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,
Chant,
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
Manhattan
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
stomach
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
provinces
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
City’
‘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
faraway—
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.
Sad,
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.