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Favourite Pieces of Poetry

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The only thing I really liked about this poem was the way in the which the poet captured the idea of losing a person even though they are still with you in person, but everything else is lost.


After the first phase,
after passionate nights and intimate days,
only then would he let me trace
the frozen river which ran through his face,
only then would he let me explore
the blown hinge of his lower jaw,
and handle and hold
the damaged, porcelain collar-bone,
and mind and attend the fractured rudder of shoulder-blade,
and finger and thumb the parachute silk of his punctured lung.
Only then could I bind the struts
and climb the rungs of his broken ribs,
and feel the hurt
of his grazed heart.
Skirting along,
only then could I picture the scan,
the foetus of metal beneath his chest
where the bullet had finally come to rest.
Then I widened the search,
traced the scarring back to its source
to a sweating, unexploded mine
buried deep in his mind,
around which every nerve in his body had tightened and closed.
Then, and only then, did I come close.

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Symbols - Christina Rossetti

I watched a rosebud very long

Brought on by dew and sun and shower,

Waiting to see the perfect flower:

Then, when I thought it should be strong,

It opened at the matin hour

And fell at evensong.


I watched a nest from day to day,

A green nest full of pleasant shade,

Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:

But when they should have hatched in May,

The two old birds had grown afraid

Or tired, and flew away.


Then in my wrath I broke the bough

That I had tended so with care,

Hoping its scent should fill the air;

I crushed the eggs, not heeding how

Their ancient promise had been fair:

I would have vengeance now.


But the dead branch spoke from the sod,

And the eggs answered me again:

Because we failed dost thou complain?

Is thy wrath just? And what if God,

Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,

Should also take the rod?

My sister introduced me to Christina Rossetti this weekend... :)

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By an Evolutionist

The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man,
And the man said, ‘Am I your debtor?’
And the Lord–‘Not yet; but make it as clean as you can,
And then I will let you a better.’

If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain or a fable,
Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines,
I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable,
Youth and health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines?

What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the rack?
Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar!


Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years back.
Less weight now for the ladder-of-heaven that hangs on a star.


If my body come from brutes, tho’ somewhat finer than their own,
I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the royal voice be mute?
No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag me from the throne,
Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule thy province of the brute.


I have climb’d to the snows of Age, and I gaze at a field in the Past.
Where I sank with the body at times in the sloughs of a low desire,
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the Man is quiet at last,
As he stands on the heights of his life with a glimpse of a height that is higher.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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My sister introduced me to Christina Rossetti this weekend... :)


I LOVE Christina Rosetti's work! This is one of my favourites:



Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
By Christina Rossetti

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I also loooove this one, although it's by someone else -


"Crabbit Old Woman"

What do you see, nurse, what do you see?
What are you thinking, when you look at me-
A crabbit old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes,
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, I do wish you'd try.
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.
Who, unresisting or not; lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding the long day is fill.
Is that what you're thinking, Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse, you're looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still!
As I rise at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of 10 with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who loved one another-
A young girl of 16 with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet,
A bride soon at 20 - my heart gives a leap,
Recalling the vows that I promised to keep.
At 25 now I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure happy home;
A woman of 30, my young now grow fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last;
At 40, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man is beside me to see I don't mourn;
At 50 once more babies play around my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead,
I look at the future, I shudder with dread,
For my young are all rearing young ones of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I've known;
I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel-
Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body is crumbled, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart,
But inside this old carcass, a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells,
I remember the joy, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years all too few- gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last-
So open your eyes, nurse, open and see,
Not a crabbit old woman, look closer-
See Me.

By: Phyllis McCormack

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This was one of my favourite pieces of poetry in high school, anyone who did AQA anthology book will know this, we even had the opportunity to watch some of the author's recite their poetry and John Agard perfomed this one sooo coool ^.^ !!



John Agard -


Half Caste



Excuse me

standing on one leg

I’m half-caste.


Explain yuself

wha yu mean

when yu say half-caste

yu mean when Picasso

mix red an green

is a half-caste canvas?

explain yuself

wha yu mean

when yu say half-caste

yu mean when light an shadow

mix in de sky

is a half-caste weather?

well in dat case

england weather

nearly always half-caste

in fact some o dem cloud

half-caste till dem overcast

so spiteful dem don’t want de sun pass

ah rass?

explain yuself

wha yu mean

when yu say half-caste

yu mean tchaikovsky

sit down at dah piano

an mix a black key

wid a white key

is a half-caste symphony?


Explain yuself

wha yu mean

Ah listening to yu wid de keen

half of mih ear

Ah looking at yu wid de keen

half of mih eye

an when I’m introduced to yu

I’m sure you’ll understand

why I offer yu half-a-hand

an when I sleep at night

I close half-a-eye

consequently when I dream

I dream half-a-dream

an when moon begin to glow

I half-caste human being

cast half-a-shadow

but yu must come back tomorrow

wid de whole of yu eye

an de whole of yu ear

an de whole of yu mind.


an I will tell yu

de other half

of my story.

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The Soul's Prayer by Sarojini Naidu


In childhood's pride I said to Thee:

'O Thou, who mad'st me of Thy breath,

Speak, Master, and reveal to me

Thine inmost laws of life and death.


'Give me to drink each joy and pain

Which Thine eternal hand can mete,

For my insatiate soul can drain

Earth's utmost bitter, utmost sweet.


'Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,

Withhold no gift or grief I crave,

The intricate lore of love and life

And mystic knowledge of the grave.'


Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low:

'Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,

And thy unconquered soul shall know

All passionate rapture and despair.


'Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,

And love shall burn thee like a fire,

And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,

To purge the dross from thy desire.


'So shall thy chastened spirit yearn

To seek from its blind prayer release,

And spent and pardoned, sue to learn

The simple secret of My peace.


I, bending from my sevenfold height,

Will teach thee of My quickening grace,

Life is a prism of My light,

And Death the shadow of My face.'

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I would post some of my favorites..but some people don't appreciate my style of poetry...poetry "isn't supposed to rhyme"...so I will take my leave...but good selections hazzy!


I beg to differ, what I see as more important in a poem is depth. Not everyone has that.

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I feel sukoon when I read a decent piece.


When the words resonate with you it's as if they give flight to all your thoughts and feelings that were just lying around and you were unable to express them. There are also some ayahs in the quran that captivate your heart in the same way, because when you look at the world there is no way to express it better then how Allah taala says it - and you're left speechless.


When I get to jannah, i'd love to have my own masssssssiiiiiiive library where I can just sit and read and chill. Only there can you properly chill, cuz I won't be worried about anything, most of all I'll have that peace in my heart that there's nothing I can ever do or say that will hurt another person and never do anything that would displease Allah taala. Man, that idea alone is my jannah.

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