Alone, by Edgar Allan Poe →
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
Thoughts about Poem
Poe, wrote this poem as an adult, looking back at his life. He had felt alone since his youth and still did. As he looked back from “ev’ry depth of good and ill” it was still a mystery.
For example look at theselines from the Raven (reviewed in this section).
“Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.”
Most of Poe’s memories are not happy and suggest loneliness.
On The Pulse of Morning by Maya Angelou →
Although it was written especially for one occasion - Bill Clinton's presidential inauguration in 1993 - it carries a universal message. Maya said of the poem: "In my work, in everything I do, I mean to say that we human beings are more alike than we are unalike, and to use that statement to break down the walls we set between ourselves because we are different."
On The Pulse of Morning by Maya Angelou
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
It is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You created only a little lower than
The angels have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouth spilling words.
I am armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today; you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
It says come rest here by my side.
Each of you is a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
The tree and the rock were one.
Before, cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sang on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
They hear the first and last of every Tree.
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.
Each of you, a descendant of some passed
On traveler, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot ...
You, the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift your faces; you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
It cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage needs not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning
To a Mouse by Robert Burns →
Little, sly, cowering, timid beast,
Oh, what a panic is in your heart!
You need not start away so hasty
With bickering prattle!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering paddle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes you startle
At me, your poor, earth-born companion
And fellow mortal!
I doubt not, sometimes, that you may steal;
What then? Poor beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.
Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse green foliage!
And bleak December's winds coming,
Both bitter and piercing!
You saw the fields laid bare and empty,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! The cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.
That small heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.
But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!
Still you are blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!
"To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785" Robert Burns, is said to have been ploughing in his fields when he accidentally destroyed a mouse's nest, which it needed to survive the winter. His brother wrote of this saying that he composed the poem while still holding his plough.
The mouse is a symbol of the poor or powerless, such as Robert Burns, the authors, father, who work diligently but unsuccessfully to get ahead. Many laborers, such as farmers, are just as much at the mercy of nature's wrath and the powerful as the mouse.
The poem inspired John Steinbeck in his Novel, Of Mice and Men.
Still I Rise, by Maya Angelo →
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise I rise I rise.
Analysis & Meaning of the Poem
Still I Rise” is about self-respect and confidence. Angelou reveals how she will overcome anything through her self-esteem. She shows how nothing can get her down. She will rise to any occasion and nothing, not even her skin color, will hold her back.
The poem resonates with how we see Maya Angelou as we learn about her from her writings. See the Reviews referenced in Books Review Section
Even the Stars Look Lonesome, by Maya Angelou
I Shall Not Be Moved, by Maya Angelou
In Flanders Fields , by Lieut-Col. John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row. That mark our place; and in the sky. The larks, still bravely singing, fly. Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago. We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe; To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, through poppies grow In Flanders Fields.
See the review of One-Hundred and One Famous Poems in Reviews. click here
Thoughts about this Poem
One of the most quoted poems from World War 1. It refers to the red poppies that grew over the graves of fallen soldiers which resulted in the remembrance poppy becoming one of the world's most recognized memorial symbols for soldiers who have died in conflict.
Crossing the Bar, by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
The poem followed some seasickness by Tennyson. He lived on the Isle of Wright and the words came to him after crossing the bar with particularly choppy water s thought to have been inspired by a bout of seasickness. Tennyson lived on the Isle of Wight, and after a particularly choppy crossing of the water the words for came to him most likely in one setting.
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe →
Edgar Allan Poe
Read more"Miniver Cheevy", the poem, by Edwin Arlington Robinson →
Miniver Cheevy is a poem that Helene Hanff sent in a letter to the her friends in the London Bookstore. See Review 84 Charring Cross Road
Miniver Cheevy
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
Does Bad Poetry Spring from Genuine Feeling or is it just Sincere? →
Oscar Wilde said that “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.
Harold Bloom used this phrase, saying instead, “All Bad Poetry is Sincere." Bloom was justifying why Maya Angelou was not included in his extensive list at the back of his book or among the 26 authors that made up what he felt was the primary influence of "Western Canon" in his book of the same name.
He added that Angelou’s thoughts were "sincere" but, in his view, lacked aesthetic accomplishment. Bloom's conclusion seems to leave us with questions: "What does it mean to be a writer?" Must we write about things of value? Who defines value?
Bloom's real reasons for leaving Angelou off his list likely was the political influence she had by what she said.
For example, Aesthetics, or esthetics, is a branch of philosophy that deals with the nature of beauty and taste and the philosophy of art. It examines aesthetic values, often expressed through judgments of taste.
This leaves us with the idea that::
“Bad Poetry” may be a matter of opinion.”
See more on Harold Bloom and the "Western Canon" under the review section.
I'm a Stranger Here, A Poem by Louis L'Amour →
If I, between two suns, should go away,
No voice would lift to ask another why,
No word would question my retreat, nor sigh,
Nor wonder why I'd chosen not to stay;
For I am a stranger here, of other clay:
A guest within this house, a passerby-
A roving life whose theme has been "Goodbye"
A shadow on the road, a thing astray.
What dim ancestral heritage is mine.
That now awakens in my blood regret?
What destiny is this, what strange design,
That I must seek a haunting silhouette
In unremembered lands my dreams divine,
But cannot quite recall or quite forget?
What about this Poem?
This was considered by L'Amour to be one of his best poems and among those he wrote in the book, Smoke From This Altar. It was his first published book; before then he hadn't had much luck with his other writings.
You can see L'Amour's delight and love for words in his poems. The introduction to this book was written by Kathy L'Amour where she said of Louis that "he has the three things which it takes to make a writer: a love for words, industry, and something to say.'
Review of Poem "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: The Argument" by William Blake →
Taken from - The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: The Argument by William Blake
Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
Once meek, and in a perilous path,
The just man kept his course along
The vale of death.
Roses are planted where thorns grow,
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.
Then the perilous path was planted:
And a river and a spring
On every cliff and tomb;
And on the bleached bones
Red clay brought forth.
Till the villain left the paths of ease,
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.
Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility,
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where lions roam.
Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
'Review of Poem by Brent M. Jones
“Rintrah” is considered to be part of William Blake's mythology who appears in this poem as a just man righteously expressing wrath. Blake felt that good and evil were just different influences we experienced and part of different energies that we had to experience as part of our life.
See Review of the Book: The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake
Sonnet 144: Two loves I have of comfort and despair reviewed
Sonnet 144: Two loves I have of comfort and despair
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And, whether that my angel be turn’d fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
But being both from me both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell.
Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
Thoughts on Sonnet 144
A women colored ill with despair, and a fair young man who comforts, the poet's "two loves." ("The better angel is a man right fair, / The worser spirit a woman, colored ill.")
This love triangle pretends to be detached, but is instead cynical with expected bad results. Selfless adoration and shameful lust battle with each other to find their home in the character of the poet.
How would this poem apply if it was intended to be a female poet who had the two loves? It is just a given that Shakespeare is telling us about a man's two loves.
It pretends that the uncertainty of the relationship between the poet and his two loves is uncertain but the poem evolves to the ending where the lust of the bad angel likely will win.
Surprised by Joy-Impatient as The Wind by William Wordsworth →
Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind —
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? — That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore
*"Surprised by Joy, the book by C.S. Lewis" is an allusion to this poem. The poem was Wordsworth’s thoughts following the death of a beloved daughter.
Nighthawks "After Edward Hopper's Painting" by Wolf Wondratschek Reviewed →
A poem about the painting ‘Nighthawks’
'“After Edward Hopper’s Painting”
by Wolf Wondratschek
It is night
and the city is deserted.
The lucky ones are at home,
or more likely
there are none left.In Hopper’s painting, four people remain
the usual cast, so to speak:
the man behind the counter, two men, and a woman.
Art lovers, you can stone me
but I know this situation pretty well.Two men and one woman
as if this were a mere chance.
You admire the painting’s composition
but what grabs me is the erotic pleasure
of complete emptiness.They don’t say a word, and why should they?
Both of them smoking, but there is no smoke.
I bet she wrote him a letter.
whatever it said, he was no longer the man
who’d read her letters twice.The radio is broken.
The air conditioner hums.
I hear a police siren wail.
Two blocks away in a doorway, a junkie groans
and sticks a needle in his vein.
That’s how the part you don’t see looks.The other man is by himself
remembering a woman,
she wore a red dress, too.
That was ages ago.
He likes knowing women like this still exist
but he’s no longer interested.What might have been
between them, back then?
I bet he wanted her.
I bet she said no.
No wonder, art lovers,
that this man is turning his back on you
(This poem is an effective review of a famous painting. Edward Hopper's Nighthawk.
Click below for thoughts on that painting.
The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost plus analysis
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Road Not Taken Analysis
Where did the two roads lead? Could they have both been to the same destination? Did the narrator only experience one of the roads? Is this poem suggesting that choice itself is like a road. Is the difference that we picked a road, or that we had a choice?
The poem implies that we won't make a difference in the world unless we make choices of our own. It isn't clear that making a difference was because of the road picked, but it seems clear that without having traveled one of them no difference would have resulted.
We are left wanting to make a difference, hoping for a less traveled road that is easier and safer. The call to action of this poem is a call to want the right thing.
Stick to Your Task, by anonymous →
Stick to your Task,
by Anonymous
Stick to your task till it sticks to you;
Beginners are many, but enders are few.
Honor, power, place and praise
Will come, in time, to the one who stays.
Stick to your task till it sticks to you;
Bend at it, sweat at it, smile at it too;
The Sick Rose, by William Blake, an analysis. →
The Sick Rose, by William Blake
O Rose thou art sick The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy
Analysis of Poem
by Brent M. Jones
The rose and the worm represent humans. This rose is in a state of decay suggesting death is coming soon. The rose is feminine, delicate and represents love, loyalty and beauty,
The worm is masculine ( His dark secret love), invisible and comes at night. What happens is evil, secret and hurtful. What is done can't be found out and destroys the rose. Crimson joy and ‘dark secret love happen in the bed of the rose. The crimson color show the violence and passion and blood.
This seems like it may have been Blake's intent, but "why" was this his message? Was it a statement against the relationship of men and women? Was the masculinity of the worm the right relationship for the feminine rose? Perhaps Blake just was again in this poem just questioning the the accepted ideas of marriage in his day as so many authors and poets of that time did.
Was Blake so anxious to comment on male female relationships that he got this wrong? It was the bee that fertilized the rose. The worm just participated in the natural process of death. Blake was not alone among writers of the late 1800's in questioning the accepted ideas of marriage.
Life, by Charlotte Bronte Poem and Analysis →
Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
Analysis and Thoughts on Poem
.A simple message suggesting that life is good. It takes on darkness that is felt to be bad and unpleasant. Clouds, like the bad days will clear. The days will "merrily" fly by. Things that go wrong will not be victorious. Nothing can beat you not even death. "Life is still life whatever it's pangs"-Charlotte Bronte Her Quotes sums it all up.
Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe
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 winged 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.
But our love it was stronger by far that the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling-my darling- my life and my bride In her sepulchre there by the sea- In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Analysis of the Poem Annabel Lee
Perhaps Annabel Lee was inspired by Poe's wife, Virginia? The Poem was his last and well known as one of his best.
Many of his poems explore the death of a beautiful women. In the Raven he suggests that his love is gone and they will "nevermore" be together. In this poem he knows he will be with her again saying that not even demons "can ever dissever" their souls.
His love is deep and even ideal likely because he has married young. His youthful immaturity may be the reason for blaming the Gods for taking her out of jealousy.
Annabel Lee's death is the supreme loss reveals that she was worshiped both in life and death.
Edgar Allan Poe's wife, Virgina, shown above on the left