Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

Today is World Poetry Day.
So I though I's share some of my favorite poems.
I love Robert Frost. I read this one in my English Reader in 6th, and I thought it was...so cool. It made me think. :)


Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice. 

Robert Frost

Then there's this one I read in 7th-

The Road Not Taken

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 marked 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. 

Robert Frost

And this in 12th-

A ROADSIDE STAND 

The little old house was out with a little new shed 

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped, 

A roadside stand that too pathetically plead, 

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread, 

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports 

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint. 

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead, 

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts 

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint 

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong 

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts, 

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts, 

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene. 

You have the money, but if you want to be mean, 

Why keep your money (this crossly), and go along. 

The hurt to the scenery wouldn't be my complaint 

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid: 

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand 

And ask for some city money to feel in hand 

To try if it will not make our being expand, 

And give us the life of the moving pictures' promise 

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us. 

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin 

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in 

To live in villages next to the theatre and store 

At the shiny desert with spots of gloom 

That might be people and are but cedar, 

Have no purpose, have no leader, 

Have never made the first move to assemble, 

And so are nothing to make her tremble. 

She can think of places that are not thus 

Without indulging a 'Not for us!”

Life is not so sinister-grave. 

Matter of fact has made them brave. 

He is husband, she is wife. 

She fears not him, they fear not life. 

They know where another light has been 

And more than one to theirs akin, 

But earlier out for bed tonight, 

So lost on me in my surface flight. 

This I saw when waking late, 

Going by at a railroad rate, 

Looking through wreaths of engine smoke 

Far into the lives of other folk. 

I Love his poems....They make you think....
So here are some more-

The Laburnum Top is silent,quite still
in the afternoon yellow September sunlight,
A few leaves yellowing,all its seeds fallen

Till the goldfinch comes, with a twitching chirrup
A suddeness,a startlement,at a branch end
Then sleek as a lizard, and alert and abrupt,
The enters the thickness,and a machine starts up
Of chitterings, and of tremor of wings,and trillings-
The whole tree trembles and thrills
It is the engine of her family
She stokes it full, then flirts out to a branch end
Showing her barred face identity mask

Then with eerie delicate whistle chirrup whisperings
She launches away, towards the infinite
And the laburnum subsides to empty

Ted Hughes...



More later.
Keep writing
(Poetry is difficult)