Romantic Poems | Beautiful Love Poems Everyone Should Know


    Kubla Khan Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree :
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.
    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round :
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
    A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
    As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced :
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail :
    And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.
    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
    And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war !
    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves ;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw :
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,
    That with music loud and long,
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.



    Dis Poetry Poem by Benjamin Zephaniah

    Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops
    De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
    Dis poetry is designed fe rantin
    Dance hall style, big mouth chanting,
    Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep
    Preaching follow me
    Like yu is blind sheep,
    Dis poetry is not Party Political
    Not designed fe dose who are critical.
    Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
    It gets into me dreadlocks
    It lingers around me head
    Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike
    IÕve tried Shakespeare, respect due dere
    But did is de stuff I like.

    Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book
    Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look
    Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved
    An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved,
    IÕve tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me
    So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry,
    I could try be more personal
    But youÕve heard it all before,
    Pages of written words not needed
    Brain has many words in store,
    Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting
    De tongue plays a beat
    De body starts skanking,
    Dis poetry is quick an childish
    Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish,
    Anybody can do it fe free,
    Dis poetry is fe yu an me,
    DonÕt stretch yu imagination
    Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation,
    In de morning
    I chant
    In de night
    I chant
    In de darkness
    An under de spotlight,
    I pass thru University
    I pass thru Sociology
    An den I got a dread degree
    In Dreadfull Ghettology.

    Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk
    An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk,
    Dis poetry is wid me,
    Below me an above,
    Dis poetry’s from inside me
    It goes to yu
    WID LUV.



    Death & Fame Poem by Allen Ginsberg

    When I die
    I don’t care what happens to my body
    throw ashes in the air, scatter ’em in East River
    bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B’nai Israel Cemetery
    But l want a big funeral
    St. Patrick’s Cathedral, St. Mark’s Church, the largest synagogue in
    First, there’s family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother
    96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
    Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear’d, sister-
    in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters
    their grandchildren,
    companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan-
    Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya’s ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche,
    there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting
    America, Satchitananda Swami
    Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche,
    Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi’s phantoms
    Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau
    Roshis, Lama Tarchen –
    Then, most important, lovers over half-century
    Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
    young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each
    other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
    ‘He taught me to meditate, now I’m an old veteran of the thousand
    day retreat – ‘
    ‘I played music on subway platforms, I’m straight but loved him he
    loved me’
    ‘I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone’
    ‘We’d lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly
    arms round each other’
    ‘I’d always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my
    skivvies would be on the floor’
    ‘Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master’
    ‘We’d talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then
    sleep in his captain’s bed.’
    ‘He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy’
    ‘I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my
    shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips- ‘
    ‘All I did was lay back eyes closed, he’d bring me to come with mouth
    & fingers along my waist’
    ‘He gave great head’
    So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin-
    gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
    and surprise – ‘You too? But I thought you were straight! ‘
    ‘I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me.’
    ‘I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender
    and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
    my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my prick,
    tickled with his tongue my behind’
    ‘I loved the way he’d recite ‘But at my back allways hear/ time’s winged
    chariot hurrying near,’ heads together, eye to eye, on a
    pillow – ‘
    Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
    ‘I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his
    walk-up flat,
    seduced me didn’t want to, made me come, went home, never saw him
    again never wanted to… ‘
    ‘He couldn’t get it up but loved me,’ ‘A clean old man.’ ‘He made
    sure I came first’
    This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor-
    Then poets & musicians – college boys’ grunge bands – age-old rock
    star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con-
    ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum-
    peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger
    fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto-
    harp pennywhistles & kazoos
    Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60’s India,
    Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massa-
    chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty
    sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American
    Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio-
    philes, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex
    ‘I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved
    him anyway, true artist’
    ‘Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me
    from suicide hospitals’
    ‘Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my
    studio guest a week in Budapest’
    Thousands of readers, ‘Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois’
    ‘I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet- ‘
    ‘He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas
    ‘Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City’
    ‘Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982’
    ‘I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized
    others like me out there’
    Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
    Then Journalists, editors’s secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo-
    graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural
    historians come to witness the historic funeral
    Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph-
    hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
    Everyone knew they were part of ‘History’ except the deceased
    who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive



    Spring In My Native Poem by Muzahidul Reza

    During the spring in my riverine country
    Green is every big and small tree,
    Soft is every blade of grasses on soil
    Cute is every mole and hill;

    Love flies here at this romantic time
    Singing the most thrilling rhyme,
    Seeing here this nature
    Anyone can draw its features;

    Flowers will help them
    With beauty and fragrance,
    Bees and butterflies will attract them
    To taste nectar and multi colors;

    Birds will sing for them
    Sweetly without any chorus,
    West wind will enchant them
    Randomly blowing in spring tunes;

    Green and golden fields will soften them
    Hoping for enough crops,
    And watching the folks interesting
    At late spring early harvesting;

    Village boys and girls will meet them
    With the chains of bakul flowers,
    And smilingly will propose them
    To taste half ripe spring blueberries;

    They will also invite them
    Arranging some spring ceremonies,
    Being so close friends
    Offering delicious homemade food;

    In spring every year I come here
    Where my roots call me, ‘come dear’
    To observe, taste and hear
    It is spring, all good unite together.



    Meditation Poem by Muzahidul Reza

    Coming out of home I see some land and much water all around
    Full with wonderful animals, plants, myriad of natural objects
    Some I can name and some I can’t, some near and some are so far
    Some open, some covered, some sweet again some are so bitter,

    First day, I see and think of the beauty remembering my sweet heart
    I become romantic one reciting some romantic poems, singing a song
    Run through the countryside playing hide and seek, hunting wildlife
    Earn a speed leaving all behind, treading all innocent to go fast,

    Second day, I go and see it is our beautiful earth where we all live
    Getting all things available in need in land and water here and there
    Centralizing this dimension we all dream and set respective world
    With dearest and nearest ones through sad and happy environs,

    Third day, I comprehend a link among all the beings and things
    All are entangled in a tone with an unseen net as unseen air blowing
    All the beings and things are well regulated except some humans
    By eternal almighty, unique, supreme director One’s commands,

    My brain opens, eyes blur, head and mind bow down to His honour
    Soul saving energy instantly in my brain and heart dose return
    All observing light instantly in my eyes and mind magically returns
    Sit I down to count my whole life from first day to the final ones,

    I am the recipient of energy and light for pre and post a sort of life
    Meditation has fulfilled all the required conditions leading a real life
    As by the virtue of it life has been possible in this mortal earth
    Again by the virtue of it flowers were bloomed in the trees quite dead.



    My Sad Self Poem by Allen Ginsberg

    Sometimes when my eyes are red
    I go up on top of the RCA Building
    and gaze at my world, Manhattan—
    my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,
    lofts, beds, coldwater flats
    —on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,
    its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men
    walking the size of specks of wool—
    Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,
    sun go down over New Jersey where I was born
    & Paterson where I played with ants—
    my later loves on 15th Street,
    my greater loves of Lower East Side,
    my once fabulous amours in the Bronx
    paths crossing in these hidden streets,
    my history summed up, my absences
    and ecstasies in Harlem—
    —sun shining down on all I own
    in one eyeblink to the horizon
    in my last eternity—
    matter is water.

    I take the elevator and go
    down, pondering,
    and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s
    plateglass, faces,
    questioning after who loves,
    and stop, bemused
    in front of an automobile shopwindow
    standing lost in calm thought,
    traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me
    waiting for a moment when …

    Time to go home & cook supper & listen to
    the romantic war news on the radio
    … all movement stops
    & I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,
    tenderness flowing thru the buildings,
    my fingertips touching reality’s face,
    my own face streaked with tears in the mirror
    of some window—at dusk—
    where I have no desire—
    for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese
    lampshades of intellection—

    Confused by the spectacle around me,
    Man struggling up the street
    with packages, newspapers,
    ties, beautiful suits
    toward his desire
    Man, woman, streaming over the pavements
    red lights clocking hurried watches &
    movements at the curb—

    And all these streets leading
    so crosswise, honking, lengthily,
    by avenues
    stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums
    thru such halting traffic
    screaming cars and engines
    so painfully to this
    countryside, this graveyard
    this stillness
    on deathbed or mountain
    once seen
    never regained or desired
    in the mind to come
    where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.



    A Different Sky Is Waiting Poem by Uriah Hamilton

    We’ve been in the rain so long
    That our eyes are sore and red;
    When joy is missing,
    We gaze down too long at our feet
    As we slowly walk through the city,
    But there must be a different sky waiting
    Offering love and inspiration.

    Beneath these yellow factory skies,
    Even the street lights look sadly dim,
    Like our spiritual light within
    Blurred by an affectionless life.

    Things began to change
    When I met you in a small bar
    Not far from the school where you teach;
    I saw Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass
    Easing out of your purse,
    I knew we had to talk.

    As we spoke over drinks
    In the early evening,
    I felt loneliness begin to lift
    Like dark persistent clouds
    Being pushed aside by sunlight,
    As if Walt Whitman were sending us
    Prayers mingled with lilacs.

    Indeed, there is a different sky waiting,
    Azure blue and dazzling,
    Inviting flowers to bloom
    On romantic avenues
    When two people finally find each other.

    In my mind I have already seen
    You smile in a summer dress
    Beneath a different sky welcoming our love.



    A Teen Aged Widow Poem by Akhtar Jawad

    When the morning star,
    Sees first sun ray,
    And disappears,
    In grief and distress,
    Gives a parting kiss,
    To the nude lady,
    Who takes her bath,
    Every early morning,
    In the sea of fire,
    And once again,
    Like a virgin in tact,
    Likes a teen-aged beauty,
    Flying high in sky,
    The fine wet grass,
    Licking milky foot,
    Ask birds to rise,
    And sing their song,
    Asks flowers and buds,
    To change night suits,
    And moves to the bank,
    And sits nimble footed,
    Partly on the earth,
    And partly in river,
    A cold, pleasant wind,
    And the swinging trees,
    Having watched this porn,
    Smile and discuss,
    The body of the lady,
    And a naughty blow,
    Pulls the shying buds
    In the cover of leaves,
    And kisses their petals,
    The sunflower rises,
    And turns his face,
    Towards the sun,
    For a new warm-up,
    And somewhere far,
    A boy with animals,
    All domestic,
    And romantic,
    With a watching dog,
    Plays the bamboo pipe,
    Fishermen with the nets,
    Start their fishing,
    I find everyone,
    So happy and enjoying,
    The gift of life.

    On the bank but other,
    Other side of river,
    I see someone,
    A girl of sixteen,
    Seventeen or so,
    In a white dressing,
    No smile on her face,
    Undressed long hair,
    Wearing no jewelry,
    Looking motionless,
    Starring in space.
    Somebody told me,
    A widow is she,
    Only after one month,
    After her marriage,
    Her spouse was killed,
    In a deadly war,
    Futile and fruitless.



    Galaxy Of Poetry Poem by Rini Shibu

    On that dark night when I was not able to sleep
    When I wanted to escape from this earth
    to a different galaxy.. I flew high and landed in this galaxy of poetry
    Where I am happy and more satisfied than ever before
    I saw lots of glittering and shooting stars
    Illuminating my Darkest night
    Some are glowing like sun and rendering
    warmth to brighten my day
    Each one is unique in their writings
    The wonderful poets who cherish my life
    Bricks and Fabrizio are the strong foundations of this site
    Robert is the influential poet of mind and neurons
    Lamar filled with love and humour
    Who surprised me by his poem ‘Rini the poet’
    Dev the most romantic poet
    Richard the poet of ‘life and love’.. Is the best poet I have ever seen
    Unnikrishnan the poet of Indian epics and so loving
    Kumarmani the creative writer, encourages me always
    Edward who use the muse of art in poetry
    Dr. Tony’s poems reflect on mysteries of spiritual realms
    Mr. John ‘The crow’ honest and caring poet
    Kishore, Sidhartha, Jazib, Akhtar, Yoonoos, Saadat, Saravnan, Cheryl, Bill, Lynne, Geeta, Subhas, Dillip, Nuder and many others
    all are the dazzling stars of this galaxy.



    That Iron Lady Poem by Ernestine Northover

    A proud, regal, majestic and elegant machine,
    She’s a magnificent sight, this metal powered dream
    Pulsating over hundreds of miles of railway track,
    Never once to be found, ever looking back,
    Onward with a purpose, watch how she races,
    Visiting destinations, in so many far off places,
    Pushing on, with such vigorous determination,
    Giving not one thought, or one moment’s hesitation,
    Dedicated loyal service, she’s an engine so supreme,
    That romantic iron lady, from the golden age of steam.