Types of Poems

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee...

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life…

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
       But O heart! heart! heart!
         O the bleeding drops of red,
           Where on the deck my Captain lies,
             Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
       Here Captain! dear father!
         This arm beneath your head!
           It is some dream that on the deck,
             You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
       Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
         But I with mournful tread,
           Walk the deck my Captain lies,
             Fallen cold and dead.

Midway upon the journey of our life,

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

​

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say

What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,

Which in the very thought renews the fear.

​

So bitter is it, death is little more;

But of the good to treat, which there I found,

Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

I cannot well repeat how there I entered,

So full was I of slumber at the moment

In which I had abandoned the true way.

​

But after I had reached a mountain’s foot,

At that point where the valley terminated,

Which had with consternation pierced my heart,

​

Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders

Vested already with that planet’s rays

Which leadeth others right by every road.

​

Then was the fear a little quieted

That in my heart’s lake had endured throughout

The night, which I had passed so piteously

​

And even as he, who, with distressful breath,

Forth issued from the sea upon the shore,

Turns to the water perilous and gazes;

​

So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward,

Turn itself back to re-behold the pass

Which never yet a living person left.

reminder

the wings of angles connect

to their backbones

just behind

their steadfast hearts

​

tree trunks connect

sun-breathing leaves

chlorphylling with life

to their roots, muddy-dark

the spines of books connect

page to page

writer to reader

teacher to student

page to page

past to future

pain to power

page to page

rage to peace

​

this note about anatomy

from me

to you

is for remembering 

that after you speak

​

after you shout

your open mouth

will breathe in

the light for which

you've hungered

​

and your backbone

will unfurl until

you can again dance

to the beat

of your steadfast 

heart.

I write, erase, rewrite

Erase again, and then

A poppy blooms.

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
   But his daughter, named Nan,
   Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a
Drum -Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My Mind was going numb -
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange
Race Wrecked, solitary, here -
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then –

She never got to dance
Or go to her own prom.
She never got the chance
To forget where she came from.

She never got to kiss,
A man she idolized.
She never felt love's bliss,
'Cause she was paralyzed.

She never got to talk
About love with a smile.
She never got to walk
Down a church's aisle.

She never got to say
Those precious words, "I Do."
But she was far and away
The strongest girl I ever knew.

She couldn't brush her hair
Or put make up on her face.
She couldn't hold you dear
Or give you a warm embrace.

She couldn't clasp her hands
As if in the form of prayer.
She couldn't understand
Why she was in a wheelchair.

She never showed her fears
Or let you hear her cries.
She never showed the tears
That fell down from her eyes.

She never looked for pity
Or sympathy from you.
That's why she'll always be
The strongest girl I ever knew.
 

I can only find words for.

And sometimes I can't.

Here are these flowers that stand for.

I stand here on the sidewalk.

​

I can't stand it, but yes of course I understand it.

Everything has to have meaning.

Things have to stand for something.

I can't take the time.

Even skin-deep is too deep.

​

I say to the flower stand man:

Beautiful flowers at your flower stand, man.

I'll take a dozen of the lilies.

I'm standing as it were on my knees

​

Before a little man up on a raised

Runway altar where his flowers are arrayed

Along the outside of the shop.

I take my flames and pay inside.

​

I go off and have sexual intercourse.

The woman is the woman I love.

The room displays thirteen lilies.

I stand on the surface.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

​

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

​

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

​

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

​

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

​

The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Followin’ the trail on the old treasure map,

I came to the spot that said, “Dig right here.”

And four feet down my spade struck wood

Just where the map said a chest would appear.

But carved in the side were written these words:

“A curse upon he who disturbs this gold.”

Signed, Morgan the Pirate, Scourge of the Seas.

I read these words and my blood ran cold.

So here I set upon untold wealth

Tryin’ to figure which is worse:

How much do I need this gold?

And how much do I need this curse?

TOM:

I didn't go to the moon, I went much further - for time is the longest distance between places. Not long after that I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoebox. I left Saint Louis. I descended the step of this fire-escape for a last time and followed, from then on, in my father's footsteps, attempting to find in motion what was lost in space - I travelled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly coloured but tom away from the branches.

I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something.

It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of coloured glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colours, like bits of a shattered rainbow.

Then all at once my sister touches my shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes ...

Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be!

I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger -anything that can blow your candles out!

​

- for nowadays the world is lit by lightning ! Blow out your candles, Laura - and so good-bye.

Sonnet 75

​

​

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I write it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Vain man, said she, that doest in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize,
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eek my name be wiped out likewise.
Not so, (quod I) let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse, your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name.
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.