GoodPoetry

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:SongLovely, dark, and lonely one, Bare your bosom to the sun, Do not be afraid of lightYou who are a child of night. Open wide your arms to life, Whirl in the wind of pain and strife, Face the wall with the dark closed gate, Beat with bare, brown fistsAnd wait. This poem is in the public domain. 

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:On QuittingHow much grit do you think you've got?Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,And where'er you go it is often heard;But can you tell to a jot or guessJust how much courage you now possess?You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,But have you tackled self-discipline?Have you ever issued commands to youTo quit the things that you like to do,And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,Those rigid orders have you obeyed?Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,Nor prate to men of your courage stout,For it's easy enough to retain a grinIn the face of a fight there's a chance to win,But the sort of grit that is good to ownIs the stuff you need when you're all alone.How much grit do you think you've got?Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?Have you ever tested yourself to knowHow far with yourself your will can go?If you want to know if you have grit,Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.It's bully sport and it's open fight;It will keep you busy both day and night;For the toughest kind of a game you'll findIs to make your body obey your mind.And you never will know what is meant by gritUnless there's something you've tried to quit.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:A Jelly FishVisible, invisible,A fluctuating charm,An amber-colored amethystInhabits it; your armApproaches, andIt opens andIt closes;You have meantTo catch it,And it shrivels;You abandonYour intent—It opens, and itCloses and youReach for it—The blueSurrounding itGrows cloudy, andIt floats awayFrom you.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:From the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3a40394. .----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:A Hymn to the EveningSoon as the sun forsook the eastern mainThe pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain;Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's wing,Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,And through the air their mingled music floats.Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread!But the west glories in the deepest red:So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow,The living temples of our God below!Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light,And draws the sable curtains of the night,Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd;So shall the labours of the day beginMore pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info: From the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3a40394. .----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:A Hymn to the MorningATTEND my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,Assist my labours, and my strains refine;In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,For bright Aurora now demands my song.Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume,Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom displayTo shield your poet from the burning day:Calliope awake the sacred lyre,While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skiesIn all their pleasures in my bosom rise.See in the east th' illustrious king of day!His rising radiance drives the shades away--But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song. 

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay, photographed by Carl Van Vechten, 1933----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:And if I loved you Wednesday,   Well, what is that to you?I do not love you Thursday—   So much is true. And why you come complaining   Is more than I can see.I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what   Is that to me?

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay in Mamaroneck, NY, 1914, by Arnold Genthe.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:TravelThe railroad track is miles away,     And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day     But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn't a train goes by,     Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky,     And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with the friends I make,     And better friends I'll not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,     No matter where it's going. 

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay passport photograph----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:I'll keep a little tavern    Below the high hill's crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people    May set them down and rest.There shall be plates a-plenty,    And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people    Who happen up the hill.There sound will sleep the traveller,    And dream his journey's end, But I will rouse at midnight    The falling fire to tend.Aye, 'tis a curious fancy—    But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes    A long time ago.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay in Mamaroneck,[3] NY, 1914, by Arnold Genthe.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:I will be the gladdest thing     Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers     And not pick one.I will look at cliffs and clouds     With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass,     And the grass rise.And when lights begin to show     Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine,     And then start down!

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay, photographed by Carl Van Vechten, 1933----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:The UnexplorerThere was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man's door. (That's why I have not traveled more.)“The Unexplorer” was published in A Few Figs From Thistles (Harper & Brothers, 1922). This poem is in the public domain.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Langston Hughes in 1936 by Carl Van Vechten----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:The Negro Speaks of Rivers (To W.E.B. DuBois)I've known rivers:I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flowof human blood in human veins.My soul has grown deep like the rivers.I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosomturn all golden in the sunset.I've known rivers:Ancient, dusky rivers.My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Portrait of American writer and activist Langston Hughes in 1943 (US Library of Congress Archives)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:Kids Who DieThis is for the kids who die, Black and white, For kids will die certainly. The old and rich will live on awhile, As  Always, Eating blood and gold, Letting kids die.Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi Organizing sharecroppers Kids will die in the streets of Chicago Organizing workers Kids will die in the orange groves of California Telling others to get together Whites and Filipinos, Negroes and Mexicans, All kinds of kids will die Who don't believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment And a lousy peace.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Portrait of American writer and activist Langston Hughes in 1943 (US Library of Congress Archives)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:"Harlem"What happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.Or does it explode?

EPISODE DESCRIPTIONRead and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Portrait of American writer and activist Langston Hughes in 1943 (US Library of Congress Archives)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:"Dreams"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.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Langston Hughes in 1936 by Carl Van Vechten----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:American HeartbreakI am the American heartbreak— Rock on which Freedom Stumps its toe— The great mistake That Jamestown Made long ago.

"My People" by Langston HughesRead and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Langston Hughes in 1936 by Carl Van Vechten----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:My PeopleThe night is beautiful,So the faces of my people.The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people.Beautiful, also, is the sun. Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.--------------------------------When Sue Wears RedWhen Susanna Jones wears red Her face is like an ancient cameo Turned brown by the ages.Come with a blast of trumpets, Jesus!When Susanna Jones wears red A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night Walks once again.Blow trumpets, Jesus!And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain.Sweet silver trumpets, Jesus!

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.--------------------------------"Theme for English B" by Langston HughesThe instructor said,Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true.I wonder if it's that simple? I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem, through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page:It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York, too.) Me—who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn't make me not like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write?Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white— yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me— although you're older—and white— and somewhat more free.This is my page for English B.

#GoodPoetry​ presents an excerpt from Phillis Wheatley's poem, entitled "To the Right Honourable William, Earl of Dartmouth". This poem was published in Phillis Wheatley's poetry book, entitled, "Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral" in 1773. This poem is in the public domain. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This colored illustration of Phillis Wheatley is in the public domain. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Here is the text for the excerpt of Phillis Wheatley's poem, entitled, "To the Right Honourable William, Earl of Dartmouth": Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, Whence flow these wishes for the common good, By feeling hearts alone best understood, I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat: What pangs excruciating must molest, What sorrows labour in my parent's breast? Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd: Such, such my case. And can I then but pray Others may never feel tyrannic sway? ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You can watch more GoodPoetry videos on GoodPoetry's YouTube Channel and on Teyuna Darris' YouTube channel. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You can listen to more GoodPoetry episodes at Stitcher, Google Podcasts, Apple Podcasts, Anchor.FM, and other major podcast platforms. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Connect with GoodPoetry (@itsgoodpoetry) and Teyuna Darris (@tdarris) on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Ars Poetica BY ARCHIBALD MACLEISH A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown— A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds. * A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees, Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves, Memory by memory the mind— A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs. * A poem should be equal to: Not true. For all the history of grief An empty doorway and a maple leaf. For love The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea— A poem should not mean But be.

One’s-Self I sing, a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse. Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing. Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form’d under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing. -------------------------------------- Listen to GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org and on Stitcher, Google Podcasts, Apple Podcasts and iTunes.

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears the Human Soul –

"When I Was One-and-Twenty" BY A. E. HOUSMAN When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, “Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.” But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, “The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; ’Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue.” And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

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Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days. But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust.

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Ah , yes! I wrote the " Purple Cow" — I'm Sorry, now, I Wrote it! But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I'll Kill you if you Quote it! -------------------------------------- Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ----------------------------------------"I saw a man pursuing the horizon" BY STEPHEN CRANE I saw a man pursuing the horizon; Round and round they sped. I was disturbed at this; I accosted the man. “It is futile,” I said, “You can never —” “You lie,” he cried, And ran on.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "Evolution" by John Banister Tabb Out of the dusk a shadow, Then, a spark; Out of the cloud a silence, Then, a lark; Out of the heart a rapture, Then, a pain; Out of the dead, cold ashes, Life again.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "A Learned Man Came to Me Once" by Stephen Crane A learned man came to me once. He said, "I know the way, -- come." And I was overjoyed at this. Together we hastened. Soon, too soon, were we Where my eyes were useless, And I knew not the ways of my feet. I clung to the hand of my friend; But at last he cried, "I am lost."

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- I know I’m not that pretty, But I have a smile that glows. I may not be that pretty, But I know more than you’ll ever know. I may have chubby face: But I can warm you with my grace And I may have height as coal, But I have heart that always grows. So, maybe will come the day when I have perfect cheek bones. But, until that day comes, I’ll be pretty in my soul.

“The Elephant” by Hilaire Billoc Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and connect with @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. -------------------------------------- When people call this beast to mind, They marvel more and more At such a little tail behind, So large a trunk before.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and connect with @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. -------------------------------------- The world has held great Heroes, As history-books have showed; But never a name to go down to fame Compared with that of Toad The clever men at Oxford Know all that there is to be knowed. But they none of them knew one half as much As intelligent Mr Toad! The animals sat in the Ark and cried, Their tears in torrents flowed. Who was it said, “There’s land ahead?” Encouraging Mr Toad! The Army all saluted As they marched along the road. Was it the King? Or Kitchener? No. It was Mr Toad! The Queen and her Ladies-in-waiting Sat at the window and sewed. She cried, “Look! who’s that handsome man?” They answered, “Mr Toad.”

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and connect with @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. -------------------------------------- "The Harlem Dancer: by Claude McKay Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes Blown by black players upon a picnic day. She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, The light gauze hanging loose about her form; To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise, The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze; But looking at her falsely-smiling face, I knew her self was not in that strange place.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "I was born upon thy bank, river" by Henry David Thoreau I was born upon thy bank, river, My blood flows in thy stream, And thou meanderest forever At the bottom of my dream.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "Do You Know What It's Like to Be Free?" by Teyuna T. Darris Do you know what it’s like To be free? Like when you whirl your arms around In the gold-yellow sun And fling your legs in the air? Not caring what anyone say Just a smile in your heart And on your chin. I know what it’s like See, I whirl my heart On a golden string: Three-chorded and whirlin’ to the sun. Three-quarters turning. I rode away in my heart.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "Answer to a Child's Question" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush say, “I love and I love!” In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong; What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving—all come back together. But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he— “I love my Love, and my Love loves me!”

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "A Poem" by Teyuna Trynea Darris A poem does not have to rhyme It simply shares a record of a tale about some interesting/practical event that all humans share. A poem is a dream of the pictures we live (daily) of the stories we see, hear, taste, touch--- smell. A poem is a reflection of the people, of the dream, of the vision, of the fight, of the struggle, of the hurts and sorrows and freedoms and captivities and triumphant victories and defeat and loss and hopes. A poem is a story of a genre of an outlet, of a means to share of an outstrecthed hand of a friend who is seeking of a man who is weeping. A poem is… A poem is… A song A dance A folding of the hands An observation A cry An inclination--- A try And celebration. A poem is a poem. Teyuna T. Darris January 23rd, 2009

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "Invictus" by 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.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- "The New Colossus" BY EMMA LAZARUS Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. -------------------------------------- ""The Arrow and the Song" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ______________________________________ “GoodPoetry” What are the prerequisites For good poetry? Is it the layout on the page Or, a pretty word to calm fears Or, to stir emotion Or, to put you in-between? Does good poetry sound good? Are its iambs and pentameters in perfect mode? (or, is it form?) Is it a sonnet or a villanelle? Does it rhyme or unrhyme, And can it have the rhythm, And not have the rhyme? Is it sexy, seductive, sassy, and sweet? Or, is it conserve-ed, passive, humble and bleak? Don’t ask me to define a good poem For all the world could not contain its potential And no author, nor critic could pen, or contend its true definition. What is good poetry? Let the poem decide. Written @ 8:56pm on 08/30/2011 by Teyuna T. Darris

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and on iTunes, Sticher, the GooglePlay Music store and YouTube. ______________________________________ We’ll Go No More A-Roving by Lord Byron So We'll Go No More a Roving BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON) So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.com, and connect with @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. ______________________________________ "My Poetical Side" by Teyuna T. Darris I just thought I'd unleash My poetical side. 'Cause in everyday life, I live to hide. Need something of freedom: From time to time Need something of feeling: To kiss my prime, To hush my cries To love my eyes. I just thought I'd show My virgin side: All kids and maude--- The unaduletered tide. See, I don't tend to fancy things: Just those crystal, cloudless, Truthly things. But, since this long time, I thought I'd hush my mawky, Ad stick to truth: Not fraud and lofty. See feelings of rue And silent ado. This time, I'll refine: My poetical side. by Teyuna Trynea Darris from "Stuff I Wrote from My Heart" Follow @tdarris on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and connect with @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram ______________________________________ "Let America Be America Again" by Langston Hughes Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free. (America never was America to me.) Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above. (It never was America to me.) O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe. (There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”) Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one’s own greed! I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years. Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore, And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a “homeland of the free.” The free? Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that’s almost dead today. O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land where every man is free. The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again. Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America! O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be! Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again! From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes.

"The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams; Read by Teyuna DarrisRead and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------"The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams;so much dependsupona red wheelbarrowglazed with rainwaterbeside the whitechickens

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and join @GoodPoetry on Facebook and Twitter. ______________________________________ "Fog" BY CARL SANDBURG The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

Listen to more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org. ______________________________________ "If-ing" If I had some small change I’d buy me a mule, Get on that mule and Ride like a fool. If I had some greenbacks I’d buy me a Packard, Fill it up with gas and Drive that baby backward. If I had a million I’d get me a plane And everybody in America’d Think I was insane. But I ain’t got a million, Fact is, ain’t got a dime — So just by if-ing I have a good time!