Today's poet

[Alf]

(Maya Angelou used "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" for the title of her autobiography) ...now thats a book I would like to read, is it good? thank you for the poem its gorgeous :-)

I have not read it myself freckle, I picked up the reference when I was searching for the text of the poem. Her autobiography is actually 6 volumes! with this one as the first. You can get the "collected" autobiographies in one volume now though I believe.

[Mountain Goatess]

Creation of you

The god when had drunk his share
Of the wine of Eden brewed so rare
He then thought to create booze
So divine hard it become to choose
To cast this passion in a liquid wine
Or a creature who forever will shine
Thus he then decided of you
For wine shall last only years a few
But your charm shall remain
Till the days stops to born again
Till the days to dust stars shall turn
Sun cools down and it stops to burn
In your beauty skill of god, man will trust
The day till of earth remain but dust
Because with such passion he created you
Even if he tries he can’t create another you
And thus he sent you among the race of man
To brighten their world as only the sun can
And keep the world warn with tender smile
On the day when to ice turns the river Nile
When of skies disappears the stars of night
In your eyes let humans see they shine so bright
When flowers on earth stops to bloom
Let your fragrant breath makes meadows groom
Thus so beautifully god casted you
On the winter rose like settled the icy dew
And that day god at last was proud again
You when he adorn of all his that was remain

Dave Tanwar

[Hes]

Such a powerful poem. Very sad.

Sympathy

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals –
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting –
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, –
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –
I know why the caged bird sings!

Laurence Dunbar

(Maya Angelou used "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" for the title of her autobiography)

[Mountain Goatess]

Sad, yes, I do feel like a caged bird at times....but I guess everyone does sometimes.

Sympathy

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals –
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting –
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, –
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –
I know why the caged bird sings!

Laurence Dunbar

(Maya Angelou used "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" for the title of her autobiography)

[Hes]

I'm wondering if writing a poem about road kill is going to do anything but depress me further. there are so many corpses on the roads at the moment and I can't help thinking of every sparkling eye, fluttering heart and wild spirit that has been extinguished.

[Hes]

I know what you mean MG, I had that feeling recently. I think there are so many ways in which one can feel imprisoned. I just feel fortunate that I was in the position to be able to make changes, no matter how hard, when I know so many people can't.

Sad, yes, I do feel like a caged bird at times....but I guess everyone does sometimes.

[Mountain Goatess]

I'm wondering if writing a poem about road kill is going to do anything but depress me further. there are so many corpses on the roads at the moment and I can't help thinking of every sparkling eye, fluttering heart and wild spirit that has been extinguished.

Oh dear me....I think you should change thew subject Hes!!! Although I like this, it is duly sad! :-(


The Owl

DOWNHILL I came, hungry, and yet not starved,
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the north wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry.

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered too, by the bird's voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

[freckle]

Evening all...

whats all this death talk?

something from the boy himself and loosely connected to the caged bird patter..........

GIVE


Of all the public places, dear
to make a scene, I've chosen here.
Of all the doorways in the world
to choose to sleep, I’ve chosen yours.
I'm on the street, under the stars.
For coppers I can dance or sing.
For silver-swallow swords, eat fire.
For gold-escape from locks and chains.
It's not as if I'm holding out
for frankincense or myrrh, just change.
You give me tea. That's big of you.
I'm on my knees. I beg of you.


Simon Armitage

[Mossdog]

Evening all...

whats all this death talk?

something from the boy himself and loosely connected to the caged bird patter..........

GIVE


Of all the public places, dear
to make a scene, I've chosen here.
Of all the doorways in the world
to choose to sleep, I’ve chosen yours.
I'm on the street, under the stars.
For coppers I can dance or sing.
For silver-swallow swords, eat fire.
For gold-escape from locks and chains.
It's not as if I'm holding out
for frankincense or myrrh, just change.
You give me tea. That's big of you.
I'm on my knees. I beg of you.


Simon Armitage

Someone mention death?

All the Dead Dears

In the Archæological Museum in Cambridge is a stone
coffin of the fourth century A.D. containing the skeletons
of a woman, a mouse and a shrew. The ankle-bone of the
woman has been slightly gnawed.

Rigged poker -stiff on her back
With a granite grin
This antique museum-cased lady
Lies, companioned by the gimcrack
Relics of a mouse and a shrew
That battened for a day on her ankle-bone.

These three, unmasked now, bear
Dry witness
To the gross eating game
We'd wink at if we didn't hear
Stars grinding, crumb by crumb,
Our own grist down to its bony face.

How they grip us through think and thick,
These barnacle dead!
This lady here's no kin
Of mine, yet kin she is: she'll suck
Blood and whistle my narrow clean
To prove it. As I think now of her hand,

From the mercury-backed glass
Mother, grandmother, greatgrandmother
Reach hag hands to haul me in,
And an image looms under the fishpond surface
Where the daft father went down
With orange duck-feet winnowing this hair ---

All the long gone darlings: They
Get back, though, soon,
Soon: be it by wakes, weddings,
Childbirths or a family barbecue:
Any touch, taste, tang's
Fit for those outlaws to ride home on,

And to sanctuary: usurping the armchair
Between tick
And tack of the clock, until we go,
Each skulled-and-crossboned Gulliver
Riddled with ghosts, to lie
Deadlocked with them, taking roots as cradles rock.

Our Sylvia

[XRunner]

A Poison Tree - a poem by William Blake

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.