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Favourite Poems By Famous & Featured Poets

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Art Thou Pale For Weariness
Percy Bysshe Shelley:

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

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    Delicate Snowflake

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Alone, By. Edgar Allen Poe

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been- a most familiar bird-
Taught me my alphabet to say-
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child- with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings-
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away- forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
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Dancing, by Oscar Amaya.

dancing in the petal blue
of your rhythmic hum liliana,
swaying in the crystal ebb
and flow of your eyes momma,
recalling every azure dream
I dream of you liliana.
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    Delicate Snowflake

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The mystery it seems divulges into a dream.
Make-shift memories, deeping-thoughts, impaled visions.
Stike from above; wasted from below.
I dance and scream with eternal voices untrue.
The deaf become sticken,
The dumb become blind.
I still don't know what's right


Thoughts inside my head
running from a dream you see
it's not though
its complete reality
What's broken is still unfixed
and Whats unsettled is not undone
You are like a mystery
and now youre on the run
I wind myself up and wait
I reset, pause, and long
I sit patiently and listen
The echo of your footsteps still not gone.
Not yet distant
Not completely gone away
If I make my move I promise
To never move again
To this sound for Just another day


A challace full of life
A road paved with stars
A wind that blows forever
A prision without bars
These words seem so empty
But search for many dreams
Do they speak with a heart of emptyness
Or is it fuller than it seems
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    Nigrescent Ass Hole

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^ Right, on the chance that those are from another poet, can you please list who those are from? I wasn't able to find anything. If those are you creations, then they don't belong in this particular thread as this is for famous and featured poets. Thank you.
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    We are all broken lights

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"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave"
by Stephen Vincent Benét

Stephen Vincent Benet
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.
Spread over it the bloodstained flag of his song,
For the sun to bleach, the wind and the birds to tear,
The snow to cover over with a pure fleece
And the New England cloud to work upon
With the grey absolution of its slow, most lilac-smelling rain,
Until there is nothing there
That ever knew a master or a slave
Or, brooding on the symbol of a wrong,
Threw down the irons in the field of peace.
John Brown is dead, he will not come again,
A stray ghost-walker with a ghostly gun.
Let the strong metal rust
In the enclosing dust
And the consuming coal
That was the furious soul
And still like iron groans,
Anointed with the earth,
Grow colder than the stones
While the white roots of grass and little weeds
Suck the last hollow wildfire from the singing bones.

Bury the South together with this man,
Bury the bygone South.
Bury the minstrel with the honey-mouth,
Bury the broadsword virtues of the clan,
Bury the unmachined, the planters’ pride,
The courtesy and the bitter arrogance,
The pistol-hearted horsemen who could ride
Like jolly centaurs under the hot stars.
Bury the whip, bury the branding-bars,
Bury the unjust thing
That some tamed into mercy, being wise,
But could not starve the tiger from its eyes
Or make it feed where beasts of mercy feed.
Bury the fiddle-music and the dance,
The sick magnolias of the false romance
And all the chivalry that went to seed
Before its ripening.

And with these things, bury the purple dream
Of the America we have not been,
The tropic empire, seeking the warm sea,
The last foray of aristocracy
Based not on dollars or initiative
Or any blood for what that blood was worth
But on a certain code, a manner of birth,
A certain manner of knowing how to live,
The pastoral rebellion of the earth
Against machines, against the Age of Steam,
The Hamiltonian extremes against the Franklin mean,
The genius of the land
Against the metal hand,
The great, slave-driven bark,
Full-oared upon the dark,
With gilded figurehead,
With fetters for the crew
And spices for the few,
The passion that is dead,
The pomp we never knew,
Bury this, too.

Bury this destiny unmanifest,
This system broken underneath the test,
Beside John Brown and though he knows his enemy is there,
He is too full of sleep at last to care.

He was a stone, this man who lies so still,
A stone flung from a sling against a wall,
A sacrificial instrument of kill,
A cold prayer hardened to a musket-ball:
And yet, he knew the uses of a hill,
And he must have his justice, after all.

He was a lover of certain pastoral things,
He had the shepherd’s gift.
When he walked at peace, when he drank from the waterspring
His eyes would lift
To see God, robed in a glory, but sometimes, too,
Merely the sky,
Untroubled by wrath or angels, vacant and blue;
Vacant and high.

He knew not only doom but the shape of the land,
Reaping and sowing.
He could take a lump of any earth in his hand
And feel the growing.

He was a farmer, he didn’t think much of towns,
The wheels, the vastness.
He liked the wide fields, the yellows, the lonely browns,
The black ewe’s fastness.

Out of his body grows revolving steel,
Out of his body grows the spinning wheel
Made up of wheels, the new, mechanic birth,
No longer bound by toil
To the unsparing soil
Or the old furrow-line,
The great, metallic beast
Expanding West and East,
His heart a spinning coil,
His juices burning oil,
His body serpentine.
Out of John Brown’s strong sinews the tall skyscrapers grow,
Out of his heart the chanting buildings rise,
Rivet and girder, motor and dynamo,
Pillar of smoke by day and fire by night,
The steel-faced cities reaching at the skies,
The whole enormous and rotating cage
Hung with hard jewels of electric light,
Smoky with sorrow, black with splendor, dyed
Whiter than damask for a crystal bride
With metal suns, the engine-handed Age,
The genie we have raised to rule the earth,
Obsequious to our will
But servant-master still,
The tireless serf already half a god—

Touch the familiar sod
Once, then gaze at the air
And see the portent there,
With eyes for once washed clear
Of worship and of fear:
There is its hunger, there its living thirst,
There is the beating of the tremendous heart
You cannot read for omens.
Stand apart
From the loud crowd and look upon the flame
Alone and steadfast, without praise or blame.
This is the monster and the sleeping queen
And both have roots struck deep in your own mind,
This is reality that you have seen,
This is reality that made you blind.

So, when the crowd gives tongue
And prophets, old or young,
Bawl out their strange despair
Or fall in worship there,
Let them applaud the image or condemn
But keep your distance and your soul from them.
And, if the heart within your breast must burst
Like a cracked crucible and pour its steel
White-hot before the white heat of the wheel,
Strive to recast once more
That attar of the ore
In the strong mold of pain
Till it is whole again,
And while the prophets shudder or adore
Before the flame, hoping it will give ear,
If you at last must have a word to say,
Say neither, in their way,
“It is a deadly magic and accursed,”
Nor “It is blest,” but only “It is here.”

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Mother Panda

Mother Panda

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Invictus - William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Those last two lines must be my favourites :3
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    Tortured Rose

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Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
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Konstantinos Kavafis – Ithaca
When you set sail for Ithaca,
wish for the road to be long,
full of adventures, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
an angry Poseidon -- do not fear.
You will never find such on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, and your spirit
and body are touched by a fine emotion.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
a savage Poseidon you will not encounter,
if you do not carry them within your spirit,
if your spirit does not place them before you.

Wish for the road to be long.
Many the summer mornings to be which with
pleasure, with joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase the fine goods,
nacre and coral, amber and ebony,
and exquisite perfumes of all sorts,
the most delicate fragances you can find,
to many Egyptian cities you must go,
to learn and learn from the cultivated.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your final destination.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better for it to last many years,
and when old to rest in the island,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to offer you wealth.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful journey.
Without her you would not have set out on the road.
Nothing more has she got to give you.

And if you find her threadbare, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

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    Tortured Rose

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by John Donne

O ! DO not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know ;
To leave this world behind, is death ;
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapours with thy breath.

Or if, when thou, the world's soul, go'st,
It stay, 'tis but thy carcase then ;
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.

O wrangling schools, that search what fire
Shall burn this world, had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
That this her feaver might be it?

And yet she cannot waste by this,
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
For more corruption needful is,
To fuel such a fever long.

These burning fits but meteors be,
Whose matter in thee is soon spent ;
Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee,
Are unchangeable firmament.

Yet 'twas of my mind, seizing thee,
Though it in thee cannot perséver ;
For I had rather owner be
Of thee one hour, than all else ever.

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    Tortured Rose

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I'm calling you from the foyer
Of the Sands Hotel
Where the men and the women
Are acquainted quite well

And the drunkards keep on drinking
And oh, my room is cold
I'm disputing the bill
I will sleep in my clothes

And you, my invalid friend
You slam the receiver when you say
"If I had your limbs for a day
I would steam away"

I'm calling you from the foyer
Of this awful hotel
Where the slime and the grime

And I cannot - or, I do not
And oh, my room is cold
And I'm envying you never having to choose

And you, my invalid friend
You slam the receiver when you say
"If I had your limbs for a day
I would steam away"

I'm calling you from the foyer
Of the Sands Hotel
It's not low-life, it's just people
Having a good time
And oh, my invalid friend
Oh, my invalid friend
In our different ways we are
The same

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O Brave New World

O Brave New World

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by John Donne

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
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    Whimpering Thundercloud

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One Art

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 beloved 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!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop
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Maya Angelou - Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

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    Spiraling Tempest

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Madness and Solitude - Unknown Poet

Exiled by my own bequest
A victim of my flaws
Abjuring further
And further away
Losing hope, losing self
Recoiling from touch
But craving love
In a conflict of need
And inability to connect
A contradiction of desire
In self-induced isolation

Locution cannot convey
The depth of my
Phrenic malaise
Slipping through the cracks
Of acumen as lucidity
Loses coherence
Decaying to instability
In its lack
Of consummate solidity
Mixing volatile cognition
With raw emotion
In a cocktail of
Reasoned seppuku

Days pass to weeks in a
Symphony of silence
Lost to an abundant
Overture of thoughts
Given an aria of voice
In an orchestra of despair
Deafened in a crescendo
Of nights whispers
That cantillate
A desolate berceuse
Of the event horizon
Of a collapsing essentia

Did I ever feel any other way?
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E. E. Cummings - I Like My Body When It Is With Your Body
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh … And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

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Andrew Marvell - The Fair Singer
To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony;
That while she with her eyes my heart does bind,
She with her voice might captivate my mind.

I could have fled from one but singly fair:
My disentangled soul itself might save,
Breaking the curled trammels of her hair.
But how should I avoid to be her slave,
Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath
My fetters of the very air I breath?

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    The Old Man Of The Sea

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Dreams- Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

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    Delicate Snowflake

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You are Born into Darkness
And you die into Darkness

As you worthlessly pray everyday
for good things to come your way,
But soon enough you figure out
That life is filled withing nothing,
but pain. As you fall into the
Darkness of your demise you
figure out, you dies in your own
despise. You ask your self "Why
am I crying." You know inside your
restless soul your heart is dying.
Your soul is purging of love of razor
blades your blood is surging. You
know your life is calling. The sky is
now falling. In the wake of darkness
no rhyme or reason. Your bloodshot
eyes will show your heart of treason.
You know your just a dirty liar. Your
just a junkie preaching to the choir.
Your traces of blood follow you home
Like the mascara tears from your getaway.
Your walking with blisters and running with
so unholy
Sister of Grace

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    Delicate Snowflake

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Do you see me drowning into the darkness
of this deep despair that I look upon?
Believing all of the lies
and seeking the truth of being there here not there.
See the rays of sunlight they shine upon my scars
and burn my skin when it hits the pavement and shatter to a million pieces Reaching for that broken smile
among that hidden universes stars that I call breath of life.
Hearing and feeling my tear drops
falling from my eyes like bullets hitting my body.
Believe my hidden secrets and don’t judge me.
And tell all my stolen Lies I tell like a fairy tale, I tell it like it is.
Bring me to the surface Give me enough air to breathe, I drown in the air once again
Let the sorrow be upon me and hope my heart will never die.
Upon These broken Wings that make me fly to my despaired dreams you tell me that they can’t fly. Oh how I wonder. Open the gates of my misery and pain and see what lies ahead in your path and feel the pain I feel every day. My shadow is my only friend, the only thing that keeps me from not going insane. Feeling the walls, they keep silent and full of stories of the secrets I whisper and the walls hear my sorrow full of despair. I f the walls could talk they can tell you my story. Why don’t you believe me? My heart is broken I just want to tear it out of my chest even though it’s melting from my chest. I feel like a burn in my interior. No, I can’t do this no more. I hear you tapping on my sleepless nights.
I miss you. My wings become my savior like superman, I have been waiting for. I could be my own savior. But Avatar wasn’t my savior. Freaking out I laugh, It is my lullaby. Let death rock me to sleep. Letting my wings open, Makes me feel alive for the first time because they shine with the chains of an unwelcoming greeting. Let me drown in the universes sky and let me fly.

by Rosa-G

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