I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to it--that's the reason. The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it. Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? There are three stones of slate and one of marble, Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight On the sidehill.
We haven't to mind those. But I understand: it is not the stones, But the child's mound--' 'Don't, don't, don't, don't,' she cried. She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm That rested on the bannister, and slid downstairs; And turned on him with such a daunting look, He said twice over before he knew himself: 'Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?
Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it! I must get out of here. I must get air. I don't know rightly whether any man can. Don't go to someone else this time. Listen to me.
I won't come down the stairs. I don't know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught I should suppose. I can't say I see how. A man must partly give up being a man With women-folk. We could have some arrangement By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you're a-mind to name. Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.
Two that don't love can't live together without them. But two that do can't live together with them. Don't carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it's something human. Let me into your grief. I'm not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out.
Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother--loss of a first child So inconsolably--in the face of love. You'd think his memory might be satisfied--' 'There you go sneering now! You make me angry. I'll come down to you. God, what a woman! And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand--how could you?
I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Monday, January 13, Download image of this poem. Report this poem. This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem. Susan Williams 10 October Andrew Hoellering 04 January Stephen W 05 July Mark Arvizu 22 April Andrew 31 January Your Homeboy 21 January The dress caught on fire And burned her entire Front page, sporting section and all. If you want to read a story or tell a story in a poem, the ballad is for you. Ballads, if you want to follow the rules of the form strictly, are written in quatrains, groups of four lines, and have a rhyme scheme of ABAB or ABCB.
The lines alternate between having eight syllables and six syllables. But the ballad is a loose enough form that you can make of it whatever you want. Her name was Barbara Allen. The epitaph is like the elegy, only shorter. Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood, Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her. Heap not on this mound Roses that she loved so well: Why bewilder her with roses, That she cannot see or smell?
The first and third lines have five syllables in the English version of the form and the other lines have seven syllables each. Who knows? White buds from the plumtrees wing And mingle with the snows. No blue skies these flowers bring, Yet their fragrance augurs Spring. An ode is simply a poem address to a particular person, event, or thing. Here, among the market vegetables, this torpedo from the ocean depths, a missile that swam, now lying in front of me dead. This is the form of poetry where you can do whatever you want!
There are no rules! This is both liberating and terrifying. Yes, you can do whatever you want…which means it can be hard to know where to start. But give it a try and enjoy the freedom of it! If you want to learn more, I highly recommend the Poetry Foundation website. Or you can read more Book Riot articles on the subject: Click here for an introduction to how to read poetry. To explore more articles on poetry, click here. Have fun! Check Your Shelf Newsletter. By the stove she does something with words and looks at me only with her back.
Near her mouth, I see a wrinkle speak of a man whose body serves the ants like she serves me, then more words from more wrinkles about children, words about this and that, flowing more easily from these other mouths. They speak Nani was this and that to me and I wonder just how much of me will die with her, what were the words I could have been, was.
She asks me if I want more. I own no words to stop her. Even before I speak, she serves. Acrostic Here is a fun form: spell out a name, word, or phrase with the first letter of each line of your poem. We have not built lasting monuments of severe stone facing the sea, the watery tomb, so I call these songs shrines of remembrance where faithful descendants may stand and watch the smoke curl into the sky in memory of those devoured by the cold Atlantic.
In every blues I hear riding the dank swamp I see the bones picked clean in the belly of the implacable sea. Epigram Want to write something short? Limerick On the subject of funny poems, next is the limerick.
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