We all remember the dreaded homework of having to memorize a particular poem for English class. Robert Frost, anyone? You’d spend an entire weekend reading and re-reading the same verses, and by Monday morning you’d feel like you had it. But by the time you were called on, your brain had forgotten all about it.
Yet, as if your brain had a bizarre sense of humor of its own, you’d find yourself remembering the lines to that poem for the rest of your life. Then, years later, you’d look up those old stanzas and find that there was something there for you all along. Sometimes we find new meanings or symbolism from poems we thought we knew like the back of our hand. The following poems are short ones you more than likely had to write a paper about, or at least memorize for a presentation or test. But they all keep coming back to you with a little bit of beauty and wisdom through their words.
Read these out loud and discover what new message is hidden within these carefully crafted words.
Ezra Pound, “The Garrett”
Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.
Dawn enters with little feet
like a gilded Pavlova
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness
the hour of waking together.
William Shakespeare,“Sonnet 130”
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Emily Dickinson, “Hope is the thing with feathers”
“Hope” is the thing with feathers–
That perches in the soul–
And sings the tune without the words–
And never stops –at all–
And sweetest –in the Gale– is heard–
And sore must be the storm–
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm–
I’ve heard it in the chillest land–
And on the strangest Sea–
Yet –never– in Extremity,
It asked a crumb –of me.
William Blake, “The Lamb”
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Maya Angelou, “Harlem Hopscotch”
One foot down, then hop! It’s hot.
Good things for the ones that’s got.
Another jump, now to the left.
Everybody for hisself.
In the air, now both feet down.
Since you black, don’t stick around.
Food is gone, the rent is due,
Curse and cry and then jump two.
All the people out of work,
Hold for three, then twist and jerk.
Cross the line, they count you out.
That’s what hopping’s all about.
Both feet flat, the game is done.
They think I lost. I think I won.
Dylan Thomas, “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night”
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
What will these words inspire in you today? What about a book about the ordinary traits of love?
Images by Dewerf Studio
