ever-Changing Fall

"And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves..." - Virginia Woolf

When sun grows stingy in the sky
melancholy wilts happy flowers

summer’s long days will be fading away
when trees announce fall’s coming 
in their brightest attire

Gold and Crimson waltz
in autumn’s cooling breezes.
Pumpkins wear strange grins!
Summer’s obituary 
by this time has been planted.

when rivers and lakes
solidify into ice . . .
december skates in

September 16, 2020
for Brian Strand's 
Completely Your Choice (22)Any Form AnyTheme Poetry Contest

Bijou

"Bijou"



Let me count the ways
Love translates in waves
108; Lovers duplicate


(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)




"Blue & Green" / Virginia Woolf
https://youtu.be/csgUaZKtY7U











108
https://www.thezenlife.com/blogs/news/the-significance-of-the-number-108 




Bijou
https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/bijoux

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/bijou




Blue & Green / Woolf
https://interestingliterature.com/2019/08/a-short-analysis-of-virginia-woolfs-blue-and-green/

Herstory, Not History

(for Virginia Woolf)

She wanted to buy some flowers but drowned Herself instead,
drifting along the ebbing flow of time, with warm
water cracking Her slim figure and airless lungs.

‘will I freeze the river?’ She thought, wondering if the trees
would still rustle in the wind if She wasn’t alive to notice it,
thinking if Her man’s heart would still beat if She could
no longer shock its rhythmical thump-thud-stop with kisses.

the wood was chopped down around Her home. The
veranda from which She surveyed the world was but
deafened by cruel hacking chopping and sawing at the 
hands of men whom took Her feminine beauty away.

She became the water as She died, became the weeds,
became the bark that broke her own back, the pen and the phallus.
‘this isn’t purgatory’ She realised, ‘this is revenge and reward’.
‘I am a sacrifice to literature. I am a sacrifice for the word’.

from writer to death to glory to ink
to the lies under rocks uncovered, 
to god to me to the taking of Her own life,
She is the paper in our very hands.

The Grand Masters of the Poetic Arts

Ginsberg
Kerouac
Beat Tap

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

W. H . Auden

Shakespeare 
Wordsworth 

Sylvia Plath
Virginia Woolf

Jane Austen
The Bronte Sister's 

Authorities of Classic Art
Using ink instead of oils or water to paint a pallet dry

Mixing words into elix
To create book's without pictures 

So as the blind can rejoice as well
In words that bind us all together 

Life , Loss , Longing , Loving
Belonging ,  Betrayal 
Power , Struggle , Death
Family , Foe's 
Verses and Prose

The words that which we daily quote
When called upon to speak
Directly from the heart

While all the while never knowing
They are reciting words from a poem
Or classical works of Art

Of an Author they could not even name
Nor actually in reality know

Home Re-Post

Floating under the surface,
stones weighting her body,
gremlins and goblins 
were hobbling her soul;
she's full to o'erflowing, 
her faculties failing,
she swam with the fishes 
and found her way home.

             ******

...an epitaph for Virginia Woolf

Ode To Virginia

...for Virginia Woolf


Seashells hiss her mystery, 
leaves and flowers whisper 
her humanity; lambent lines 
of plangent wisdom, stories 
of loneliness coated with love
and compassion, poetic 
and rich in description.
Shackled in a masculine 
environment, a room of her own 
to create her ineffable prose, 
a well-spring of joys and regrets.

A secluded stream disposed of her, 
weighted and swirled where indifference 
would no longer vex her to heaven 
that welcomed her shimmering soul,
unsored by an unfriendly world.

Home

Floating under the surface,
stones weighting her body,
gremlins and goblins 
were hobbling her soul;
she's full to o'erflowing, 
her faculties failing,
she swam with the fishes 
and found her way home.




Last Modified: July 28, 2015 at 11:57 pm
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved 


Author Notes

...an epilogue for Virginia Woolf

• Short Virginia Woolf Poems
• Famous Virginia Woolf Poems
• Best Virginia Woolf Poems
• Read Virginia Woolf Poems
• Long Virginia Woolf Poems
• Virginia Woolf Quotes