Category Archives: Friday Poem

Friday Poem – Wasted Tears

tearsA truly beautiful poem by a poet called Tiger Lily Love.

When I read it, it struck so many chords. I have shed these tears in the poem and only now can I see that they were wasted.

I shed tears over things that weren’t my fault, yet I was made to feel as if they were.

I shed tears over what I thought was a lost love, only to realise looking back that it was never that in the first place.

All those tears and all that blaming myself and beating myself up was just a waste of time.

It has taken time but I have finally let go of all the misery just as the poem says.

I (like everyone else on this planet) deserve to be here, deserve to be loved for who I am (a bookish geek with a kind heart), deserve to be treated properly and not like an option (I am a destination not a stop along the way).

I create my own happiness and I enjoy life and whatever it throws at me.

So, here is the poem…

Wasted Tears

At the height of my hysteria
While I was yet again choking on my tears

I realized just how many tears
I’ve shed for all of you
Over the years

Wasted is how I view them
Because wasted is what they are

And each tear plummeted down my face
It left behind a never fading scar

My precious tears none of you deserved
And the satisfaction of knowing I’ve shed then
Is what you’ve gained

But none of you care in the least
That shedding those tears
cruelly caused me so much pain

So I dry my eyes for the last time
And I hope you enjoyed that last show

Because I’m done wasting my tears on you
And am letting you-
And all of the misery
Go

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Friday Poem – Dare to Dream

dare to dreamSearching for a suitable poem for today, I literally stumbled across this poem by a poet called Paul Adolphus. That is pretty much all I know about him – his name.

He was written some beautiful poems and this one stood out for me – we should all dare to dream.  Without dreams and hopes what we?

Dare to Dream

Set your goals way up high
Shoot for the stars
Aim for the sky
Great things you can achieve
When you try
Never lose hope
Never let your dreams die

When others try to bring you down
Wear a smile and never a frown
Perseverance will win you your crown
Respect will get you around

Never succumb to the sting of defeat
When you stumble and fall
Get back on your fee
In the face of adversity never retreat
Keep your goals in sight
Till your mission is complete

Believe in yourself and the rest
will fall into place;
No need to rush
You’re not in a race
Do one thing at a time
At your own pace
Your destiny awaits you
Victory is yours to embrace

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Friday Poem – Grief

griefToday’s poem is called “Grief” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) and she was one of the most prominent poets of the Victorian era.

I had intended to do a poem about grief and loss today because my lovely cousin was called to heaven earlier in the week, but after the horrific events of last night in Nice and the recent bombings in Iraq and Bangladesh this poem seems to have even more significance today.

The poem’s meaning is all about the fact that true grief is draining on all emotions because there is no hope left.

Grief

I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death–
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

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Friday Poem – The Dead Beat

poppiesIn honour of the centenary of the Battle of the Somme, here is a poem by Wilfred Owen, based on a real-life incident he saw in France, and the first he wrote after meeting his mentor Siegfried Sassoon.

In this poem he relies heavily on speech and straight-forward description to show us both the pity and horror of war.

The Dead Beat

He dropped, – more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
-just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
– Didn’t appear to know a war was on,
Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
‘I’ll do ’em in,’ he whined. ‘If this hand’s spared,
I’ll murder them, I will.’

A low voice said,
‘It’s Blighty, p’raps, he sees; his pluck’s all gone,
Dreaming of all the valiant, that aren’t dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
In some new home, improved materially.
It’s not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun.’

We sent him down at last, out of the way.
Unwounded; – stout lad, too, before that strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, ‘Not half!’

Next day I heard the Doc’s well-whiskied laugh:
‘That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!’

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Friday Poem – Arithmetic

A slightly weird, but geeky poem about Maths by the American poet, writer and editor Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) – and as a maths geek, what can I say I love it

Arithmetic

Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your
head.
Arithmetic tells you how many you lose or win if you know how
many you had before you lost or won.
Arithmetic is seven eleven all good children go to heaven — or five
six bundle of sticks.
Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand
to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.
Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and
you can look out of the window and see the blue sky — or the
answer is wrong and you have to start all over and try again
and see how it comes out this time.
If you take a number and double it and double it again and then
double it a few more times, the number gets bigger and bigger
and goes higher and higher and only arithmetic can tell you
what the number is when you decide to quit doubling.
Arithmetic is where you have to multiply — and you carry the
multiplication table in your head and hope you won’t lose it.
If you have two animal crackers, one good and one bad, and you
eat one and a striped zebra with streaks all over him eats the
other, how many animal crackers will you have if somebody
offers you five six seven and you say No no no and you say
Nay nay nay and you say Nix nix nix?
If you ask your mother for one fried egg for breakfast and she
gives you two fried eggs and you eat both of them, who is
better in arithmetic, you or your mother?

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Friday Poem – A Poison Tree

poison treeThis is quite a poignant poem by the English poet William Blake (1757-1827), and to me seems to reflect the world we live in today.

The poem is like football, a poem of two halves – albeit the first half is only the first 2 lines.

In the first half the writer says that when he is angry with his friend he tells him and the anger is forgotten –  oh, how the power of communication works so well!!!

The rest of the poem deals with what happens when we are angry with someone we actually don’t like so well. We don’t say anything, we suppress the feeling and what happens? The feeling doesn’t go away, instead it grows and grows inside of us, fed by all that negative energy and hatred until it explodes as a mighty and destructive force.

I think the underlying theme behind the poem is that communication is always a good thing. Always keep the lines open!

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

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Friday Poem – Waiting

waitingRabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) was Bengali polymath who reshaped his region’s literature and music. Author of Gitanjali and its “profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse”, he became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913. In translation his poetry was viewed as spiritual and mercurial; his seemingly mesmeric personality, flowing hair, and other-worldly dress earned him a prophet-like reputation in the West. His “elegant prose and magical poetry” remain largely unknown outside Bengal.

This lovely poem is all about waiting.

Waiting

The song I came to sing
remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing
and in unstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true,
the words have not been rightly set;
only there is the agony
of wishing in my heart…..

I have not seen his face,
nor have I listened to his voice;
only I have heard his gentle footsteps
from the road before my house…..

But the lamp has not been lit
and I cannot ask him into my house;
I live in the hope of meeting with him;
but this meeting is not yet.

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