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Louis of his boyhood and the area off the north shore of Boston. This villanelle brings to a height the craft and ironic tone of a poet of casual grace. It's a poem about losses, small and big, and it's stunning in the way its power accumulates, stanza by stanza. This is a poem to memorise and repeat in the wee hours of the night.

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I can't think of another poem that so beautifully captures the deep love of a wife for her husband. The clarity and force of the poem overwhelm me whenever I re-read it, which I do quite often. Ashbery's diarylike poems, collecting American life like flies on sticky paper, draw me to them, irritating me, inspiring me, never more perfectly than in this poem, which plays off a famous phrase from Horace that compares poetry and painting.

Topics Poetry Books blog. Reuse this content. Order by newest oldest recommendations. No double negative of pity Will save you now from what I know you know: These are your eyes, the cinders of your city.

Simon Armitage: 'poetry is a form of dissent'

Anonymous as cherubs Over the crib of God, White seeds are floating Out of my burst pod. What power had I Before I learned to yield? Shatter me, great wind: I shall possess the field. This entry was posted on Saturday, October 15th, at am by Cynthia Haven and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2. Both comments and pings are currently closed. Terms of Use Copyright Complaints.

I could go on like this but what's the point? I was merely warming up to take my shot. In stock film of the crowds you'll see a guy whose lean and hungry look burns cold with hate. Did he know our hero's fate?


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I shadowed Frost in a yellow wood and watched him where two roads diverged. It was a long time that he stood there choosing, for one seemed as good as the other. But then I felt urged. Using as guides a pair of crows, I wander where the thick grass grows until two roads again I spy.

Now they keep branching while I run in panic with increasing speed. As evening's chill is coming on, I cry out to the setting sun: "Why didn't I follow Robert's lead? Melanie Houle is a physician and former jeweler. A shadow lingered on the path that ran to our back door and doubled back again, always there, but never clearly seen.

Is Free Verse Killing Poetry?

I breathed it, felt it grow from day to day, though what it was I never quite could say, nor catch an inkling of what it might mean. I never knew its name until tonight. As kids, in teenage fantasy-existence, how we frolicked in our starry vault Of reckless games! Of truth or consequence,. We had no knowledge or experience. We were too young and it was not our fault That we discovered little. That makes sense,. We crave the same entwinement we assault.

Backfire and leave us sulking in our tents. Erase the stain of scarlet hands that burn for oil and gold. One vermilion sunrise frees more wealth than hands can hold. Their light enriches me the same on your hand or on mine. Though we bemoan the fervency of youth and counsel caution and restraint, in truth, for all the prudent logic we may speak, the smile of a first grandchild turns us weak. However well we learn to feign control, the tides of feeling seem to swell with time.

The more serenity becomes our goal, the more our eyes tear to a heartfelt rhyme. Our passions age like brandy, bold and deep, a rich embarrassment of joys and woes. Our fond, enlarging hearts will make it so. Lee Eschen has loved poetry for a very long time, but has only occasionally tried to actually write any. Here is one of his recent works, originally written as lyrics for a hymn set to an old Irish melody.

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Lee lives in [very] rural southwestern Oregon, where he designs websites, including this one. Rolling along through the ages Like a great and o'erwhelming flood, While history has written her pages Christ's church has remembered His Blood. The blood, yes the blood, of the Pure One Hides our sin from the Father's sight And through this bright crimson redemption We receive His great mercy and light. It is sweeter than honey, this manna, Which falls to the Earth from above. And daily we gather its riches, The gift of our Father's love.


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Lee Evans was born in Maryland, spent most of his life in that state, and is currently living in Bath, Maine. After graduating from college he has held a variety of jobs, including those of landscape laborer, floral delivery man, collection attendant for Goodwill Industries, clerk at the Maryland State Archives, and his current job on the assembly line in a candle factory. He has recently produced a poetry collection called Maryland Weather, which is available on Lulu. The ravens croaked above me in the pines, As from the beaten path I slowly strayed To saunter on my narrow, winding way Among the evergreens, with you in mind: How two short months ago, you glanced aside Before you climbed aboard the waiting jet, And told us you were pregnant.

I passed it, and looked round: The trunk remained; no figure could be found. The Heaven is a sheepfold flocked with stars; One star for every sheep that climbs the vales Of Cumbria. Tonight, above Grasmere, Their crystalline wool trembles silently, High over craggy fells where Wordsworth strode Composing pastoral epics in a voice That summoned me to fly four thousand miles, To celebrate this Autumn in his name.

We marvel at the absence of the glare That we have been accustomed to at home, Between the funeral pyres of Washington And Baltimore, which flow across the sky Like uncontrolled infernos, blazing high Above the Borealis and church spires, Obliterating stars like chalky script Erased upon a blackboard with a smear.


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To think that once we lay upon our backs Upon the lawn at night, and saw the stars From one horizon to the next!