T. S. Eliot, 1888 - 1965

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo

Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,

Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question…

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep… tired… or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Published in 1915. This poem is in the public domain.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things

I don't like to analyze/explain a poem word for word because I'm not good at it, it feels likes I'm ruining its sweetness and value. However, this poem hit and broke and squeezed my heart sooo hard for many reasons, in many ways since I first time read it. It's basically encourages the reader to be himself. It's telling the reader that we all are not perfect and we don't have to feel low for being imperfect. We all suffer in a way or another. 

You're not alone. 

I LOVE EVERY WORD OF THIS POEM.

But the most lines that really hit me are,

"You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting."

"You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves."

"Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination."

And "announcing your place in the family of thing" most deeply beautiful line.

I REALLY LOVE EVERY WORD OF THIS POEM! EVERY WORD!!

This link to the poem and its analysis for whom might be interested in in-depth analysis.

http://gwenglish.blogspot.com/2014/04/poem-of-day-mary-olivers-wild-geese.html

And if you this poem you might want to check out this one called 

"the summer day" also by Mary Oliver! 

https://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/133.html

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave 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.

When faced with the possibility of death, no matter how inevitable it may seem, put up the fight of your life.  Use every trick in the book.  Make Death pay such a severe price for even casting a glimpse your direction.  For it is not the victories we tally to confirm a good life.  It is the brawl, the battles, and the scratch till-your-nails-fall-off-and-your-fingers-bleed-in-the-torn-asunder-eye-sockets-of-the-vanquished struggles that remind us of why we live and how a great life is defined.

For just once, make Death afraid he took this job.  Kick his ass and spit in his face. What's the worse he can do to you anyway?

By Merrill Glass

Remember the time you lent me your car

and I dented it?

I thought you'd kill me...

But you didn't.

Remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was

formal, and you came in jeans?

I thought you'd hate me...

But you didn't.

Remember the times I'd flirt with

other boys just to make you jealous, and

you were?

I thought you'd drop me...

But you didn't.

There were plenty of things you did to put

up with me,

to keep me happy, to love me, and there

are

so many things I wanted to tell

you, when you returned from

Vietnam...

But you didn't.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place, and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly,

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high!

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

This poem really moved me when I had to memorize it in 6th grade. It speaks of our patriotic duty to our country, as well as the ultimate sacrifice that they made for it--they gave their lives.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

____________________________________________________________________

*** This poem has always meant a great deal to me, even more so I continue my education into a Ph.D. It is a kind of sermon on humility and the striving of man. I have it memorized now, that I may tote it with me wherever I go. Often falling short of the "Ifs" here printed, I still always endeavor to keep them as a guide.***

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of - shall I say the word - religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.

- Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist

except where one black-haired tree slips

up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.

The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.

Oh starry night! This is how

I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.

Even the moon bulges in its orange irons

to push children, like a god, from its eye.

The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.

Oh starry starry night! This is how

I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,

sucked up by that great dragon, to split

from my life with no flag,

no belly,

no cry.

Anne Sexton

It is impossible for me to write about how I feel. I realized this around the fourth grade when feelings I couldn't control keep rising in my head, reminding me that I am nothing but a shell of skin that cannot do anything. I cannot even control my own thoughts. Back then, I'd futilely try to write what I felt but only ended up with a blizzard of paper balls next to my desk and the husk of a spiral notebook. Nothing could articulate the storm going on inside of my head. Then, in the 10th grade, when a substitute told the class to find a poem and write about it, I stumbled upon this poem.

I learned about Vincent van Gogh in the fourth grade, amidst my hailstorm of feelings, and became enamored with his craziness. From his lilies to his nights to his severed ear and thirst for deadly yellow paint, I wanted to know everything about him. That was what intrigued me about this poem. But as I read more of Sexton's work, I realized she wasn't talking about the painting, she was talking about him and his feelings. Their feelings that they shared. So, for the next phase of the project, I researched her.

I share a lot in common with these two. For one, I too experience their crazy. Anne Sexton and Vincent van Gogh were both diagnosed with bipolar disorder, the main suspect in the case of what's making me feel so weird. As I delved deeper, they became more like me. They tapped into their art forms to escape the reality of what happened in their heads. They both attempted (and later succumbed to) suicide and they both felt alone for long periods of their life. Which is what led me to both. I got a B on my project, but I am a long way from finishing. I want to become an author like Anne Sexton. I want to have my pieces sell for millions like van Gogh. But most importantly, I want to live the happy life that neither of them seemed able to grasp.

This poem is more to me than just a poem. I am going to figure out how to articulate things that I feel, even if I have to use every notebook I can find to do so. This poem showed me that sometimes you have to use other people's feelings to articulate your own, something I am trying to master now.

Rudyard Kipling's poem of an Indian man is all inspiring to me. The English were busy trying to control land as is the state of the world today, even if by subtle ways, and Gunga Din did his job. He was the "little guy". The seemingly insignificant barefoot helping resident who was actually like the best secretary a man could have. 

He did without for the cause. He brought supplies for the cause. He brought water. He was reliable, devoted and true. Without the efforts of him, the battle could not be won. His clothes were tattered, he wore no stripes or medals.

He took a bullet and died wishing well to the men he served.

Yup, 

Gunga Din rocks the planet and all the people like him now.

I fall asleep in my own tears

I cry for the world, for everyone

and I build a boat to float in;

I'm floating, away

I can't recall the last time 

I opened my eyes to see the world as beautiful

and I build a cage to hide in, 

I'm hiding, I'm trying, to battle the night

Let love conquer your mind

Warrior, warrior

just reach out for the light

Warrior, warrior

I am a warr-ia-ia-ia-iah

Warrior, warrior

I am a warr-ia-ia-ia-iah

Warrior, warrior of love.

I stand behind a wall

Of people and thoughts, mind controlling

and I hold a sword to guide me

I'm fighting, my way

I can't recall the last time

I opened my eyes to see the world as beautiful

and I build a cage to hide in,

I'm hiding, I'm trying, to battle the night

Let love conquer your mind

Warrior, warrior

Just reach out for the light

Warrior, warrior

I am a warr-ia-ia-ia-iah

Warrior, warrior

I am a warr-ia-ia-ia-iah

Warrior, warrior of love!

Underneath darkened sky,

There's a light kept alive

Let love conquer your mind

Warrior, warrior

Just reach out for the light

Warrior, warrior

I am a warr-ia-ia-ia-iah

Warrior, warrior

I am a warr-ia-ia-ia-iah

Warrior, warrior of love.

Warrior of love

Warrior of love~

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QE0oP9j9QYI

This is a song written by the lovely Aurora Aksnes, fairy from the Northern lands.❋

Although you asked for a poem, her songs are crafted in a beautifully poetic way that gets you feeling all sorts of ways.

I also recommend listening to Running with the Wolves, My Heart is a Storm, Winter Bird, Silhouettes, In Boxes, Conqueror, and Murder Song (studio version), all by Aurora.

This is only one of her pieces, she has written so many heart-wrenching, beautiful songs~

Hope you enjoy and become a Warrior yourself~ ❤︎

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common

clay

I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the

larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,

Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,

You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,

Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without

name,

And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of

Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,

And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,

With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in

mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the

dove,

Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,

Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,

And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -

For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is

past,

Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the

root,

And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me,

And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in

wasted days,

I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.